Sjoerd Valkering -

His first live show was at a venue called De Nieuwe Anita in Amsterdam. There were no lights, just a single bare bulb swinging over his battered mixer. He wore welding goggles. For 75 minutes, he didn’t play “tracks” so much as summon them. He used contact microphones to amplify the sound of him scraping a metal chair across the concrete floor. He ran a police siren through a modular effects chain until it became a mournful, rhythmic drone. The crowd, a sea of black denim and thousand-yard stares, didn’t dance so much as shudder in unison.

In the sprawling, flat landscape of the southern Netherlands, where the chemical plants of Rotterdam and the petrochemical refineries of Zeeland spit artificial sunsets into the grey sky, a sound was born. It was not the cheerful, melodic house of Amsterdam nor the commercial hardstyle of the big stadiums. It was the sound of rusted metal groaning, of a factory grinding to a halt, of a thousand terrified synths decaying into noise. That sound had a name: Sjoerd Valkering . sjoerd valkering

To the uninitiated, Sjoerd was just a quiet graphic designer from Breda. He wore plain black t-shirts, rode a creaking bicycle to his studio, and drank bitter coffee from a chipped mug. But to the small, dedicated cult following of the Koolstof label and the attendees of the secret Loodlijn parties, he was a prophet of the post-apocalyptic dance floor. His first live show was at a venue

His live sets became legendary for their intensity. He never spoke. He never took requests. He once played a three-hour set where the tempo gradually slowed from 150 BPM to 60 BPM, ending in a wall of feedback so dense and warm it felt like a blanket. People stood in stunned silence for two minutes after the last tone faded. Then they cheered. For 75 minutes, he didn’t play “tracks” so

The turning point came in 2022 with the release of his debut album, (Resin and Dust) on the Rotterdam-based label Molekül . The album’s centerpiece, an 11-minute opus titled “De Verdronken Toren” (The Drowned Tower), told the story of a mythical church spire sinking into a peat bog. The track started with a field recording of water dripping. For four minutes, nothing else happened. Then, a sub-bass pulse so low it was felt in the intestines. Then, a distant, wailing melody played on a music box that had been dipped in acid. It was brutal, beautiful, and utterly hopeless. Resident Advisor gave it a 4.5, calling it “a masterpiece of controlled demolition.” Pitchfork’s electronic section called it “the sound of a beautiful world ending, and you’re the last one alive to hear it.”