It really is hard to communicate the size and variety of Eurovision. On my first day in Liverpool, I watched a group of disco-mirror-ball-clad middle-aged men try to pass a group of young 20-somethings wearing pleather green ‘shirts’ covering only their shoulders and arms — looking more like Incredible Hulk cosplay than normal musical festival attire. Both groups were dressed to imitate iconic Eurovision acts, and neither had the space to maneuver the Liverpool streets suddenly flooded with 500,000 tourists. The competition has elements of Coachella, Comic-Con and a Puerto Vallarta circuit party. This year’s acts ranged from an Austrian feminist dance track about being inhabited by Edgar Allan Poe’s ghost (which somehow then morphs into a critique of Spotify’s compensation formula), to a Croatian avant-punk, anti-war anthem about the time Lukashenko gave Putin a tractor, performed by Let 3, a band whose ironic fashion suggests a Stalinist brigade made over by the Queer Eye guys.
Over the course of initial competitions, 37 countries were whittled down to 26 finalists. But the final broadcast, one of the most watched nonsporting events in the world, is just part of what goes on across the host city. I spent the week shuttling from theatrical performances to concerts, to after-parties, to after-after parties. This year, the usual drag brunches and night clubbing sat alongside Ukrainian gallery shows and conceptual pieces highlighting the war. On the main stage, the reality of the invasion was highlighted by powerful interval acts that were uncompromising and without euphemism. The Ukrainian creative director of those performances, German Nenov, did not mince words when I asked him about the different vibe this year. “It’s no secret that this is no longer just a music competition,” he said. “It is a large-scale event that draws attention to global social and political problems.”
The striking shift in tone is partially a result of Ukraine’s win last year: immediately afterward, Volodymyr Zelenskyy announced that, as per custom for the winner, Ukraine would host in 2023. The European Broadcasting Union balked, and the compromise was a festival in Liverpool that would highlight Ukraine and the war. The competition seemed to be on the verge of something exciting: learning to argue for its values in the face of a real challenge from a changing Europe.
However, when I sat down with Jean Philip De Tender, the European Broadcasting Union’s deputy director general, I was surprised by how resistant he was to this notion. “I was speaking with politicians this morning. … [They] are too explicit in what they expect. … [We] are bringing these values … in an implicit way.”
But the EBU’s “implicit” values have, historically, been tossed aside by members whose politics are more explicit and, well, scary. Eurovision’s low point was probably when it allowed itself to become an advertisement for Franco’s Spain in 1969. In 2012, when Azerbaijan hosted, the festival became the site of violent crackdowns on protesters. Then there was Tel Aviv 2019. The competition fined the Icelandic band Hatari for waving a Palestinian flag and admonished Madonna for simply showing two dancers wearing Israeli and Palestinian flags arm-in-arm.
Not every artist needs to shout their politics from the rooftops. Most of the songs in Eurovision are fun bops, emotional ballads or campy novelty acts. And some artists find a way to remain implicitly political while not sacrificing their message. Tvorchi represented Ukraine this year with “Heart of Steel,” a song inspired by steelworker’s resistance in Mariupol. While the song speaks in metaphor, Jeffrey Kenny, one half of the pop duo, explained to me how the nature of the recording made the message clear. “When we had the time and moment to work,” Jeffrey said, “There was no light. … The light comes back, air alarm comes on, go to shelter, wait a few hours.” Minutes before Tvorchi took the stage for the finale, their hometown Ternopil was hit with Russian missiles.
