Eurovision in Wartime

THERE ARE SOME things the American mind can’t fully grasp: a certain way of smoking a cigarette, a particular fit of track pant, Rita Ora as a genuine celebrity. But above all, we struggle with the reality that the largest cultural event in the world happens entirely off of our radar and outside of our influence. The Eurovision Song Contest’s essence is European in ways that can only be defined by the same parameters our Supreme Court once used for pornography: you know it when you see it.

At the bar of a chain restaurant inside Los Angeles International Airport, I overhear a bored bartender run the same jokes. A diner wants chopsticks. “Are you right- or left-handed?” Someone says “hi” after sitting on an empty stool. “Not yet, but I will be after this.” By the end of my bowl of sticky chicken, it’s my turn to repeat the lines I’ve been practicing for a month.

“I’m flying to Copenhagen to write about something called the Eurovision Song Contest,” I tell him. Having to preface this with “something called,” as if it’s one of the underground raves I’ve spent the last decade covering, is laughable but necessary to ease in an uninformed American audience, one I was a part of just a few years ago. I always follow with, “It’s the Olympics of pop music.” As in the dozens of conversations I’ve had leading up to this one, the bartender, plus two eavesdroppers at the bar, are surprised. I have facts at the ready. Eurovision is the most watched cultural event in the world, beating out the Super Bowl. (Last year, the event’s three live broadcasts drew 162 million viewers, while the Super Bowl was watched by about 123 million.) With an approving nod from the bartender, I know this will be the last time I’ll rattle off my spiel. In 13 hours, I will be the one needing more explanation.

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Eurovision brings together dozens of mostly European countries (this year there are 37), each choosing one artist to perform a single song. Countries choose their competitors nearly a year prior, some via a national competition and others a closed selection. Some countries try to elevate their already ascendant stars, while others provide a once-in-a-lifetime chance for an unknown artist. Sometimes, performers aren’t even from the country they are representing but are hired for the best shot at a win. As long as the performer is over 16 and the song is entirely original, it’s fair game. In 1988, Canadian Celine Dion won for Switzerland, beating the runner-up representing the United Kingdom by just one point, and kicking off her international English-language career.

Unlike on American reality TV shows like The Voice or American Idol, Eurovision participants sing original songs, not familiar covers. While some 2024 entries may sound like Sia, Dua Lipa, or Rosalía B-sides, others are absurdist, genre-bending anthems—the type of quasi-Ibiza club bangers that have rattled out of mall kiosks since the 1990s. This year, there’s a six-piece band blending traditional Estonian instruments with Pitbull-inspired rapping and too-tight suits, a Finn in daisy dukes who holds lit fireworks while singing at over 160 beats per minute, a 56-year-old Spanish bombshell performing with her husband, a Dutch YouTuber with giant shoulder pads performing a niche 1990s rave dance, Bieber-coded Norwegian identical twins representing Sweden, an Irish witch hexing a demonic dancer, a Lithuanian with a penchant for strobe lights, an Evanescence-esque Norwegian band, and a Croatian metalhead dressed as a sexy pirate. Almost all of them have shirtless, male dancers. An Australian superfan visiting for the finale tells me that “what Eurovision fans want to see is a very hot woman surrounded by a bunch of hot men.”

I was late to the party. I saw a clip of a Eurovision performance for the first time a few years ago and began watching annually on NBC’s subpar streaming service, Peacock. Something about a country’s government-funded broadcaster spending close to a million dollars to give their song a shot at the cashless crown, while we beg for vacation leave and healthcare, struck me as absurd. Most of these songs were too over-the-top, too strange, or just too gay for American radio, let alone being funded by tax dollars without uproar. I needed to see it all in person.

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First held in 1956 in Switzerland, Eurovision takes place annually in the country of the previous year’s winner. (An exception was made in 2023, when the UK hosted in Liverpool on behalf of Ukraine, due to the war). Hosting the event isn’t always easy. In the 2020 Netflix comedy Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga, Iceland considers running a subpar candidate to avoid winning, out of fear that hosting will cause the country to go bankrupt. In 2012, when Azerbaijan hosted in its capital, Baku, The Times reported that the country spent upwards of $60 million on the event—not including the cost of a new 23,000-seat stadium.

The winner is determined by a combination of jury and fan vote. Fans vote via text up to 20 times, paying just under one Euro per vote, but can’t vote for the contestant from their own country. Juries are established on behalf of each participating country, made up of five members of the music industry and appointed by the country’s broadcaster. Fans from countries not represented have their votes pooled and weighted as one nation. Last year, Sweden won with “Tattoo,” a ballad by Loreen. The win set them up to host in 2024, the decision so auspiciously timed with the 50-year anniversary of ABBA’s win—Eurovision’s most famous export—that some Redditors suspect last year’s event was rigged.

Those unfamiliar with Eurovision are sure to know ABBA, even if only from the film franchise Mamma Mia! One of the best-selling pop acts of all time, the band has their own museum in Sweden, and a first-of-its-kind digital avatar concert running weekly in London. The foursome established Sweden as a country of pop music virtuosos, setting the stage for super-producer Max Martin to make stars of such bands as Ace of Base and to produce songs for American pop stars like Britney Spears, Taylor Swift, Ariana Grande, Lady Gaga, and more. With their pop prowess, Sweden has won and therefore hosted seven times. This year, the festivities are in Malmö, a coastal town best known as the Ryanair hub for neighboring Copenhagen. The tourism board says that they hope hosting there will help establish the city as a business center.

Eurovision, like the Olympics, touts itself as an apolitical event. Fans and jury members are asked to vote for the best song, not the country that sings it. But despite the anodyne slogan “United by Music,” neutrality is impossible. Politics are ingrained in the event’s makeup—from the finances of hosting to the concept of the “Big Five” countries (France, Germany, Italy, Spain, and the United Kingdom) automatically qualifying for the finals based on their significant financial contributions.

Of course, this year is more difficult than most to cling to an idea of apoliticism. Much more than half-baked rumors of a rigged Swedish win, the inclusion of Israel amid the war in Gaza that followed the Hamas attacks on October 7, 2023, dominates nearly every conversation about the contest. Fans across Instagram and TikTok said they planned to boycott the 2024 event as long as Israel was allowed to participate. The exclusion of a country in such a manner would not have been unprecedented: in 2022, Eurovision banned Russia after its invasion of Ukraine (they remain banned). That year, despite coming in fourth by jury vote, Ukraine’s hip-hop-influenced song “Stefania,” performed by Kalush Orchestra, received the most fan votes cast in Eurovision history and won.

Someone who has just read—or thought seriously about—the word “Eurovision” for the first time could reasonably ask why Israel is eligible to participate at all. Inclusion in the contest is contingent on inclusion in the European Broadcasting Union, an alliance of public-service media organizations that extends outside the continent. Along with Israel, non-European members Azerbaijan, Morocco, Cyprus, Armenia, and Australia have participated in years past. All countries are welcome so long as they are within the geographical boundaries drawn for the EBU; the Australian Broadcasting Corporation partnered with the EBU on the agreement that, if the country won, they would co-host in a European nation. Canada has expressed interest in joining in the future, and in 2016, China attempted to join the EBU to qualify but were denied. Vatican City is eligible but has never submitted.

Israel has won four times since it first participated in 1973. But political strife has overshadowed its songs since long before 2024. At the 2009 event in Moscow, Israel entered “There Must Be Another Way,” performed by Noa, a Jewish Israeli singer, and Mira Awad, who identifies as “Palestinian-Israeli.” In the midst of the Gaza War of 2008–09, the song was called a “propaganda machine” in an open letter of Arab artists who asked Mira to withdraw. In 2019, when Israel hosted the event in Tel Aviv, protestors accused the contest of “art-washing” Israel’s occupation of Palestine and “pink washing” the nation’s policies toward LGBTQ+ people. A groundbreaking win by an Israeli trans artist in 1998, while important for queer visibility, allowed the country to burnish its image as an exception in a bigoted Middle East vilified by the West.

This year, with the death toll since October 7 exceeding 38,000 Palestinians in Gaza and over 1,100 Israelis, groups from a number of nations have started online petitions requesting their representing artists to pull out. The loudest of the conversations has surrounded British contestant Olly Alexander, a gay singer best known for his band Years & Years. In the current climate, fans expect artists to do their due diligence. Dozens of artists dropped out of last March’s South by Southwest Festival in Austin, Texas, upon learning the US Army and defense contractors were sponsors of the ostensible indie music event. One week before Eurovision, more than 60 LGBTQ+ organizations from around the world issued a joint statement calling for a viewer boycott of the event as long as Israel participates.

In its own statement, from January, the EBU said, “We understand the concerns and deeply held views around the current conflict in the Middle East.” In April, after calls for artists to drop out increased, the EBU issued a new statement condemning the “abuse and harassment” of participating artists. In this second statement, the description of the situation in Palestine shifted from “conflict” to “war.” “We have all been affected by the images, stories and the unquestionable pain suffered by those in Israel and in Gaza,” said Jean Philip De Tender, deputy director general of the EBU. The “decision to include any broadcaster, including the Israeli broadcaster KAN, in the Eurovision Song Contest is the sole responsibility of the EBU’s governing bodies and not that of the individual artists.”

The statement linked to the existing explanation of Israel’s qualifications for participating, as well as an FAQ section with answers to questions including “Why is Israel still a Member of the EBU when Russia was suspended?” (Their answer: Long-winded quasi-legalese that doesn’t mention Ukraine or Palestine, or explain much of anything.)

The EBU has a pattern of intervening when it finds a song too political. In 2009, Georgia withdrew when their entry, “We Don’t Wanna Put In,” was rejected for blatant references to Vladimir Putin. This year, Israel received notes on their song submission “October Rain,” a clear reference to the October 7 attack. At first, the national broadcaster KAN refused to change the lyrics, but later tweaked the title to the rhyming “Hurricane” and removed the lyric “They were all good kids, every one of them” in order to be allowed to participate.

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On May 7, the night of the first semifinal, I land in Copenhagen. My delayed flight means I miss the chance to watch the first televised event. Though we’re just a 40-minute train ride from Malmö, there’s no sign the contest is underway. The streets are filled with Danes taking advantage of the 50-degree spring evening, sipping natural wine al fresco.

I have one day in town before I take the train to Sweden. In Malmö, I’m staying in a hotel that’s wildly marked up for the occasion, in walking distance from the public park that’s been transformed into the Eurovision village and from the stadium, where I’ll watch the second semifinal on May 9. Joining me are over 100,000 fans who will descend upon the city from over 89 countries. On Saturday, May 11, I’ll watch the finale with fans at the best party or bar I manage to get invited to.

The next day, I chat up two gallerists who are surprised to hear of my weekend plans. In their white-collar creative world, earnestly enjoying Eurovision is something that’s been left at home with mom and dad. They’re the ones who were drinking outside instead of watching last night. They’re even more surprised when I explain that the contest is virtually unknown in United States. “I grew up watching it every year with my mom and grandma. But us Danes aren’t as obsessed with it as Sweden,” one gallerist says. “Well, they just love it because they’re so good at it,” her boss replies.

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The next morning, the Malmö train station is not bustling. There are just a few Swedes eating hot dogs at the bizarre hour. I worry that I, an American, may be assuming that this whole thing is bigger than it actually is. To watch at home for free is easy for millions; to attend in person is for diehards, the kinds of people who flock to Comic Con or ren faires. Rather than Eurovision signage, the most visible symbol on the streets is the red, green, and black of the Palestinian flag and the pattern on the keffiyehs dotting heads and necks. Most are headed to Mölleplatsen, a park in Malmö where the BBC reported 12,000 people gathered peacefully in solidarity with Palestine to protest Israel’s inclusion in the event. I learned of the demonstration through Swedish climate activist Greta Thunberg, who was in attendance and shared the location to her 14 million Instagram followers some weeks prior.

The Palestinian flags and messages of solidarity with Gaza won’t be welcome inside the arena. The contest has always banned political statements onstage and, since 2016, has tightened restrictions on flags, barring disputed territories and separatists’ causes, doubling down further in 2022, barring even the European Union flag and only allowing those from participating countries. (Rainbow pride flags are the only exception.) While political signage is banned, non-flag symbols of solidarity may be harder to police.

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At Tuesday’s semifinal, Eric Saade, a Swedish singer and participant in the 2011 song contest, performs on stage wearing a keffiyeh tied to his wrist. Saade, who is half-Palestinian, had previously condemned the EBU’s inclusion of Israel this year. In response to his onstage stagement, the EBU stated that “all performers are made aware of the rules of the contest, and we regret that Eric Saade chose to compromise the non-political nature of the event.”

In a deleted TikTok that surfaced after the same semifinal, it was revealed that Ireland’s contestant, shock rocker Bambie Thug, planned to perform with face and body paint that read “Ceasefire” and “Freedom for Palestine” written in Ogham, a medieval Irish alphabet. In the video, Bambie Thug replies “fuck” as they wipe off the paint and are encouraged by a member of their entourage to make their statement after the finale.

The following day, after a nontelevised rehearsal with fan media in attendance, videos circulated of Israeli contestant Eden Golan being loudly booed. According to the BBC, the Israeli Public Broadcasting Corporation asked the EBU to intervene to avoid further booing of Golan.

Outside of blatantly pro-Israel Eurovision fans, there is a cohort who feel that Israel’s contestant is unfairly being made a victim, and who have gathered in her support. Mirroring conversations on American college campuses where student encampments and protests requesting university divestment from Israel have been reframed as antisemitic, boycotting Israel’s involvement in Eurovision is being framed as hatred of an individual Jewish contestant who, when rhetorically convenient, does not represent her government. News that Eden Golan has a bodyguard and is not allowed to leave her hotel room outside of scheduled performances for safety concerns has added to a narrative that not supporting “Hurricane,” despite its being a song not so subtly about a political incident, isn’t a jab at the state of Israel but at one 20-year-old.

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In the past few years, European electronic anthems have made their way, via samples, back onto American charts decades after their original release—“I’m Good (Blue)” by Bebe Rexha and David Guetta, “Alone” by Kim Petras and Nicki Minaj, “Baby Don’t Hurt Me” by David Guetta, Anne-Marie, and Coi Leray, and “Barbie World (with Aqua)” by Nicki Minaj, Aqua, and Ice Spice, to name a few. That European flavor American pop fans can only seem to embrace with a wink or a modernized cosign is the backbone of Eurovision.

While Eurovision’s campy absurdity may be its calling card now, this wasn’t always the case. On a walking tour of philosopher Søren Kierkegaard’s Copenhagen haunts, the guide, a retired teacher, is confused about how I could be interested in both his tour and the song contest. It may simply be ageism or sexism, but while the contest garners far too many viewers to stereotype them all, the loudest audience since the 1990s has been the queer community. “It used to be something for my mom’s generation, my grandma’s,” the fiftysomething guide says, “then I guess it became something people watched ironically, sort of a cult following. Now I don’t know.” He bites his tongue when the only two others on the tour—a gay couple, both computer engineers from Colorado—are also in town for the contest.

In 1986, Norwegian contestant Ketil Stokkan performed “Romeo” alongside a drag troupe—notably the first LGBTQ+ visibility on the Eurovision stage. In 1997, the first openly gay contestant, Paul Oscar, represented Iceland. The next year, Eurovision’s first transgender contestant, Israeli artist Dana International, won, cementing the contest as a queer-friendly space. Austrian bearded drag queen Conchita Wurst (who identifies as a gay man) became one of Eurovision’s most recognizable faces. Wurst’s 2014 win came at a monumental time for LGBTQ+ rights throughout Europe, including a spate of same-sex marriage laws.

Of course, it’s likely that privately queer artists participated before 1997. In 1961, French artist Jean-Claude Pascal, won representing Luxembourg with the song “Nous les amoureux” (“We Lovers”), a song about a romantic relationship being rejected by society. Online buzz has suspected the song was about two gay men, and in 2019, an article by Belgian broadcaster RTBF called it a protest song, but there has never been confirmation of Pascal’s intent.

Eurovision has embraced this association. When it was first broadcast to American audiences, it was on Logo TV, a Viacom-owned channel known for its LGBTQ+ programming, including the first eight seasons of Ru Paul’s Drag Race. In 2021, it moved to Peacock, where it has attempted to attract the American queer community by having talking head commentary by Olympian figure skater Johnny Weir. When I watched last year, the public live-viewer count in the corner was below 20,000.

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A modern Eurovision song fits within three categories: absurdist Eurodance anthems, music sung in the country’s language and featuring regional instruments, and emotional ballads. Loreen, one of only two artists to ever win the contest twice (and the first woman to do so), is said to have ushered in an era of more raw performances with her 2012 winning song “Euphoria,” before winning again with the ballad “Tattoo” in 2023, securing Sweden’s hosting duties this year.

It’s days before Loreen’s obligatory performance as the previous year’s winner and she is in full character. Over Zoom just a few miles from each other in Malmö, her long nails made of “healing crystals” clack through the screen. “I think for the first time [at Eurovision], my performance represented something that we all have within us, but maybe we’re missing—spirituality. I was a woman, I was barefoot, and you could hardly see me. I was talking about intuition, authenticity, and deep questions about life,” she told me. “People resonated with that because it’s something we long for. Of course we have more of those now than we did at the time.”

Loreen expertly skirts and redirects my questions about her reason for entering a second time, and whether or not Eurovision effectively elevates artists’ careers, with lofty mantras about the exchange of energy. In her parting words, she seems to indirectly address this year’s backlash against the event: “I think people should support stuff like [Eurovision]. More music, more soundscape, more creativity. It’s such a healing thing.”

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There’s a quiet consensus among fans that Sweden, Italy, and Spain continually present the best songs and are rewarded with wins. This may be because their entries are uplifted through national American Idol-style competitions, with each winner going on an expensive press tour of Europe familiarizing fans with their upcoming entry song. “The UK is trying to overcome their bad song reputation: they used to send D-list stars and has-beens and now they’re sending well-known artists,” one fan tells me.

Most bet the winner will be either Croatian pirate rocker Baby Lasagna or Switzerland’s Nemo, who theatrically fuses opera and pop and Macklemore-esque raps. Baby Lasagna’s metal influence isn’t stolen valor; he recently left a metal band to pursue a more tongue-in-cheek solo career. Nemo, a former battle rapper, theater actor, and contestant on The Masked Singer Switzerland, performs their song “The Code” while balancing on the edge of a rotating ring.

Some are holding out for a more controversial underdog, screaming “crown the witch,” the rallying cry for Ireland’s Bambie Thug. The artist told The Irish Sun their entry “Doomsday Blue” was an attempt to “curse” the horrific memories of a sexual assault. The song, which would be at home in a Hot Topic, is a departure from Ireland’s usual entries. It’s a sugar-and-spice mashup of screaming metal vocals, a bubblegum chorus, and occult visuals that have the Irish Far Right in flames.

Outside of the second semifinal, one man stands on top of one M of the pink MALMÖ, sculpture silently waving a Palestinian flag. Several police hover at his feet. They tell me that “it’s not a problem, but if more join him, we will clear the area.” By the time the show starts, nothing has escalated. The flag waves on.

Inside, I’m seated in a last-minute resale seat I bought for one-third of its face value. I wonder if the original buyer abandoned it for political reasons. Or maybe the hotels were just too expensive. Next to me is a twentysomething German who is rooting for Austria. When it’s time for Germany’s contestant Isaak, a Louis Capaldi dupe, the hosts joke about when a past German contestant received zero votes. “We’re not very good at Eurovision,” my new friend says. He’s not talking about the quality of their songs. When it comes to Eurovision, he says, “Germany has no clear allies.” Still, their contestants advance to the final by default as a member of the Big Five. Like most people in the 15,500 capacity arena, the German claps for everyone. Nearly.

When Eden Golan appears on stage, she stands against a simple circular set piece alongside modern dancers in neutral tones. I hear no booing. The clapping is some of the loudest, though it isn’t from the most people. Next to me, a group of men rooting for Italy dramatically cover the free light-up wristbands we’ve all been given that flash the colors of each contestant’s flag. Behind, a group of older Danish women give judgmental looks to those clapping. To my right, a man with an Israeli flag shouts for his contestant while seated next to his friends, who each carry flags from different countries as they clap along.

Semifinal rounds are determined entirely by fan vote. The results are announced just 15 minutes after the performances, before the telecast is over. The crowd gasps when Estonia advances but seems to understand when Czechia’s weak vocals lead to the elimination of their Paramore-style pop-rock track. My seatmate thinks Malta’s female club diva entry was robbed.

Outside, the man with the flag is gone and there is no sign of red, green, and black anywhere. For some, the fantasy of an apolitical event is in reach. For them, echoes of “it’s not that deep” feel almost as believable as they do about reality TV or other forms of entertainment continuing in the midst of a genocide. It’s raining, and fans run to hide in a nearby McDonald’s, another business that’s facing boycotts for their pro-Israel stance.

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The following afternoon at a nontelevised dress rehearsal, members of the press pepper in the stands while accredited members of the fan media camp out in the pit. Rumors spread online that the EBU dubbed over booing at last night’s semifinal at the request of the Israeli broadcaster.

After the performances, we preview a prerecorded video from Petra Mede that will play at the televised final. It’s a satirical song from Sweden poking fun at how good they are at the contest. Ironically, this year, the country’s song “Unforgettable” (by Marcus & Martinus) is hardly a part of the conversation. “[I]n Sweden, we teach our kids in school / More than history and sports / They learn that the Eurovision is cool / And nonpolitical, of course,” Petra Mede’s lyrics go. It’s the closest we’ll get to an earnest admission.

The man next to me, a British journalist from a music magazine, leans over when he hears my accent, shocked to see an American. I tell him that’s exactly why I came. “I really think Israel is going to win,” he says, “I’m prepping my article in case.”

A song alone doesn’t win Eurovision. A country’s current reputation and long-standing allies are important factors as much as the song itself. My German seatmate was quick to rattle off some of these allegiances. “The Balkans always stick together; so does Scandinavia,” he says.

This is true. Ireland and the United Kingdom have exchanged jury votes consistently since the contest’s origins, as have Norway and Sweden, Greece and Cyprus, Croatia and Bosnia and Herzegovina, Belarus and Ukraine, and Russia and Azerbaijan. A country’s social and political reputation is known to shine through in voting results. Empathy and solidarity in the midst of political turmoil impact winners, like 2022’s record-breaking win for Ukraine. Both pre- and post-Brexit, the UK, who is often considered an outsider in culture and now in politics, has lacked support and enthusiasm from the continent.

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On the Saturday of the final, I’m behind a handful of cops—the city has way more than usual, but still less than any American town—waiting for a meatball lunch. It’s hard to tell if the food court is crowded because of Eurovision or simply because it’s lunchtime. I clock a month-old Coachella wristband on the twentysomething chef behind the bar. When I ask the music lover if he’ll be tuning in to watch Eurovision tonight, he laughs. “I didn’t grow up watching it, so I don’t watch it as an adult,” he says. My social media, full of American friends, has zero evidence of Eurovision; instead, it’s still full of Coachella videos. It’s easy to take the chef’s disinterest as proof that American cultural output reigns supreme worldwide, but the contest’s viewership still outperforms anything else. If Israel wins and establishes a silent majority of Europeans expressing solidarity through anonymous vote, even if allegedly just through the song, possibly the contest’s impact will reach stateside.

I head to a square in old-town Malmö where close to 5,000 demonstrators have joined to express solidarity with Palestine and protest Israel’s inclusion. Chants are heard in Swedish, English, and Arabic including “Eurovision, you can’t hide, you’re supporting genocide.” Some hold signs specific to boycotting Eurovision, while others focus on the number of murdered Palestinian children. One woman is holding a full-size cardboard coffin atop her head while she marches. An American academic living in Berlin is there protesting with her nonprofit colleagues, inviting fellow demonstrators to FalestinVision, a club night she describes as “a genocide-free alternate to the contest” featuring Palestinian artists. A fortysomething Syrian man living in Sweden tells me he doesn’t care much about Eurovision, but he’s been attending all local marches and events in support of Palestinian liberation.

A few hours later, thousands gather outside Malmö arena to protest the finale. They march and chant until they meet a line of Swedish police. The protest continues until some, including Greta Thunberg, are detained.

Political tensions inside the competition have also escalated. It’s been reported that, at the dress rehearsal I attended the day prior, there was an altercation between the fan favorite Dutch contestant, Joost, and a production worker. Rumors swirl that Joost may have said something about Israel, but Dutch broadcaster Avrotros says he requested not to be filmed backstage but was anyway. “This led to a threatening movement from Joost towards the camera. Joost did not touch the camerawoman,” they said.

Just hours before the finale, Bambie Thug missed their dress rehearsal. The Irish contestant took to Instagram to explain that an “urgent” situation occurred that needed to be addressed by the EBU. Just before the rehearsal, comments made by the Israeli broadcaster KAN about Bambie Thug’s performance at the Tuesday semifinal were brought to their attention. The broadcaster warned Israeli families that Ireland’s performance would be the “most scary,” and involve “spells and black magic and dark clothing, Satanic symbols, and voodoo dolls.” They also noted that Bambie Thug liked to “speak negatively about Israel.” Just days after they were asked to remove their face paint, Bambie Thug expressed frustration with KAN disrespecting the rules with no consequence in an interview with Irish broadcaster RTE. In response, the EBU spoke to KAN to “reiterate the importance” of all broadcasters respecting contestants. In just hours, the show, featuring Ireland and Israel, will go on.

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I’m attending the finale watch party inside Clarion Malmö Hotel Live, a modest business hotel on a canal. Downstairs, a banquet room has been converted into the Euroclub, where former contestants and DJs perform until five a.m. all week. Upstairs, another room has been decorated in just enough glitter and club lighting for the watch party. The crowd at the party heavily consists of males in their twenties to forties, many with face paint and glitter, some in tank tops from Eurovisions past.

It’s my third time in three days watching the exact same songs with the exact same stage setup. I know who the favorites are and I know who has the most expensive stage production (the UK). This time, I’m not with fans who have the money for an arena ticket, or with the credentialed press. I’m with the middle class of Eurovision superfandom: those who took a cheap Ryanair flight to the host city and bought a comparatively cheap watch-party ticket. This group isn’t scared to boo loudly for Israel. Some take videos as evidence, as if they too might be dubbed over.

When it comes time for the votes to be tallied, a gaggle of fans quickly explain the logistics of the jury system. The vote allocation would be too complicated to happen within a single commercial break, even if this broadcast had them. Juries list their top 10 songs giving one to eight points to each for the first eight, 10 for their second favorite, 12 for their top pick. As these numbers flash on the screen, charts rearrange like the NASDAQ.

In contrast to the protests outside, Israel receives the second-most public fan votes, just behind Croatia. While juries may not want to be seen as allies, voters at home, whether politically pro-Israel, able to separate the art from the artist’s government, or voting in sympathy for the continued booing, rally to support “Hurricance.” The audience inside the makeshift screening room is at peak intoxication, but the party energy has quieted. For some, the wrong turnout means it will be harder to lightheartedly dance all night. For others, the impact is greater. “I legitimately think if Israel wins, it could change Europe’s perception of them outside of the contest and lead to more leniency towards them politically,” a British fan says.

Fans try to do the math to see whether it’s possible for Israel to win once the jury points come in. Juries have a near-unanimous affinity for Switzerland, with France, Croatia, and Italy following. Israel ranks 12th out of 15. No amount of fan votes can offset Switzerland, the notorious beacon of neutrality who moves from fifth into the winning spot by jury vote. Nemo runs out onstage holding the nonbinary flag with their long, pointy nails, to perform one last time.

“The Code” is a perfect 2024 Eurovision song. It’s full of camp and drama but is performed with just one person onstage, channeling the intimacy of a Loreen. It’s full of lyrics that, on third listen, are clearly a message about reclaiming one’s identity as a nonbinary person (“Somewhere between the Os and ones, / that’s where I found my kingdom come”). It would be more at home on Broadway than on American radio—in other words, perfectly tailored to be big in Europe.

As we exit the viewing party, many head to queue for the club, which is already blasting ABBA hits. Two disorderly drunken partiers are being walked outside by the police. The line for a food truck curls down the street, so I go to my hotel and attempt to use a delivery service, the app for which turns out to be entirely in Swedish. Instead of arriving with all the fixings, my kebab comes sad and empty.

In a press conference following the win, Nemo admits that they snuck in their nonbinary flag—one of the many flags banned by the EBU. “I had to smuggle my flag in because Eurovision said no, but I did it anyway, so I hope some people did that too,” they said, referring to other pride flags but likely also showing solidarity with Palestine. The Israeli press is focused on emphasizing the countries who awarded them audience points, adding to the narrative that the silent majority of Europeans ultimately support them. Nemo’s closest friend in the competition, Bambie Thug, who is also nonbinary, made comments as soon as they were “free” from the competition’s grip. “We [the artists] are what Eurovision is. The EBU is not what Eurovision is,” they said, reiterating the lack of penalty Israel faced for continued bashing of them in the media. If the EBU insists that the competition is apolitical and war crimes a country is being tried for can’t disqualify them, perhaps violating the Eurovision code of conduct is the only way countries will face consequences for making their own rules—whether in supposedly trite pop music or in warfare.

After my long flight back to California, my Uber driver asks me where I’m coming from. I’ve traveled for 16 hours and am too tired to come up with an answer that will avoid a follow-up question. When he asks what I was doing in Sweden, I put my theory to the test for the final time and tell him the truth. To no surprise, he isn’t familiar.