A small part of your soul screams: live and breathe anyway
Once every year, Europe — and a few nations beyond its borders — gathers around a shared stage to ask what a three-minute song can hold: grief, protest, joy, identity, absurdity, and sometimes all at once. This year, Vienna hosts a slightly smaller congregation than usual, thirty-five countries rather than the customary field, after a partial boycott over Israel's inclusion cast a geopolitical shadow before a single note was sung. Yet the music itself refuses to be diminished, sprawling across operatic coloratura, anti-capitalist manifestos, folk instruments, and demonic electro-pop in a reminder that the contest has always been less about winning than about the peculiar human need to be witnessed.
- A partial boycott over Israel's participation has reduced the field to its smallest since 2003, injecting political tension into the contest before the first semi-final begins.
- Romania's 'Choke Me' has drawn safety criticism for lyrics evoking strangulation, forcing its artist — a physics Master's student — to publicly defend the song as metaphor for self-imposed pressure.
- Greece's Akylas, blending traditional instruments with house beats and a personal dedication to his mother, has emerged as the bookmakers' favourite, while the UK's synth-office-revolt and Armenia's anti-burnout folk anthem push Eurovision's political messaging into unfamiliar territory.
- The ballad stakes are unusually high: Ukraine's entry closes on what is claimed to be the longest sustained high note in Eurovision history, and Australia's Delta Goodrem arrives with a song about passion eclipsing the sun.
- Thirty-five wildly different artistic visions — from silver-painted performers to actual gorillas on stage — now converge on Vienna, where the live performance will determine which concepts survive contact with a televoting audience of hundreds of millions.
Vienna is hosting the smallest Eurovision Song Contest in more than twenty years. Thirty-five countries will compete — a significant drop from the usual field, the consequence of a partial boycott linked to Israel's participation. The geopolitics have trimmed the roster, but the music itself ranges across every conceivable genre.
The operatic trend that dominated the last two winners continues. France's Monroe, seventeen years old and the youngest competitor in the field, layers Queen of the Night coloratura over glitching drums in a song built to climax with seismic force. Montenegro's entry, co-written by an actual opera singer, opens in muffled restraint before erupting into a cathartic wail about women breaking free of gender constraints.
Romania's Choke Me has generated real controversy: the lyrics appear to reference strangulation, a practice with serious safety implications. Artist Alexandra Căpitănescu insists the song is a metaphor for self-doubt and internal pressure, though the track is also written from a stalker's perspective — a portrait of obsession that gives it its unsettling urgency. Demonic guitar riffs churn beneath her raspy vocals. Romania hasn't qualified from the semi-finals since 2015.
The dancefloor entries span the straightforward and the genuinely strange. Finland's entry transforms from ballad into demonic electro-pop mid-song. Greece's Akylas grafts traditional instruments onto a house beat, then strips it back to sing directly to his mother — currently the favourite to win the whole contest.
Two songs this year declare open war on work. Armenia's anti-burnout anthem features a man backflipping toward the exit while the duduk plays. The UK's Look Mum No Computer delivers a synth-driven office-cubicle protest, equal parts Kraftwerk and Kaiser Chiefs, that has already divided opinion sharply.
The ballads carry unusual weight. Ukraine's Viktoria Leléka sings about the moment hopelessness descends but a small part of the soul insists on surviving — closing on what is claimed to be the longest sustained high note in Eurovision history. Australia's Delta Goodrem performs with such conviction about all-consuming passion that the scientific implausibility barely registers.
Cultural identity runs through several entries: Moldova's footballer-shirted performer recreates the Chișinău airport jingle; Portugal highlights a centuries-old a capella tradition born among bull-herders; Bulgaria's ethno-pop quintet addresses the forced marriage of Christian women under Ottoman rule and the cross tattoos used as protection.
The kooky end of the spectrum delivers gorillas on stage, a man covered entirely in silver paint, and Boy George sipping metaphorical champagne. The rock entries range from big, dumb, charismatic singalongs to Serbia's entry, which reportedly sounds like the soundtrack to a demonic feast. Thirty-five songs, thirty-five visions. Vienna awaits.
Vienna is about to host the smallest Eurovision Song Contest in more than two decades. Thirty-five countries will compete—a sharp drop from the usual field, the result of a partial boycott tied to Israel's participation. But if the geopolitics have shrunk the roster, the music itself sprawls across every conceivable genre, from operatic pyrotechnics to anti-work manifestos delivered over Armenian folk instruments.
The competition opens with a familiar pattern: the last two winners leaned hard into operatic vocals, and this year's field has followed suit. France's Monroe, at seventeen the youngest competitor, delivers a song called Regarde! that layers Queen of the Night coloratura over glitching drums and frantic strings—a sound that suggests she's spent considerable time with Rosalía's catalog. It's a celebration of French musical diversity, built to climax with earth-shaking force. Montenegro's entry, co-written by actual opera singer Vesna Aćimović, opens muffled and restrained before exploding into a cathartic wail. The song is about women breaking free of gender constraints, and if the staging lands right, there won't be a dry eye in the house.
Romania's Choke Me has ignited controversy. The lyrics appear to reference sexual strangulation, a practice that can cause brain injury and death. But Alexandra Căpitănescu, the song's artist and a Master's student in physics, insists the song is metaphorical—about the pressure we place on ourselves, the suffocation of self-doubt. Beneath that framing lies something darker: the song is written from a stalker's perspective, a portrait of abuse that gives the track its thrilling urgency. Demonic guitar riffs churn under Căpitănescu's raspy vocals. Romania hasn't qualified from the semi-finals since 2015. This might be the song to break that streak.
The dancefloor entries range from the uncomplicated to the genuinely strange. There are straightforward pop-dance tracks that rhyme "fire" with "desire" and won't leave your head. There's a Cypriot entry from a former Love Island contestant offering three minutes of Mediterranean escapism. And then there are the complicated bops: Finland's Liekinheitin, already a number one at home, transforms from impassioned ballad into demonic electro-pop with a frenetic violin solo. Greece sends Akylas, who's grafted traditional Greek instruments onto Super Mario sound effects and a house beat, then strips it all away to sing directly to his mother about ensuring they never lack again. The song is currently the favorite to win.
Two entries this year declare war on work itself. Armenia's anti-burnout anthem features a man flinging reams of paper as he backflips toward the exit, accompanied by the duduk and dohl. The UK's Look Mum No Computer—a genuinely inspired band name—delivers a synth-driven stomper about being trapped in an office cubicle, equal parts Kraftwerk and The Kaiser Chiefs. It's a shameless bid for EU votes, and the song has already divided opinion: some praise the risk, others find it grating. Everything will depend on the live performance.
The ballads arrive with wind machines and dry ice. Australia's Delta Goodrem performs Eclipse, a song about passion so strong it blocks out the sun—scientifically unlikely, but delivered with such conviction you almost believe her. Sweden's Felicia performs in a diamond-studded face mask, a visual metaphor for her struggles with mental health and self-image. Ukraine's Viktoria Leléka sings about a moment when everything feels over, when hopelessness descends, but a small part of your soul screams to live and breathe anyway. The song incorporates a thirty-second-long high note—the longest in Eurovision history.
Cultural weight runs through several entries. Moldova's Satoshi performs in a football shirt numbered 373, the country's international dialling code, and the opening melody recreates the jingle that plays when you land at Chișinău airport. Portugal's Rosa highlights cante Alentejano, an a capella tradition born among bull-herders who sang to coordinate their flocks. Bulgaria's entry, performed by ethno-pop quintet Lelek, discusses the suppression and forced marriage of Christian women under Ottoman rule, and how they protected themselves with cross tattoos.
The kooky concepts and tortured metaphors abound. One song compares clubbers to jungle animals and arrives with actual gorillas on stage. Another features a man entirely covered in silver paint. Boy George shows up to sing about boys at the bar sipping champagne—a throwback that lands with all the fizz of a Capri Sun. And then there's the rock: a big, dumb singalong with the charisma of the Hives, and Serbia's genuinely frightening scream that sounds like what plays in hell before the demons feast. Thirty-five songs, thirty-five different visions of what a three-minute pop song can be. Vienna awaits.
Citas Notables
It speaks about inner fears, self-doubt, and the feeling of being emotionally suffocated by our own expectations. It was never intended to represent anything sexual.— Alexandra Căpitănescu, Romania's Eurovision entry, on 'Choke Me'
It's a song that cheers our culture. We have a very good vibe, good dances, cool music, good food, that we want to share with Europe.— Satoshi, Moldova's Eurovision entry
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does a song about strangulation get to stay in the contest if the lyrics are genuinely about abuse?
Because the artist says it's metaphorical, and Eurovision doesn't have a lyrical censorship board. The song is powerful—that's what matters to the voters. But you're right to notice the tension. It's a song that works on two levels, and not everyone will hear the same thing.
The anti-work songs seem like a gamble. Does Eurovision usually reward political messaging?
Almost never. Eurovision voters want spectacle, emotion, something that transcends language. But this year feels different—there's a real hunger for songs that say something true about how people actually live. Whether that translates to votes is another question entirely.
What's the significance of 35 countries instead of the usual 40-plus?
It's the smallest field since 2003. The boycott over Israel's participation has real consequences. You lose the voting blocs, the regional alliances. It changes the math of who can win.
Is there a clear favorite?
Finland's Liekinheitin is the bookmakers' choice—it's already a hit at home, and it does something genuinely unexpected. But Greece's Akylas is close behind, and Australia's Delta Goodrem has the kind of vocal power that can move people.
What about the UK entry? Is it actually good?
It's divisive. The concept is sharp—burnout, cubicles, escape—and the band has real pedigree. But the execution is exhausting to listen to, which is either ironic genius or a miscalculation. The live performance will decide it.
Why does Eurovision attract so many experimental concepts?
Because you have three minutes to make an impression on millions of people who don't speak your language. You can't rely on lyrical subtlety. You need a visual hook, a sonic surprise, something that makes people lean forward and pay attention. That's why you get gorillas and silver paint and thirty-second high notes.