Unesco Techno: Berlin DJs call for Intangible Cultural Heritage status

Illustration by Lily Lowe

Strolling through Tiergarten one spring afternoon, I pause to soak up the soundscape. Squirrels in the trees, children’s laughter, and the distant thumping of outdoor techno. The beating heart of the city. The ominous kick drum soon reveals itself to be part of a ‘Save Techno’ protest at the Brandenburg Gate: a cordoned-off area penning in a respectful tessellation of socially distanced ravers, shuffling to the sounds of a lone DJ spinning from the back of an open van. Beyond the red tape are several stationary police marshals who don’t seem tempted by the rhythm.

This is the ethos behind recent calls from Berlin DJs to protect the city’s techno culture by granting it Unesco Intangible Cultural Heritage status. Threatened by a dangerous cocktail of gentrification and a lack of state protection during the pandemic, techno activists have expressed concerns about the stability of the genre and its associated spaces. Behind the notorious guise of Berlin’s cult of hardcore techno lovers is an extensive network of artists and industry professionals that are the cornerstones of the city’s treasured nightlife. Dr. Motte, DJ and activist responsible for non-profit organisation Rave The Planet, hails the scheme’s potential to provide financial support as well as tax cuts for smaller venues – particularly attractive aspects in light of the closing down of over 100 Berlin venues over the last decade.

With its roots in the dynamic political landscape following the monumental fall of the Berlin Wall and subsequent reunification of Germany in 1990, techno holds a tender place in the capital’s collective heart, associated with historical narratives of counterculture and liberation even today. Alongside established hubs like Berghain and Tresor, which are notorious monoliths of club culture, the city’s many fledgling techno groups provide vital intersectional and intimate spaces for marginalised people. Tresor founder Dimitri Hegemann notes that historically, the lyricless appeal of techno created an inclusive environment for migrant groups post-reunification. Today, many venues are safe spaces for queer and BIPOC communities. Cassidy George praises such settings as “sources of emotional, political, cultural, and social affirmation for the communities they cater to”. In a city committed to progression and positive change, there is no question that techno and the spaces it provides are precious – both culturally and socially.

Intangible Cultural Heritage (ICH) self-proclaims to help “[maintain] cultural diversity in the face of growing globalization”.  It emphasises community, generational transmission of knowledge and practice, and social cohesion. National and regional traditions and practices currently holding ICH status are diverse and range from ‘Chakan, embroidery art in the Republic of Tajikistan’ to ‘gastronomic meal of the French’. The list has been updated annually since 2008 and it doesn’t seem that ‘Berlin techno culture’ would be too far amiss. If anything, recognition of a predominantly youth-oriented practice would be a refreshing feature.

Looking at the dedicated Unesco website, the process seems somewhat clinical, with membership determined by a committee of six “expert representatives” over two years. A set of nine criteria dictate the inscription process to be accepted on the ICH list, with somewhat vague parameters: submitting parties must be “willing to cooperate in the dissemination of best practices” and “[feature] experiences that are susceptible to an assessment of their results”.

As is often the case with institutionalisation, these elements of Unesco’s ‘procedure of inscription’ hint at boxing in traditions rather than nurturing them. Whether the nature of the organisation’s control truly serves to protect cities and practices – rather than commercialise them – is up for debate. In 2014, Italian writer Marco d’Eramo coined the term ‘Unescocide’, arguing that to attempt to preserve something in this context means “protecting it from growth and change”. For techno, a relatively new medium in comparison to the tradition-steeped character of other ICH practices, would institutional protection truly support the dynamic and collaborative quality of its production?

Financial preoccupations are clearly paramount for the survival of venues and artists alike, and the monetary support that ICH status would trigger from Unesco and the state of Berlin would be undeniably welcome. The controversy sparked by Berghain’s mid-pandemic Bottega Veneta show could be digested in light of the venue’s obvious need for funding amidst enforced closure. With conformance to the programme’s criteria, however, comes the inevitable risk of suppressing techno’s creative, ever-changing nature. Techno, a genre and movement born in the wake of great political change, is – and should be – tricky to pin down. Though preservation of legacy venues is important – Berghain is already covered by a level of government protection as a ‘high art institution’ – perhaps the priority should be safeguarding underground groups, taking care to follow the voices of these communities.

In reaching outwards to find protection for the rich cultural practice of techno, the reality of institutionalisation rings alarm bells of the very gentrification activists are fighting to resist. Berlin’s precarious techno scene is symptomatic of the defunding of culture and the arts occurring across the western world, and demonstrates the need for protection that nurtures authenticity and agency rather than compromising it.