Greece’s entry this year, Asteromata by Klavdia Papadopoulou, transcended Eurovision conventions. Klavdia Papadopoulou: Dignity that captivated all! uniting a nation and captivated an international audience—standing proudly above the contest’s typical standards.
It’s been decades since Eurovision could be won with a song alone. The entire process today resembles a production-line spectacle.
Algorithms now help identify the ‘catchy’ chorus, the right tempo—familiar enough to appeal but not so dull as to be forgettable—a music video engineered to go viral, and a stage performance packed with dancers and effects to impress juries and fans alike.
Audiences have become so conditioned to over-the-top extravaganzas that anything less feels underwhelming. Musically, most entries are mediocre. As a result, countries either try to outdo each other with bizarre, theatrical gimmicks—like last year’s chaotic Satti’s roll—or play it safe with sugary ballads. This year, Greece did neither.
Instead, it sent a beautiful acoustic piece—Asteromata—which, perhaps for the first time in years, genuinely united Greeks rather than dividing them. It was a composition of real merit, transcending the traditional Eurovision mould. And, above all, it was authentic. Doric. Honest. Deeply and unmistakably Greek.
EUROVISION: “The most powerful moment of Klavdias Asteromata comes at a point where a stark shift in color captures the unspeakable horror of genocide—the suffering of the Pontian Greeks floods the scene, staining the white and blue to red, as Klavdias haunting human cry echoes through the air. This transformation symbolizes the violence inflicted under the shadow of the red flag, next door—a flag that was never recognized, and whose crimes remain shrouded in silence to this day.”
Asteromata was written without formula or gimmick. And yet, it reached the hearts of audiences across Europe. Klavdia, the young performer with a distinctive, charismatic voice, delivered a deeply personal interpretation of a song rooted in the historical memory of Hellenism.
She didn’t descend from the ceiling, ride flying saucers, swallow swords, or balance on balloons. She simply sang Asteromata in her native language. The BBC described her as “simply mesmerising.”
Eurovision may have become little more than a publicity vehicle for artists, but how a country chooses to represent itself still matters. Last year’s Greek entry was disappointing: a hazy, musically subpar song that tried to be everything at once, portraying Greece as a worn-out tourist cliché—a place for disenchanted foreigners to vent their frustrations among locals whose highest ambition is to serve peasant food and dance syrtaki on cue.
This year, by contrast, the Greek performance radiated dignity and pride. The song didn’t pander to the “Eurovision mentality,” nor did it worry whether its emotionally charged lyrics, rooted in the historical trauma of Pontic Hellenism, were easily digestible. “This music is haunting—we were stunned,” wrote major foreign outlets.
Inspired by the genocide and forced displacement of the Pontic Greeks, Asteromata even provoked a diplomatic reaction from Turkey. Yet it won an impressive 6th place, far surpassing expectations, with bookmakers having predicted a mid-table 15th. Arguably, it deserved an even higher ranking.
Greece’s entry was above Eurovision standard—and that’s precisely what resonated with the public. It won over Greek audiences, and more than that, it demonstrated that amid all the gimmicks and theatre, European viewers still appreciate sincere, dignified national representation.
Two nights ago, the usual formulae—English-language lyrics crafted for commercial appeal, recycled beats, and contrived attempts to shock—were notably absent or failed to impress.
Even the overall spectacle of Saturday’s final seemed to pull back from its usual excesses. In recent years, Eurovision had increasingly leaned into a single, narrow cultural agenda, to the point of alienating broader audiences. Until last year, the Eurovision “universe” seemed like a self-contained communication bubble, obsessed with a particular form of identity politics—so much so that it risked excluding everyone else.
It had reached the point where LGBTQ+ symbolism dominated the contest: rainbow flags, thematic props, innuendo-laden songs and suggestive choreography—often to the point of absurdity. Winners like Nemo became symbols of this performative messaging. The focus on provocative elements, particularly those centred around sexuality, began to feel forced and repetitive. As a result, the show began to repel rather than attract audiences, with advertisers and sponsors also pulling back.
It’s clear that not all of Eurovision’s millions of viewers are passionate advocates of any specific agenda—nor, for that matter, are all LGBTQ+ viewers seeking overt representation. Most simply want to enjoy a grand, live, international music competition on a Saturday night.
This year, the organisers seemed to recognise that the increasingly ideological nature of the show had begun to alienate viewers. And with that awareness, a subtle rebalancing occurred.
