As the British debate around city festivals rages on, Brussels based Horst has been lauded as a shining example of how a festival can not only exist in, but contribute to its urban community. But does it live up to the hype? Ethan Joseph and Ollie Tikare went to find out. Photography by Ollie Tikare.
This is a story of Horst from the perspective of two curious Londoners who have made a habit of attending festivals together and trying to make sense of them.
We’d heard about Horst from a distance – the architecture, the design, the music, the support of local culture. There was a sense it might be different. But in the current music climate, promoters are increasingly aware that authenticity sells. We’ve both been to parties where buzzwords like community, intentionality and sustainability get thrown around because they appeal to an audience eager to feel part of something bigger. Horst talked a big game – a semi-permanent, multi-use site that genuinely collaborated with its local community? That offered emerging artists a platform across electronic music, performance art, design and architecture? We didn’t have a frame of reference for what it claimed to be. Keep in mind, our local festival is Wireless, who just booked Kanye West for all three headline slots a stone’s throw from one of the largest Jewish communities in London.
Needing to see things for ourselves, we hopped on the Eurostar to Brussels.
When we arrived at Asiat Park we were immediately struck by the transformation of the former military complex. Low concrete buildings hunkered amongst trees and foliage, chairs and tables were hidden in every corner.
Le Soleil Rouge stage designed by Bruther
We wandered around the different stages, struck by how beauty and function had been balanced against one other. Each stage occupied a world of its own, designed by different architectural collectives rethinking how a dance floor might operate. Even the sound was pretty perfect. The whole thing felt like a city crossbred with a sculpture park and you could feel the number of hands it took to shape its look and feel.
As we came to find out, Onkruid (Horst’s parent organisation) are contracted by the local government to run Asiat Park year-round. This means they don’t just run a festival but oversee basketball courts, a climbing centre, retail spaces, quiet afternoons, and quarterly club nights. Politicians here have sincerely invested in arts and culture, and handed power to people who have become caretakers of a permanent, thriving space.
Part of that caretaking means offering opportunities for external voices to shape the festival and the park. Horst’s Atelier programme brings volunteers onto the site in the weeks before the festival; learning and sharing skills in everything from scenography to sound production.
The festival allows its community to shape the festival and as much as intention can be used as a buzzword, here it is carried through. While chatting to Lukas, one of the heads of the media team, he pointed out a stage already being prepared for next year’s festival. A teaser of things to come, he said with a wink. There was a sense that the team behind this is always trying to find ways to develop and improve the experience.
It helps that Horst’s crowd are as sincere as its organisers. They looked seasoned, and stylish too. People seemed to have simply come as themselves, rather than donning the ‘festivalgoer’ look (and its associated behaviour) for the weekend.
Of course, how people dress is no foolproof indicator of their character, but this felt like a small insight into how Horst balances music and art so well. It seemed to attract attendees who are interested in an ebb and flow of intensity rather than three days of carnage, which is, of course, the British way.
Speaking of Brits, we were at Horst with a group of friends from London, all looking to escape the rat race for a weekend on the continent. “It’s nicer than a rave,” said James, here for the third time. “There’s something so civilised about it all.” We were all aware of the bad reputation Brits get at European festivals; trawl through most festival forums and you’ll find comments along the lines of “oh no, the Brits have found it.” There can be a brashness to how we operate in large numbers but at Horst, everyone understood the assignment.
That meant being willing to slow down at points and consider what Horst’s artistic programme had to offer. Art was woven organically into the programming through installations and dedicated spaces, offering people the chance to both observe and interact.
It was never in your face – but turn a corner and you might meet a sculpture, or peek round a door and find yourself immersed in something like Paul Maheke’s funereal transformation of the park’s former boiler room.
We spent a lot of time in the Rain Room, which is the main performance art space and lies at the heart of the festival – this year hosting everything from queer karaoke to contemporary dance, largely drawing from Brussels’ own community of performers.
Among them was Ethan’s friend Maisie, a London-born, Brussels-based dancer performing in Lisa Vereertbrugghen’s Again Forever. She was excited but (verbatim) shitting herself; the piece explored intimacy and sensuality through slow dance, a completely new proposition on a festival stage. We’d be pretty anxious if we’d been contracted to grind on a colleague at 60 BPM…
Being serious, Horst programming something like this was a challenge to both performer and audience; can you seamlessly shift mindset from party to performance? This wouldn’t work everywhere, but the ethos of commitment here was strong enough that it did.
We met Brussels native Lov outside the Rain Room. She shared our feelings about Horst’s intentionality, putting it down to a certain Belgian sensibility – the same one that has produced Doel Festival and Gentse Feesten. Being an artist in Brussels still isn’t easy though; in Lov’s words culture is being left to “die a bit.” It’s why institutions like Horst are so important, although, it should be said, she questioned whether funding might be being channeled in too few directions. We comforted her by bringing up Wireless. She’d heard about the situation and laughed. That felt like an apt response.
No one could accuse Horst’s programmers of being so clumsy. The festival catered to a variety of tastes, you’d hear everything from thumping techno, to spacey progressive house, to more soulful disco.
They’d even transformed one of the park’s retail streets into a pop-up block party that played cumbia all day on Friday.
There was a clear desire amongst organisers to invest in talent here and not fall for the trap that many European festivals do, booking the same 20 names across the entire season. This year, more than ever was about Belgian talent being at the forefront – ‘come hear what’s here’ was the motto, with DJs from local scenes in Brussels and Antwerp like Kanapee Nordwand, Bjeor, DTM Funk and AliA taking on peak time slots across some of the most popular stages.
We did, however, hear some criticism that the local programming was somewhat “cliquey,” and if Brussels is anything like London it wouldn’t surprise us that personal relationships have a bearing on who gets booked. Perhaps that is the inevitable effect of taste led programming at a festival that began as a group of friends throwing a party for fun.
There was also a suggestion that the cold weather had warded off the ‘ravefluencer’ types that Horst had started to attract – the type of person more interested in being seen somewhere rather than actively participating. It’s a longstanding question in event curation: how do you manage something that has grown from an intimate gathering between friends into something less controllable? Quality and intentionality attract good press; good press doesn’t always attract great crowds. There’s an idealism to Horst, and it will be interesting to see whether this passion project can stay true to those ideals as it continues to grow.
We bumped into Heléna Star near the artist area, a favourite DJ of ours in London. She’d arrived a day early just to soak up the atmosphere before her set. DJs don’t usually turn up early to festivals unless there’s something worth turning up for.
She laughed about the booking. “I thought they meant Helena Hauff.” Tongue-in-cheek to be sure, but we all knew that in the UK such prominent slots are not handed out freely to DJs outside the mainstream, particularly Black women. Her set was a small slice of home in the best possible way, and we felt quietly proud.
Later backstage we ran into David, tonight he was running Black Gravity Dance, the event series turned record shop and his brainchild as DTM Funk. He was mid-pep talk to around thirty house dancers about to take to the Ring stage in a reimagining of dancefloor dynamics.
“I want to bring the spotlight back to the dancers,” he said. He was frustrated by the current state of DJ culture, the way ravers now idolise the person behind the decks while the dancers who gave the music its language have largely disappeared from the rooms in which it’s played.
This was his ninth year at Horst and he was as nervous as ever – rushing around and barely stopping. He has the freedom here to explore any creative idea he wants and he absolutely puts it to good use.
It’s an idea central to the art of curation – giving people space to execute their own vision and to really trust them to do it. It’s something that Aoife, one of the founders of Berlin collective Overflow, particularly admires about the festival. Overflow ran Horst’s designated chill-out space, blending spa practices with rave culture and providing a soft landing for those needing a gentle transition out of the chaos. Think waterbeds, scented oil, and kefir… in a dungeon. It was all very Berlin. “It’s DIY, but it’s still pro” she said of the festival, “people go back to their little towns, wherever they’re from, and they’re like – damn, okay. We can level up.”
That’s how we felt at the end of the three days – that Horst didn’t just host culture but incubated it, setting an example that leaves people wanting more from their own cities. We left tired, impressed, and above all hopeful. Perhaps if Brits were given greater trust and more investment then we might create moments like Horst and spaces like Asiat Park. Creative spaces which meet the social and cultural needs of local people and push the boundaries of what public space can be. We’ll definitely be back.
