Techno & Lust In Wartime Kyiv: No Photos. No Prejudice.
Before Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Kiev had a thriving techno scene that rivaled Berlin in terms of hedonism and sex-positivity. Underground raves bring together straight and LGBT youth, creating spaces where orientation and gender don't matter. This spring, as tanks approached Kiev, civilians fled en masse and many clubs turned into refugee shelters. More than six months later, techno flourished again as daytime bands raised money for the military.
Berlin is often referred to as the techno capital of Europe. However, some European ravers believe that mass tourism has cleansed the city of the post-Soviet sand that made it great in the 1990s. Since the mid-2010s, Kyiv has emerged as an alternative, less commercial destination with fewer rules and concerns about compliance; one said: "Kiev has the advantages Berlin requires."
This burgeoning underground scene quickly caught the eye of the creative team at Berlin's Berghain nightclub, widely regarded as one of the best party venues in the world. Berghain is known for its secrecy, hedonism and exclusivity. Due to a strict no-camera policy, guests often party Friday night through Sunday; no mirrors or reflective surfaces are allowed inside so that everyone can see the mess. In 2019, Berghain's owners expanded into Kyiv, opening a megaclub they called "∄" (the mathematical symbol for the word "nobody"). Locals call it "K41" or "Kirilovskaya" after the club's address: str. Kirillovskaya, 41 years old.
I first heard of Kirilovskaya in April, when I was reporting on District 1, a volunteer group that repairs damaged houses in the free zone north of Kiev. Before turning to wartime volunteering, District 1 was a corporate organization representing Kiev's hipster mecca, Ryterska Street. Andrey and Masha were among the leaders of the organization. Andre had a clothing line, worked in marketing, and often spoke of his desire to please people. Masha, a bisexual make-up artist and model, was ruthless and relentlessly efficient. I often saw him meticulously handling the paperwork related to repairs. She admitted that she wanted the world to know she was "more than just a girl."
One evening in April, I returned to Kiev after a long day rummaging through the rubble of a rural kindergarten destroyed by the Russian occupiers. They regretted that during the war visitors could not see the city in all its glory and described Kirillovskaya, which served as a refuge at the time, as Edenskaya. “You should come to Kirillovska as soon as it opens. They are all so loving,” Masha told me, showing me her phone case covered in juicy rainbow stickers that she had attached to her camera phone on a previous visit to the club as a condition of entry . I asked if it was gay friendly. Andrey, who seemed to have lived through a thousand evenings, smiled. "I would say they are friendly."
Most of the gay people I knew in Kiev saw Kirilovskaya as a driving force in Ukrainian LGBT life. It was the biggest and brightest gay place in Ukraine, a center for artists and bohemians. Some believe that the club has promoted LGBTQ acceptance more than local civil society organizations by facilitating mass communication between people of all orientations and genders. However, Kirilovskaya's unexpected success comes at an unexpected price. John, a 20-year-old gay Nigerian, says he has struggled to fit into the Kyiv gay scene due to his promiscuous relationship with the techno crowd. He loved quiet nights playing board games.
After the first two months of the war, Ukraine is divided into two worlds: frontal and total. Life on the front lines is hell. Water, food and electricity are in short supply and regular bombings are causing deaths. However, many cities outside the zone have returned to relative normalcy, preserving the country's economy and dignity.
Ukrainians living in peaceful areas experience mixed feelings: guilt at not suffering like their fellow citizens, relief at not being shot, gratitude for the soldiers whose sacrifices ended the war, and a lingering joy that belies the suffering it burdens them all. . Like a guillotine. Russia's attacks on energy infrastructure have recently blurred the lines between the two worlds, as missiles once again struck cities far from the front lines, plunging them into darkness.
However, this division allowed Kiev to quickly reemerge after the Russians were expelled from the region in April. “Even during the war, Kiev is the best city in the world. At a spring barbecue, one young man said: But the recovery has also been understandably cautious. Kirillovskaya only finally opened in October. advertised as a fundraiser for the military, open from 2pm to 10pm (one hour before military curfew).
I arrived in Kirillovsk that same evening with a friend, driving through a dark city that conserved electricity and hid strategic objectives. The club was a five-story building of rotten brick. Only a small part was open. Everything inside was dark and eerie and industrial: thick fog, people smoking. Black vinyl curtains floated from the vents. The tables in the dressing room were lit by candles. instead of tickets, workers issued pens with numbers. Nearby, a woman in a leather bikini tied her shoes at one end. Androgynous men lined up to fix their clothes. gills and shins studded with thick plastic spikes. Everywhere knitwear, leather and oversized sweaters. Many people were painfully beautiful.
The dance floor becomes a wasteland of fog and flashing lights, with constant hypersonic effects that make your bones shiver. Scattered through the crowd are shirtless men expressing homosexual desire. But above all, a man and a woman kiss, consuming each other with youthful passion. All wishes are fulfilled in this temple. Joy and laughter. Center of self-awareness and self-destruction. A sweaty man with tattoos on his arms and the warmest fur. Glasses and sunglasses. The columns are covered with subway tiles. Another man in a pink kimono. excessive sweating A shirtless man in a bulletproof vest with the words "PRESS" written on it.
A woman in a black hat was serving drinks at the bar. You look like a mannequin, you judge it by what you see. On her back was a tattoo of two naked women, one licking the other's pussies. Some people looked at me. "Excuse me, I have to meet someone."
In April, I saw a guy in Lviv (a city near the Polish border). At the time, he was a refugee driven out of Kiev by the war and wrote to me on Grindr: “You are having lunch in a restaurant. We took a walk, then the air raid sirens went off and he showed me the catacombs under the cathedral, which once it used to be a museum but it turned out to be a bomb shelter. That spring, women often wept in front of this temple as dead soldiers were carried in coffins. Priests sang. The catacombs were deep. Now he was shirtless. We said goodbye, but the music stole our voice.
In the fog, I saw a live broadcast from a war reporter I knew on Instagram. He danced feverishly. A week ago, he was in the newly liberated village of Liman, to the east, where he and his friends passed the dead bodies of Russian soldiers. I remember the pictures: charred ribs and spines lying in wet ash. Bones begin to decompose. And also a horse carcass. But now it was techno and oblivion.
I met Andrei and Masha, whose new project has turned into a full-fledged public organization. They were still rebuilding the destroyed buildings one by one, easing the suffering of others. I shouted several questions to them, but there was no understanding, no time. We collapsed and the crowd swallowed us.
In the dark smoking room, the women sat on a small pedestal illuminated by a thin beam of light. One of them sat stretched out like a statue, his head thrown back wearily. The shallow pits above were filled with people talking and smoking. Hands and feet are pressed together. accidental proximity. For a second, a mass grave exploded in my head. I move my mind and fill it with music. It was simple. Not like that summer night in Toronto, when I imagined the car alarm ringing after the bombing, driving back from Kharkiv.
The night lengthened, then the light came on with an antiseptic glow. Mass care in clothing. Hands reach across the table, swinging these engraved necklaces and silently pleading. "Choose me, choose me!" My friend and I grabbed our coats and escaped into the night, which was dark just outside the courtyard wall. there is no light. We walked downtown alone, the stars just visible over the sleeping city.
The next morning, several deadly drones explode outside the station, choking the entire area in smoke. A few dead, but don't panic. A young man at the scene said he wasn't afraid, he was used to these things. At the time of the explosion, the woman who lived in the building was just as calm. He left his apartment because it was filled with smoke which he feared would poison him. In the surrounding streets people were running and going to work.
A few days later, 5 missiles were shot down before they could hit the city. The cafes are closed in the afternoon. Some hid in subway stations, while others lived their days as if nothing had happened. I left Kiev to report early, and the attacks on power grids continued. People on Twitter have reported power outages and have been working by candlelight. It is getting dark.
During a group chat, Kirilovskaya said the first wartime group raised several thousand dollars at the gate, money that will go to soldiers on the Eastern Front. More teams have been announced. "No image, no bias". By the end of the first month, $15,000 had been raised, including the purchase of a car for Bakhmut's department. Winter continues throughout the city, but inside this building reflects light and cheerful or natural coziness, regardless of gender, spring memories, sounds; "Even during the war, Kiev is the best city in the world."
