The good, the bad and the raunchy: Every song at Eurovision, ranked from worst to first
We ask you, then, to fix your attention on Basel, Switzerland, where rainbow-colored smoke confirms that the Eurovision Song Contest is back after an all-too-long 12 months away.
Eurovision is catty, competitive and eternally controversial. It's ridiculous, as seasoned fans will attest. It's also full of heart, and a showcase of jaw-plunging talent. And it's long. It's extremely long. Twenty-six countries will compete in a four-hour grand final, one of the defining events on the LGBTQ+ cultural calendar.
We couldn't possibly ask you to make sense of it all yourself. So, your intrepid reporter – covering Eurovision for his seventh year – has crafted this utterly subjective ranking of every act taking the stage for the final. And we have help – from none other than last year's winner, Nemo, who won gold for their genre-busting pop-opera 'The Code.'
This year's field is absolutely bursting with sex, energy, sex, emotional ballads and sex. 'It's a very horny year,' Nemo notes. 'I love that for all the performers.'
Let's get into it.
If Imagine Dragons are your idea of edgy rock, you'll find PARG only mildly uncool. PARG (and we're sorry for shouting, but he insists on all-caps) spends most of this performance topless on a treadmill, mostly in color, but sometimes – DRAMATICALLY – in black and white. He is, technically, a very handsome man, but there's something vaguely AI-generated about his whole aesthetic; if a rogue state funded a large language model and tasked Patrick Bateman with its development, PARG would be selected as the purest example of a human adult male. The song's terrible, by the way.
Just 33,000 people live in San Marino, so adults fit enough to seductively rotate their hips face high odds of being conscripted. But usually, the nation will look to their Italian neighbors for help. 'We share a lot of art and culture,' Gabry Ponte, an Italian, tells CNN.
And ladies and gentlemen, we have a chart-topper in our midst. Remember the infuriatingly addictive 1998 hit 'Blue (Da Ba Dee)?' That was this guy! Ponte, then of Eiffel 65, returns just 27 years later with 'Tutta L'Italia,' which talks – not at all reductively – about 'Spaghetti, wine, Our Father and the Mona Lisa.'
I regret to inform you that the Brits, once again, have hope. No amount of merciless rejection can crush it. And here's the good news: The UK has a tendency to select melodically challenged competitors, but these girls can sing.
The problem? It's a dreadful song. The staging is inexplicably dull. The change-of-pace chorus grows tiresome fast. Thematically, the whole thing is stuck in 2013, vapidly dissecting a party like the early hangover-pop of Kesha and Katy Perry. But times have changed. Kesha now makes empowered, critically acclaimed art-pop. Perry is a self-proclaimed authority on astrology and astronomy and the stars.
This song is a lazy facsimile of a bygone era that doesn't treat Eurovision fans with the respect they deserve. Disaster is looming for Britain; they just don't realize it yet.
No election can pass without controversy these days, and Portugal's success in the semi-final left even the most seasoned Eurovision fans nonplussed. This song is perfectly nice – it wouldn't be out of place on your Sunday morning playlist – but there's nothing in the staging that elevates it.
'The foundations of everything have already begun to rot,' Katarsis' vocalist screams. 'Your eyes see pain.' It's brooding. It's a little boring. Katarsis is clearly working through something, and that's great, but if Eurovision is a party, he is the contestant you don't really want to get caught in conversation with.
Germany won't win Eurovision, but they do win CNN's coveted award for the competition's worst lyrics. 'I shoot holes into the night; stars fall and bang on my roof,' Abor & Tynna – a brother and sister duo – sing nonsensically. 'Chalk silhouettes on the sidewalk; A crime scene between us, like on 'CSI.'' Musically this is a sneaky banger, but the live performance doesn't elevate it.
The biggest headaches facing organizers again revolve around Israel's participation, which is opposed by segments of the fanbase due to its ongoing war against Hamas in Gaza. Yuval Raphael survived the militant group's attack at the Nova music festival on October 7. She'll be singing to an arena in which Palestinian flags will be flying, after a rule change by the European Broadcasting Union (EBU); organizers will be hoping the performance passes without incident. This is the second consecutive Israeli ballad that makes implicit reference to Hamas' attacks, but on a musical level, it's the weaker of the pair.
The so-called Big Five – the UK, Spain, Germany, France and Italy – qualify for the final automatically thanks to their financial contributions to the EBU. But if money can buy access, it doesn't guarantee points. Melody's staging is fabulous, and this song is a hot, chaotic mess (complimentary), but it's hard to see either jury or televoter falling for it. Diva down.
Futuristic shout-pop pair VÆB bring energy – potentially a bit too much energy – and they'll likely be deployed by producers to shake TV viewers out of a ballad-induced slumber. But that's where their use ends.
Nineteen-year-old Kyle Alessandro is an energetic performer. But the lyrics read like they've been put through Google Translate 16 times, which is some achievement, given that he's singing in English.
Justyna Steczkowska returns to Eurovision 30 years after first representing Poland, and her performance is bewitching; she dangles above the stage, pulls off a series of demanding moves and even (pretends to) play the violin. But vocally, it's a touch on the screamy side.
Two hugely positive trends stand out in this year's Eurovision field: the aforementioned raunchiness and the sheer number of songs sung in and inspired by national languages and cultures. Fewer tracks are in English this year; drab ballads laden with clunky metaphors still exist, but they're harder to find. Instead, we get interesting stuff like this: a six-woman fairy-inspired ethno-pop group melding Latvian folk imagery with an ethereal chant and an impeccably-rehearsed dance routine. It's bold and – full disclosure – it won't work for everyone. But it's exactly what Eurovision should be about.
A haunting ballad about the emotional toll of displacement, which needs a few listens to truly appreciate. It's ambitious and personal, and Klavdia's vocals are top drawer.
If Claude makes it onto the stage, he's already one-upped last year's Dutch entrant, Joost, who was disqualified moments before the show after an altercation, the details of which remain shrouded in mystery. Bouncing between English and French is a bit of a naked play to the juries, but this chorus is moreish and it's impeccably sung.
Ukraine excels at Eurovision like nobody else. This song is bold – it might be the hardest entry to pin down musically. The costumes are pure glam rock, but even camper; the melodies zoom around and never end up quite where you'd expect. An acquired taste, but Nemo likes it: 'One of the most interesting (songs) musically – it's very daring, bold, but beautiful.'
'No stresso, no stresso, no need to be depresso,' Tommy Cash tells us with infuriating frivolity in a gimmicky spectacle that caricatures Italian coffee culture. The song caused a brief diplomatic incident, as Eurovision entries often do, with some in Italy bristling at the lazy stereotypes on show. But Tommy insists that what he's hearing is 'mostly love' and that somewhere around '0.2%' of Italians feel offended (he didn't share his methodology). 'I'm never depresso,' he tells CNN. But he concedes that 'sometimes, you can get stresso.' You won't want to like this song, but you probably will.
This song was called 'Kant,' until the EBU – apparently not fans of the German philosopher's theory of transcendental idealism – forced it to change. Gen Z readers will know the slang phrase that Miriana Conte is alluding to anyway, and she lives up to it, strutting the stage in a furious cloud of girlbossery and diving into some impressive, Ariana Grande-esque vocal acrobatics. The arrangement is very 2015, and it's all a touch on the nose, but it mostly works. 'She has this amazing aura,' says Nemo. 'She owns it.'
Denmark's long national nightmare is over. The competition's longest absence from the final (they last qualified in 2019) has been snapped by a fabulous, epic, searing ballad that deserves far more love than it's getting. It's good through headphones, but it's much better live.
Sweden are Eurovision's perennial powerhouse; this year, they're represented by a Finnish three-piece who took the qualification process in their neighboring country by storm. 'We're gonna sauna, sauna, steam it up,' KAJ sing on a giant sauna set. And it's not an act – these guys really love the sauna. 'It's great for mental health, physical health, it's a great way to meet friends,' Jakob Norrgård tells CNN. 'I'm part of a sauna community,' adds Axel Åhman. 'You meet all kinds of people.'
This song is the favorite and it's been endorsed by Finland's president – which is awkward, since the country has its own contestant. It's undeniably catchy, but we can't place it on the same pedestal as previous Swedish victors like ABBA and Loreen.
At least it has a serious public health message. 'Everybody's welcome in our sauna. We could stay in there for hours, if it's a competition,' Norrgård says, before his tone shifts deadly serious. 'But you should never compete in the sauna. It's a bad idea.'
A bouncy, fun and severely underrated twist on classic. This track from Laura Thorn (titled 'The Doll Turns Up The Sound' in English) is a playful riposte to Luxembourg's own 1965 Eurovision winner, 'Wax doll, rag doll,' retaking the agency that was lacking in the lyrics France Gall delivered six decades ago. It would be a crime if this didn't do well.
If Lucio Corsi were representing a less chic nation, we'd assume he'd responded to the Swiss summer by overapplying his sunscreen. But he's Italian, so we're inclined to think his look is a nod to a Pierrot pantomime clown, a la an 'Ashes to Ashes' era David Bowie. Either way, it's a beautiful song (titled 'I Wanted to Be Tough' in English) that plays with themes of masculinity and self-image – and it's Nemo's favorite. 'It's too much under the radar – I don't get why people haven't clocked it yet,' they tell CNN. 'It really touches me.'
The devil works hard, but Eurovision's publicists work harder. Per the biography distributed to media members, we learn that Louane 'is considered more than just an artist: She has been called a bridge between the personal and the universal.' Who's called her this? Did it just slip out naturally, after a couple of pints? What does it even mean?
What matters is that France have once again found a gem, with a touching ballad dedicated to Louane's late mother. The nation has flirted with Eurovision success with recent entries like 'Voilà,' 'Mon amour,' 'J'ai cherché' and 'Mercy' (we get it, France, you're French). This could top them all.
Countries never win back-to-back, which is a shame, because this is stunning. A gentle ballad by a Basel-born star – gorgeously sung and cinematically shot – this will stand out amid its chaotic competitors. 'The core of 'Voyage' is (about) spreading kindness,' Zoë Më tells CNN. 'I really believe in the song.' 'It's so emotionally captivating,' adds Nemo.
If the title of Erika Vikman's romp 'Ich Komme' – German for 'I'm coming' – doesn't spell out the themes at play here, she's on hand to explain. 'The song is literally about an orgasm,' Vikman tells CNN. What are they putting in the water in Basel?
Power, sexuality, female empowerment and expression are all explored in this randy and rambunctious number. A giant, pyro-spraying microphone hammers the message home.
The classically-trained JJ boasts some stunning operatic vocals chords and the song plays to his strengths, climaxing in a truly thrilling cacophony. 'I had a pretty tough year, and I wanted to write about my personal experience with wasted, unreciprocated love,' he tells us. It's the best song at the competition.
But here's the rub: Eurovision hates even a whiff of mimicry, and this song is far too similar to 'The Code.' It may still come out on top, but consecutive winners rarely sound this alike. Nemo, for his part, is diplomatic: 'I think it's such a nice thing for Eurovision artists to continue to inspire each other.'
An intense bald gentleman and a songstress who looks to have dabbled in a cult or two form Eurovision's unlikeliest pairing.
They sing about an oasis – 'There's no ambulance around the street, no one talks to you arrogantly' – clearly oblivious to the British bachelor parties that blight Tirana, Albania's capital.
And they must be huge Eurovision fans, right? 'No, not at all,' Beatriçe Gjergji tells CNN. '(It's) not our type of music.'
Frankly, their ambivalence is an asset: there is nothing else like this performance on offer, and they're getting deserved buzz from fans as a result. 'If you believe in the type of music you love, maybe something can happen,' Gjergji says.
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