Jori Hulkkonen's First Club: Military Service, Self Loathing and Sven Väth

My First Club takes us back to the beginning, transporting DJs and producers back into the depths of their memory, asking them to take us on a trip to those pivotal first nights in clubland. Following entries from the likes of Eats Everything, Herve, MK, Slimzee, and Billon, we hit up Finnish producer and DJ Jori Hulkkonen for a trip into a slightly miserable past life.

"Private Hulkkonen! HULKKONEN!"

The words echoed in the grey, empty corridors. A handfull of shorthaired, zit-faced, skinny, soulless guys polishing their rifles echoed the words. "Hey Hulkkonen! The Sergeant is looking for you!"

"Fuck. There's goes my nap." Not that it really mattered. Any change in routine was welcome. I'd done enough of avoiding responsibility for the day.

Time is very curious. Even more curious is how you perceive it. In addition to having time moving forward in a linear fashion, it felt also like time was binary. Time was either on or off. Mostly it was off. Things happened and your brain was turned off as well. Things existed and happened outside of time, regardless of it. Proper drone-vibe. When time was on though, it moved slower than it ever had. But no-one ever really cared what time it was. Time, it just was.

So I have no idea if it was morning or afternoon.

"Hulkkonen! Get your ass in here!!"

The office had the familiar smell of lost ambition and dead dreams, and lacked any sort of personality. Your basic office, essentially.

"Your application for an extra day of leave has been approved. You can pick up your train tickets from the secretary."

Before I knew it I was in the toilet of the train that was heading to Helsinki, a 7 hour ride, and I wanted to change from my uniform as soon as I could to my civilian clothes. Not that I felt uncomfortable in it — I actually really enjoyed wearing the classy military outfit with its timeless aura. Thinking about it now, after the military service I was a bit lost stylewise, and kinda regressed into really bad dressing (and hair) for years. It would take a full decade to find that intoxicating false self-confidence wearing suits can give you. But at that age rather than feeling comfortable in what I wore, I'd rather blend in. Also, I wasn't sure if I was allowed entry in the uniform.

It wasn't the first time I was going to a club. Technically. Back home, in the city of Kemi, we actually had a pretty cool spot, DisCemi, where the local DJ Kapa would play some very cool current stuff –up until the crowd started coming in. So I'd always go there the minute they opened, and got to enjoy the empty club and the latest releases from Harthouse or Eye-Q before the normie-crowd came in and the music switched to Culture Beat, Ace of Base and Haddaway. I didn't DJ myself at this time, but nevertheless I spent my time in the booth (I'm still undecided on the cause/effect –angle of this factoid) as I felt the DJ was the only person I had some sort of connection with. I also liked the barrier the DJ booth created against the masses. I never was a people-person. Making notes, watching Kapa mixing and working the crowd while drinking ice water kinda defines those days.

The queue was pretty long, even though it was well below freezing and it was still 30 minutes until the doors opened. I was rather discouraged by how much people had made an effort to dress up. My normie look made me stand-out. Not what I had anticipated.

And even though youth was on my side, I've come to the conclusion that the 20 year-old me was a pretty vile person — from my current perspective anyways. And I fully accept that. But I have to say the culture in which I grew up in, a small industrial town that was quite unattached to the rest of the world, prejudiced against, well, everything, quite religious and conservative in every fashion, and in the midst of the cold-war, it's no surprise. The best thing that ever happened to me was leaving the town and developing independent thoughts, and realizing how your cultural environment and society can program you, and you really have to work hard to reprogram yourself. I did have some of my priorities straight, though. I'd always ended up spending every penny of extra cash I might have on records or studio gear, rather than clothes. This would eventually change at least, to some degree.

I knew no-one here. A couple of friends from up north who were supposed to be there were coming later. Maybe. These were pre-mobile phone times, and it's now very hard to understand how life worked back then. Maybe better, actually. Like a true Finn I chose not to speak to anyone, and avoided eye-contact at all cost.

Finally I was in! So psyched! Being in a big city, not knowing anyone, gives you a proper adrenaline rush. I'm somewhere where I don't feel like me. It's the best feeling ever. Never been a beer drinker, but nor was I the wine connoisseur I am today, so my choice of drink was whiskey-coke. What a waste of whiskey.

I could Google and probably find the flyer for the party and see who the warm-up DJ was, but what is the point of giving facts when you have these wonderfully blurry, personal, twisted and often false memories? Point being, the warm-up DJ didn't matter to me, because I was there to hear Sven Väth.

Not being used to spending time in clubs, I, not surprisingly, found the amount of people, the volume level, and the lack control over the situation quite unnerving. "Won't be doing this again. Sven better be real good!" I remember thinking.

And then it's time, hooray! Sven Väth enters the DJ booth, and puts on the first record. "I should probably dance now, I've paid for this." As I try to find comfort and trance on the floor, I can't help but to feel extremely annoyed that there's other people there too. "Stop talking! Stop smoking! Stop dancing so close to me! Just leave!"

I'd spent my budget for the evening on that one whiskey-coke (yes Helsinki is that expensive), so water from the restroom it was. I felt bored and wanted to leave, but with no place to go. The party would end at 4am, and the train back north would leave at 7 am. I felt this was going to be the longest night of my life. There was no choice but try to endure.

On my way back to dancefloor I noticed I was actually very close to the booth. Frustrated by what was turning out to be a wasted weekend, I decided to go and make a request. So I marched in straight to the DJ booth, knocked Sven on the back and asked "You have "Schneller Pfeil" by Curare?" It was my favorite trance record at the time, and it being on his label I thought he'd be happy if someone asked for it, and we'd bond.

"No" he replied.

No?? How can he NOT have it? What the fuck is this? On top of all the other logical reasons, it was my fave record! Even I have it!

That broke the camel's back. This clubbing thing, it just wasn't for me.

Trance. Humanity's last mistake.

Too loud, too messy, too many people and the DJ has none of the music I wanted to hear. Clubs, you have NOTHING for me. I'm out.

It was a pretty cold night, close to -20 degrees celsius. The train station would open doors around 5am, so I had over two hours to kill on the empty, frozen streets of Helsinki. Walking around the city, reflecting on my poor judgement I actually longed to be back in the barracks in my cozy, thinking-free-zone that existed outside of normal time and space. This point in my life, my dear reader, was an all-time low.

Now, well over 20 years after this weekend, I can almost smile about it, as I can to many other aspects of my life prior to the emergence of Jori v2.0 (I'm currently beta-testing Jori v3.0, but that's besides the point).

But somewhere, deep in the back of my head, I still prefer to be in a club when it's empty. And always in the DJ booth.

Jori Hulkkonen's new album Oh But I Am is out this month on My Favourite Robot records.

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