What happens when you put an unstable journalist living in the shadow of summer in a magical land of German beer, hotly tipped bands and a red-light district? There’s no hibernating season; I’m going to Reeperbahn Festival.

A mere few weeks prior, I stood teary eyed in the crowd for CMAT at End of the Road festival, self-eulogising the summer to end all summers that I had just experienced. I should probably calm down a bit now, I thought to myself. And perhaps see a nutritionist. And call my parents.  

But see, some of us are chosen to be different. It can’t be helped. I didn’t decide to continue my hedonistic quest – it was bestowed upon me by a cloaked wizard whose vacant eyes captured the very core of my imagination. Or maybe that was a dream, I can’t really remember. Maybe I’m just chasing something that I will never reach. Either way, I’m going to Hamburg. 

Specifically, I’m going to the Reeperbahn Festival. Europe’s largest club festival and a quintessential stop off for any hotly-tipped rising artist, the event celebrates 20 years since its debut this year. There’s a lot to like on the surface. The festival prides itself on being unique each and every year. There’s cheap tickets for young people. There’s plenty to dig your teeth into as a music lover; the 2026 line-up is sizzling, boasting talent from across 44 countries. There’s a focus on Ukrainian music this year too, which feels more important than ever. 

So, in a haze of post-summer depression, print deadlines looming and a fatigued sense of self, I must embark on another adventure, across the North sea, and discover if Reeperbahn really is the magical playground that the wizard in my dream said it was. 

I have a familiar sensation. A deja vu, you could say. I feel like I’ve been here before. Lots of times. Lots and lots of times. Wetherspoons. Stansted. A pint of Guinness. Why am I like this? 

I like guessing where each person or group of people are flying to. There’s a romanticism to the fact that I’ll never know the answer. I don’t want to know. 

I’m back with Ryanair, fuck sake. Me and the airline have been at wits end with each other over the past few months. Or at least I have with it, I’m not actually sure of its opinion of me. Based on its heinous delays it continually bestows upon me, I’d say it doesn’t.

The delay is around an hour, which by Ryanair standard’s isn’t bad. I reach Hamburg in the late afternoon, and immediately enjoy my surroundings. The train journey into the city – 40 or so minutes – is quaint enough, followed by a 10 or so minute walk. I’m staying at the Superbude Hotel. When I arrive though, and hand over my passport, the two people behind the desk look confused and speak quickly in German. 

Am I sure I’m at the right chain of the hotel? There’s another one a couple of miles away. 

Of course I’m not. Every time. 

I thank my brief new acquaintances who direct me to a bus that’ll drop me near my actual hotel. It’s not too painful, just a sharp bite of self-deprication. Eventually I arrive at the correct location and get checked in. I am a big fan of the interior, it’s giving hostel, but not the kind you get murdered in, more the type you find a white guy with dreads who you judge at first but is a lovely bloke when you get to know him. There’s also a ping pong table in the breakfast area. Outstanding.

It’s the early evening and I have a cacophony of important emails, so opt to take it easy this evening, remaining at the hotel and spending some time alone with a mushroom risotto.

The next day kicks off with a first encounter with the hotel breakfast. It’s not what I’m accustomed to as a breakfast that’s for sure, with lots of bowls of gloopy white stuff and a real pantheon of bread rolls. Still, there’s plenty of tasty components to dig into, and the coffee is strong and bitter as I like it. 

I work for the morning before meeting up with the rest of the press party for a drink at the hotel, and then heading into the thick of it. Before the music kicks off though, we’re taking a trip down memory lane. The Beatles first shot to fame in 1963 with songs like “Please Please Me” and “Love Me Do”. But “No Hamburg, no Beatles,” once said Beatles author Mark Lewisohn.

We have a tour with Stefanie Hempel – a musician and guide who truly knows her stuff and stops here and there for a little singing rendition of a classic of her ukulele. Explaining what the Beatles got up to in the few years that they were a band before they found fame, we tour through venues like Indra, Kaiserkeller, Top Ten, Star-Club, Bambi cinema. It’s very informative, and rather good fun. 

Following that, we have some dinner, a delicious burger that is too comprehensive to complete. And then next, it’s finally time for some music. Attending the M For Montréal showcase, I catch Jashim, the non-binary Colombian multidisciplinary artist based in the Canadian city. It’s an excellent, striking performance in a slick upstairs bar, of free-wheeling stylistic switches and sharp creative ideals.

Next, AIM are having a bit of a delegate do, so I grab a few beers there and get some networking in, before plucking up the courage to step foot in one of Hamburg’s more risque attractions. A huge sex shop on the main high street feels a little odd to an insecure Englishman, but here it’s just part and parcel of the festivities. It’s the size of a multi-stooried TK Maxx, with all sorts of costumes, devices, books, and items that I didn’t know existed or couldn’t have even imagined before. In some way, it’s as informative as the Beatles tour.

Shaking off a peculiar half an hour, I dive back into some music. Keo, who I’ve seen a handful of times at this point but just can’t resist seeing again, brings a devastating domination to proceedings, with razor sharp mixing, a well-oiled live set, and lead singer Finn’s melancholic and dramatic central performance.  

I stick around the same location for the vivacious Gans, the Birmingham two-piece with brash, infectious energy. But, despite the impressive energy of their set, my eyes are drooping, and so sneak off into the night for a good ol’ kip. 

Why do all European shower gel in hotels smell the same? I mean that as a positive. There’s a window near the ceiling in my room that I can’t figure out how to close. Still haven’t figured it out, still stuck on it mentally. 

After some emails, I meet the press group for lunch at Elemente Restaurant, a delish Peruvian joint that I struggle greatly to find but when I do, the grub is sensational. We then spend the afternoon having a guided preview tour of the city’s UBS Digital Art Museum. One of Hamburg’s most anticipated cultural incentives, once complete it’ll be Europe’s largest museum for digital and immersive art. For now, it’s an underground building site with lots of busy workers. No photos, no touching. Intrigued to see the end result, no doubt.

After a few beers and walking around the city a little – which has a gorgeous grottiness that actually quietly entrances me, I get into some music. First, the ever soulful Nia Smith who is one of Britain’s best new singer-songwriters, into Django Django, the London four-piece who are bringing a fresh indie rock perspective and receiving plenty of plaudits for it. 

After a bit of dinner, I next dive into Alice Costolloe, who I’d never seen before but am extremely impressed by; really nice progressive alt pop with technical nuance and vast emotionality. Sticking in the same venue – my favourite, the Molotow – for my act of the weekend, Little Grandad. One of the buzziest new bands in the country right now, I’m front row for it, taking in the set wholly and esoterically. Wonderful stuff.

Next up, the peerless Fat Dog, the established dance punk provocateurs that draw in a massive crowd with their ferocious, fever-dream of a set. There, I realise I’ve seen far too much UK-only music. Absolutely typical Brit aboard behaviour, I must do better. It does perhaps show the continued excellence of our scene though. Not much better, but I finish the night with untitled (halo), the genre-pushing LA trio. But the small venue is packed, and so bed calls.

After catching up on some writing during the following day and having a late breakfast, my first activity is joining the press gang for a delightful private harbour cruise. Hamburg is known perhaps best for its world port, and the city looks better from a boat than anywhere else. We are guided through the historic Speicherstadt with its canals, Elbe bridges (there’s more bridges than Rotterdam and Venice combined apparently), the docks of Blohm + Voss and the Köhlbrand Bridge. With beers, sandwiches and good conversation, it’s a lovely concluding social opportunity to reflect on a wonderful few days.

We’re dropped off the boat at the Great Hall of the Elbphilharmonie for perhaps the most significant event of the trip. An evening with Moses Yoofee Trio, the stunning contemporary jazz fusion three-piece. The amphitheatre is an incredible location, further highlighting the insanely talented group of musicians who are one of the most prolific and inventive acts in modern jazz. 

There’s no time to reflect on their excellence though; darting from the completion to the concert straight to the venue Docks for perhaps my favourite act on the bill. Leeds band English Teacher won the esteemed Mercury Prize for their 2024 debut album This Could Be Texas, and their acclaim has only risen since, touring the world and playing every festival you could think of. With a new album rumoured next year, there’s a glimpse at a couple of new tunes which sound fresh and exciting. Quite the steal from Reeperbahn getting the band on the bill. 

I then head straight over to Kojaque, the ever underrated Irish rapper whose sonic evolution continues to shine, it just needs more people to take notice. Then, after some goodbyes and a climatic beer, I slip into the night, with an early flight out in the morning. 

I’d hoped to be home by midday, but my flight gets pushed back by several hours, apparently because of a broken toilet. Ryanair strikes again. Still, it leaves plenty of time for reflection. 

Reeperbahn is an absolute juggernaut. Its location in the vast, slightly naughty and very unique city of Hamburg is the perfect backdrop for the excitement that the festival brings. Unlike any other showcase festival, its size, curation and vibrance make it the ideal post-summer pick me up. It won’t be my last!

Find out more here.

Words – Ben Tibbits