I was struggling – so it's crazy that now I'm representing my country
In Vienna on a Saturday night, twenty-five artists gather under the Eurovision banner to do what humanity has always done at its most hopeful: sing across borders. The contest, now seven decades old, holds within it the full range of the human condition — a former waiter from Athens, a violinist clutching a priceless instrument, a garage inventor from Ramsgate, and a young Israeli singer rehearsing for the sound of booing. Five nations have chosen absence over participation, their silence a reminder that song cannot always outrun history, yet the stage lights rise anyway, as they always have.
- Finland's classical violinist must sprint a full catwalk in heels while cradling a £500,000 eighteenth-century violin over an open flame — three minutes of beauty balanced on the edge of catastrophe.
- Israel's contestant Noam Bettan enters the grand final having already practiced being booed, while five countries boycott the contest entirely and protesters circle the arena over the ongoing conflict in Gaza.
- Sweden's Felicia lost her voice within 24 hours of a semi-final wardrobe malfunction, faced strict vocal rest, and recovered just in time — a win for her would make Sweden the most decorated Eurovision nation in history.
- Norway's Jonas Lovv was formally told to thrust less, Bulgaria's Dara stages something between an AA meeting and The Exorcist, and the UK's Sam Battle arrives with a Kraftwerk-Vindaloo hybrid built on a garage synthesizer — the contest's edges are as alive as its center.
- Greece's Akylas, busking on Athens streets just eight months ago to pay rent, now stands tipped for a top-three finish with a song about surviving a financial crisis — the arc from waiter to Eurovision stage compressed into a single improbable season.
Vienna is hosting Eurovision's grand final, and the evening promises to be as much about human drama as musical competition. Twenty-five artists will take the stage, but the contest's real texture lives in the individual stories behind each performance.
Among the most compelling is Akylas from Greece, who was waiting tables in Athens just eight months ago. He quit to sing in the streets, endured financial hardship and ridicule, and now performs Ferto — a dance anthem blending rave synths, video game sounds, and traditional Greek instruments — before a continent-wide audience. The song reflects on his childhood during Greece's financial crisis and the sacrifices parents make. He's tipped for a top-three finish.
Finland enters as the betting favourite, with pop star Pete Parkonnen performing alongside classical violinist Linda Lampenius, who must sprint the full length of the catwalk in heels while holding a 1781 Gagliano violin worth an estimated £500,000 — near an open flame. "I'm thinking about the violin all the time," she has said. Australia's Delta Goodrem, a platinum-selling pop star, is also considered a genuine contender after strong semi-final odds, performing a baroque-inflected power ballad. The question of whether Australia could host next year's contest if they win remains diplomatically unanswered.
The contest carries unavoidable political weight. Five countries are boycotting over Israel's participation amid the Gaza conflict. Israeli contestant Noam Bettan faced booing during the semi-final — something he had rehearsed for, having witnessed similar scenes in prior years — and further protests are expected at the final. His ballad Michelle is delivered with evident sincerity, but the arena around him remains charged.
Elsewhere, Sweden's Felicia lost her voice after a semi-final wardrobe malfunction and was placed on strict vocal rest, recovering just in time for Friday's dress rehearsal. A Swedish victory would break a seven-way tie and make the country Eurovision's most successful nation ever. The UK's Sam Battle — inventor, YouTuber, museum curator — performs a synthesizer-built entry that sounds like Kraftwerk covering a football anthem, and has already prepared a t-shirt reading "Look mum, no points" in case of disaster.
Norway's Jonas Lovv was asked to reduce his hip movements after rehearsals were deemed too sexually suggestive for a family audience. He complied, mostly. Bulgaria's staging crosses between a support group and a horror film. Romania's Alexandra Căpitănescu performs tethered to her bandmates by neon ropes, insisting her controversial song is about social suffocation rather than violence. France's Monroe, at 17 the youngest contestant, closes with an operatic pop declaration that everything, somehow, is going to be fine.
Vienna is hosting Eurovision's grand final on Saturday night, and the stage is set for a contest that has become as much about spectacle and human drama as it is about song. Twenty-five artists from across Europe and Australia will compete for the trophy, but the real story isn't just who wins—it's the nine distinct moments that will define the evening.
Start with Akylas from Greece, a 27-year-old who was working as a waiter in Athens just eight months ago. He quit his job to sing in the streets, enduring bullying and financial struggle while trying to pay rent. Now he's representing his country with Ferto, a hyperactive dance anthem that layers rave synths, video game sound effects, and traditional Greek instruments like the lyra. The song looks back at his childhood during Greece's financial crisis, celebrating the sacrifices parents make for their children. He's tipped for a top-three finish—a trajectory that would have seemed impossible to him not long ago.
Finland enters as the betting favorite with a song called Liekenheiten, a tempestuous love ballad performed by pop star Pete Parkonnen alongside classical violinist Linda Lampenius. The hook is both romantic and terrifying: Linda must sprint the entire length of the catwalk in high heels while clutching a 1781 Gagliano violin worth an estimated £500,000. She'll also run and jump on a chair next to an open fire. "I'm thinking about the violin all the time," she says, acknowledging the three minutes of pure anxiety ahead of her.
Australia's Delta Goodrem arrives as a genuine contender after bookmakers slashed her odds following Thursday's semi-final. She's a platinum-selling pop star performing Eclipse, a power ballad so polished it gleams, complete with a baroque piano breakdown and a key change designed to rival Celine Dion. Australia has been obsessed with Eurovision since Abba won in 1974, and though they were initially invited as a one-off wildcard for the contest's 60th anniversary in 2015, they've been invited back every year since. The question of what happens if they win—and whether they'd host next year's contest—remains diplomatically unanswered by Eurovision organizers.
Moldova's Satoshi, a 27-year-old amateur boxer, has a pre-performance ritual: he simulates rope jumping for exactly 30 seconds before taking the stage with his gregarious party anthem, Viva, Moldova! The song celebrates the country's 35th anniversary of independence and names major cultural figures, including poet Grigore Vieru, whose alphabet book taught generations of Moldovan children to read. Satoshi has turned that alphabet into what he calls a certified Eurovision banger.
The contest carries political weight this year. Five countries are boycotting Eurovision over Israel's participation, citing the country's actions in Gaza. During Tuesday's semi-final, Israeli contestant Noam Bettan faced a mixture of cheers and booing, and four protesters were removed from the arena. Bettan admitted he was surprised by the protests, though he'd practiced being booed during rehearsals after similar incidents in 2024 and 2025. His song, Michelle, is a lovestruck ballad delivered with sincerity and passion, moving nimbly into falsetto over electronic beats and Middle Eastern instrumentation. Further protests seem likely at Saturday's final.
Sweden's Felicia suffered a wardrobe malfunction during Tuesday's semi-final when her protective face mask slipped off. Within 24 hours, she'd lost her voice and was put on strict vocal rest. "It's a catastrophe for me because I hate being silent!" she posted on social media. Luckily, her voice sounded fine during Friday's dress rehearsal. If she wins, Sweden would become the most successful Eurovision nation of all time, breaking a seven-way tie with Ireland.
The UK's entry this year is Sam Battle, aka Look Mum No Computer—an inventor, YouTuber, and museum curator from Ramsgate. He wrote his entry, Eins, Zwei, Drei, on a synthesizer he built in his garage, and it sounds like Fat Les's Vindaloo as performed by Kraftwerk. It stands out dramatically in a sea of windswept ballads and crunchy club anthems. His kooky persona is either going to win people's hearts or crash out spectacularly. If it's the latter, he's already prepared a t-shirt that reads: "Look mum, no points."
Norwegian rock star Jonas Lovv was told to censor his performance of Ya Ya Ya after thrusting his hips too many times during rehearsals. Contest organizers deemed it "too sexy" and not family-friendly enough, asking for a reduction in "sexualised movements" and rhythmic gestures. Now PG-rated, Jonas has calmed his hips but still offers a cheeky wink and a little bum waggle to the camera. Meanwhile, Bulgaria's Dara performs Bangaranga, a nonsensical typhoon of tropical pop with staging that crosses between an AA meeting and The Exorcist, as dancers in plastic chairs twitch and shake. Romania's Alexandra Căpitănescu performs Choke Me while tethered to her guitarists with giant neon ropes—a song that's provoked controversy for its lyrics, though she insists it's about suffocating under society's expectations, not glamorizing violence. Ukraine's ballad Ridnym features a breathtaking 30-second-long high note, while Serbia's Lavina unleash a blood-curdling scream at the end of their metalcore ballad, Kraj Mene. France's Monroe, at 17 the youngest contestant, performs Regarde!, mixing pop and R&B with a stunning operatic vocal, delivering a message of universal love and reassurance: everything is going to be fine.
Citações Notáveis
I was in Athens, working as a waiter, and I quit my job to start singing in the streets. I had so many people telling me I was wasting my time.— Akylas, Greek contestant
I'm thinking about the violin all the time. I run and jump up and down on a chair, and I'm standing next to a fire. So I'm quite nervous during those three minutes.— Linda Lampenius, Finnish violinist
Without joking: too sexy. We were told to tone down the sex appeal because it isn't family-friendly enough.— Jonas Lovv and Mads Tørklep, Norwegian Eurovision team, on censoring the performance
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does a waiter from Athens matter to a Eurovision story?
Because Akylas represents something the contest has always been about—transformation. Eight months ago he was busking to pay rent, being bullied in the street. Now he's representing his country on one of the world's biggest stages. That's not just a feel-good story; it's the entire emotional architecture of Eurovision.
And the Finnish violinist with the half-million-pound instrument—is that just spectacle?
It's spectacle with real stakes. She has to sprint down a catwalk in high heels while holding something worth more than most people's houses. She's literally running on fire. The anxiety is genuine, and that tension is what makes Eurovision compelling—it's not just about the song, it's about whether the person can survive the moment.
Why does Australia keep coming back if they keep losing?
Because they fell in love with the contest. They were invited as a one-off gesture in 2015, and they embraced it so completely that Europe kept inviting them back. This year they sent an actual platinum-selling pop star with a power ballad. They're not playing around anymore.
The Israel situation feels like it's overshadowing everything.
It is, and it isn't. The contest is trying to be apolitical, but politics won't leave it alone. Five countries are boycotting. There were protests, people were removed. The contestant practiced being booed. That's the reality of holding a major international event right now—you can't separate the song from the world it's being sung into.
What about the UK entry—the guy who built a synthesizer in his garage?
He's either going to be remembered as a genius or a cautionary tale. His song sounds like nothing else on that stage. In Eurovision, that can mean you win or you get zero points. He's already made peace with both outcomes.
So what are you actually watching for on Saturday night?
I'm watching to see if the spectacle holds—if the violinist's violin survives, if the Norwegian's hips stay censored, if the young French girl's voice carries the room. But mostly I'm watching to see if any of these people transcend the moment they're in. That's what Eurovision is really about.