HOA 2025—Chasing Hellripper

Headbangers Open Air 2025 happened last week.

I was there.

Well—part of me was there. For part of it.

 

I had full press accreditation, a camera, a half-working immune system, and big plans to cover the entire festival.

 

Spoiler: that didn’t happen. My body bailed halfway through and left me with a cold, a dead arm, and enough ibuprofen in my system to legally qualify as soup.

 

But before the great immune collapse, I made it through Thursday.

And that Thursday? Was all I needed.

 

Because—and let’s be clear here—

I came to HOA 2025 for Hellripper.

Everything else was bonus content.

 

Yes, I covered the festival. Yes, I took photos.

But let’s not pretend: I had one goal—to see James McBain & Co. rip the sky apart.

 

What I didn’t plan for was accidentally running face-first into him before the show and losing every shred of chill I’ve ever tried to maintain.

 

But let’s rewind a bit.

Thursday—I finished work, slammed the laptop shut, threw gear in the car, and dragged my body out of the house.

 

I was tired, already sick, aching, and absolutely not in the mood for anything. My brain was still swimming in Jira tickets and Miro boards.

 

Festival mode? Nowhere to be found.

 

I grabbed my vest—and realised I still hadn't sewn on those patches I got at Prophecy Fest 2024.

Well, it's only been nine months.

 

So, naturally, I packed the sewing kit too. Efficiency, baby. Why not multitask your way into the abyss?

 

I put on some Tankard in the car, trying to will myself into festival mode.

Cracked a Heineken in solidarity.

 

Mood? Low.

Energy? Lower.

 

This wasn’t a triumphant arrival. It was grim determination and an unhealthy decision to ignore my physical warning signals.

 

HOA is a well-oiled nostalgia machine. It’s charming in that way. People hug at the gates. There are more battle vests than people. The average crowd age hovers around “owns multiple CD towers.” And the music? Old-school heavy metal, thrash, a touch of power—rinse and repeat. Dependable. Reverent. Loud.

 

And I realised, standing there, camera in hand, surrounded by dudes who saw Sodom in ’87—

This isn’t really my thing anymore. If it ever was.

 

Four years ago, I started out in metal right there: worshipping the classics, moving into thrash next. But somewhere along the way, I wandered. Into black metal. Doom. DSBM. Post-everything. Music that doesn’t flinch. That breathes in grief and spits it out in six-minute tremolo rants.

 

And the HOA crowd? Still locked in the glory days. Thrash nostalgia. Beer jokes. Unironic “metal brotherhood” energy. Respectable. Fun. But not mine.

By the time Screamer were halfway through their set, I had already endured four bands that—while technically solid—did absolutely nothing for me.

 

Strike Master and Toranaga UK thrashed their hearts out.

Hammer King brought props, pathos, golden goblets—and a woman referred to as the unzüchtige Zofe.

Yes. Really.

She entered the stage with a golden bowl full of coins. One of those coins was supposed to land neatly in her cleavage. It didn’t. She looked mildly offended. Everyone else just carried on like this was completely normal.

I nearly choked on my own second-hand embarrassment.

Die unzüchtige Zofe. Holy. Fuck.

You couldn’t make this up if you tried.

 

Destructor did what Destructor does.

And Screamer? At least they looked fantastic doing it.

 

Not their fault.

I was just the wrong crowd at the wrong wavelength that day.

It all bounced off me like I was wrapped in emotional Teflon.

I was too tired, too done, spiritually counting down the minutes.

 

So. After shooting Screamer, I bailed from the pit.

Weaving through bodies, not paying much attention.

 

And then—I turned to look for Chris, who was somewhere behind me. And I walked face-first into James McBain.

Like, fully face-first.

 

My brain took 0.02 seconds to implode:

“HOLY SHIT. THAT'S HIM.

YOU CAME TO THIS GODDAMN FESTIVAL FOR THAT GUY.

DO SOMETHING.”

 

He had already walked past by the time I processed it.

So I did what any totally calm, professional, absolutely not socially anxious person would do.

I went after him.

 

While having a full internal meltdown about how deeply awkward this was going to be.

 

“You can’t just talk to him.”

“But this is your chance.”

“But also you’ll sound like an insane person.”

“YOU WILL REGRET IT FOREVER IF YOU DON’T.”

“Fine. We die cringing.”

 

21:10—they were on stage.

No intro. No slow build.

Hellripper don’t ease into things.

They detonate.

 

I’d seen them before—Wacken 2024, day one, heatstroke levels of sun, first full festival day.

They played the Wasteland Stage and absolutely annihilated it.

It was 45 minutes of pure chaos.

Crowdsurfers flying.

Security visibly overwhelmed.

Even the press ended up in the air by the end.

 

And James?

“I’m coming down now! You better well catch me!”

He stage-dived. Obviously.

 

It was ridiculous, euphoric, dangerous—and unforgettable.

That set stuck with me for a full year.

 

So yes: I came to HOA with expectations.

I came ready.

And they still managed to punch me in the face with how good they were.

 

They tore through the whole thing—no fluff, no filler, just riff after riff after goddamn riff.

Shredded their way through 60 minutes of speed metal violence—in 56.

 

Within seconds, it was all velocity.

Riffs flying, drums pounding, McBain’s fingers a blur.

Everything was fast—too fast—and still dead-on.

Precision at breakneck pace.

The kind of speed that doesn’t ask permission. It just grabs you by the collar and yells “GO.”

 

McBain was soaked in sweat, hair plastered to his face, grinning like a man living his best life at 220 BPM. Forty-five minutes in, he looked up, half-grinning, and said:

 

“We’ve got four more songs. So—about five minutes.”

Iconic. Gotta love him.

 

And the drummer—

God damn, Max. I’m building you a shrine.

You are everything a woman needs to feel alive again.

There was no crowdsurfing. It wasn’t Wacken.

But the energy was there.

It just didn’t spill. It condensed.

It sat under your skin and buzzed.

 

And yeah—it was obvious.

The crowd had changed.

Suddenly there were faces I hadn’t seen all day.

The old denim vests gave way to goat shirts, black hoodies, band logos you can’t read unless you already love them.

The Hellripper fans had worked their way to the front.

And with them: movement. Tension. A new rhythm.

 

For a moment, the entire festival felt like it had shifted.

This band was the odd one out—and I loved it.

For the first time that day, I didn’t feel like the outsider.

I felt like the target audience.

McBain tried to talk between songs—a bit of crowd interaction, a breather.

But it didn’t work.

The crowd had other plans.

“HELLRIPPER! HELLRIPPER! HELLRIPPER!”

Nonstop. No room for banter.

He just shrugged and played faster.

Louder.

Better.

 

Someone nearby muttered,

“He calls that Rock’n’Roll?”

And in my head:

Ilona, honestly. Please. Just shut up.

You got five bands.

Let me have this one.

Ross the Boss closed out the day with all the expected muscle.

But honestly? I was still mentally at the Hellripper set.

 

Okay—maybe slightly re-engaged when Marc Lopes started doing his thing.

He was a surprise. I did not expect to still have a pulse at that point.

 

But he’s got textbook frontman energy.

I enjoyed it.

 

Loud, theatrical, just the right amount of over-the-top.

Exactly the kind of chaos that photographs very well.

 

So yeah. I went to HOA for one band.

Got the photo. Got the set.

Got the reminder of where I stand in all this.

 

I’m not here for the past.

I’m here for the snarl. The speed. The noise that makes half the crowd flinch and the rest of us feel more alive than we have in weeks.

 

And if that means showing up wrecked, exhausted, and still chasing James McBain through a field like it’s a side quest I assigned myself? So be it.

 

I’ll be cringing about it forever.

But I’ll also be smiling just as hard.