Das Haus

The hordes of sun-seeking tourists that traditionally come to relax on the Croatian coast have in recent years been joined by an altogether different breed. Thousands of young, largely western European revellers now pack an ever-growing number of festivals each summer in Istria and Dalmatia. The unspoiled coastline, clear sea, wonderful weather and spectacular sunsets serve as such an impressive backdrop to the likes of the Unknown, Hideout and Garden festivals that Croatia is often fêted as the new Ibiza.

But few of those who jet in and out to attend these parties ever bother to stray far from the sea. Surrounded by like-minded souls, they rarely scratch the surface of Croatia, seldom socialise with the locals or venture inland.

With a population of a million people and lying over 150 km from the coast, Zagreb is a thoroughly modern capital, unrecognisable compared to the concrete Communist sprawl it was just over a decade ago. Underneath its newly built skyscrapers, it's a switched- on city playing catch-up to its western European peers. But while UK dancers bugged out to 'Exit Planet Dust', breakbeat rave and The Bucketheads in the mid-90s, the youth of Zagreb cowered as missiles rained down in the final year of what they call the Croatian War of Independence. The scars of the war can still be seen, not only in bombed-out ruins, but in the mind-set of the people. Extreme nationalism has reared its ugly head in this deeply Catholic and largely traditional patriarchal society, as it has done in so many former Communist bloc countries. Among those on the front line against it are the underground clubbers of Zagreb.

The venue lies 12 kilometres to the west of Zagreb, an hour's travelling time by public transport. Once a village, Zagreb's suburbs have encroached upon the area and it's now filled with industrial buildings. The house where the party takes place was built in the 1930s and is now such an anachronism that it's practically unsellable. On the nights when parties take place there are no neighbours to disturb: the dampened thud of its system's kick is the only sound echoing through the area, save for the occasional engine of a bus returning late to the nearby depot.

At the gated entrance there is no attention-grabbing queue, just two casually dressed security guards. Their simple greeting in Croatian causes vapour clouds in the chilly night air that hang longer than it takes to pass into the grounds.

The house itself looks like it could be a large holiday home in a state of ongoing and much needed repair. In the garden a swimming pool lies drained, its tiles matted by many seasons spent idle. Several impressive trees shame the unkempt lawn and overgrown bushes.

A set of stone steps lead up to a huge first-floor veranda that in warmer months is bustling with those temporarily escaping the dimly lit interior and its relentless soundsystem. But this is February. Four figures sit in the dark at the far end, huddled around a coffee table in coats big enough to brave the Antarctic.

Inside, the bar room is stocked with a surprisingly considered selection of quality alcohol, only its low cost reminding you that this is an ad-hoc rave vendor. You can feel the sound-system jabbing your innards, and just about make out dancers inside a space that looks like a small anteroom. Once inside, the full extent of the space is revealed. The DJ plays almost centrally on what could be the house's original breakfast bar, splitting the room, which is much greater in size beyond him. Further still is another large room filled with sofas and scuffed, low tables.

The toilet is the house's bathroom, complete with bath, only a shower curtain now separating the toilet from the rest of the room, offering privacy from the permanent throng of wasted natterers hanging out there.

The graffiti that adorns the walls is a mixture of the colourful, inventive and bizarre pieces curated by the party and spontaneous additions from the over-active minds of slogan-scrawling punters.

"I started making parties on the other side of the city in around 2008 with an event called Movement," says Das Haus organiser and resident DJ Brighton, an anglicised version of his Croatian name. "We invited DJs like Manuel Tur, Nick Curly, Stimming – people who are pretty big now, but weren't so much back then. They were really new, a fresh start for Zagreb. At the time a lot of people wouldn't go to the venue we held it at because the football fans went there and we have a problem with hooligans here in Croatia, but we went ahead with it anyway, trying to push a positive feeling, trying to bring people together. I guess I was pretty naive back then, because I was just a young kid who didn't know so good," he says, "but it worked. That place is probably the best regular club in town now."

Tonight's music is an 11-hour, all-vinyl marathon, house and techno without respite. Spiky yet reserved and unfamiliar acid tracks – nothing as brash as a Bam Bam or Trax cut – meld into chilly, Germanic epics that inhabit every inch of a clear, sizeable system that sounds every bit the destination they were designed for.

Analogue synths come in and out of play, never staying for any unwelcome duration and returning after the texture has been tempered by the warmth of contemporary, American deep house or a bolder melody of Detroit inspiration.

Tonight's DJ, Jakov Kolbas, gets his biggest reaction from a cut on Crème Organization, whose DJ TLR has played here. Previous guests include Sweden's Pjotr, Chicago's m50, Ron Wilson, DJ Pegasuz, Vancouver's Frivolous plus three regulars from Berlin's comparable venue, Salon Zur Wilden Renate: Adam Aalias and Peak & Swift. Omar S gets a couple of airings, as do tracks on Workshop, Smallville and L.I.E.S. Live act SOK is as unshowy as his dressed-down DJ peers, his Chicago-inspired beats indistinguishable from their selections – particularly the following DJ, Savage, whose excursion commences with the same 303 sound on which SOK bows out. There's no disco, no 'classics' and almost no vocals throughout. The closest we get to something that's actually sung is 'Barry Two' by Frits Wentink, one of several curveballs aired by Brighton.

"Zagreb has developed its own sound recently," he says. "It's not that refined yet, but it does tell you that something is happening here. We don't like vocals at all. Too many vocals have a positive vibe, and I guess that just doesn't express where we're at. It has to be darker, like raw machines. Not too bright, not too cheerful. The worst thing you can do to the crowd here is play something they'd regard as cheesy. They're too hard, too clued-up and there's no gentleness in them at all. I don't know if it's the life out here or what, but they're tougher than other people. "Zagreb has developed its own sound recently," he says. "It's not that refined yet, but it does tell you that something is happening here. We don't like vocals at all. Too many vocals have a positive vibe, and I guess that just doesn't express where we're at. It has to be darker, like raw machines. Not too bright, not too cheerful. The worst thing you can do to the crowd here is play something they'd regard as cheesy. They're too hard, too clued-up and there's no gentleness in them at all. I don't know if it's the life out here or what, but they're tougher than other people. They have a much darker edge. They like their jokes hardcore, they like their music raw and they like getting really fucked up."

In 2011 the small but brave number of 300 marchers at the first Gay Pride march in Split were attacked with rocks, tear gas and glass bottles by some of the 10,000 anti-gay protesters that had lined the streets of Croatia's second city to meet them. Less than a decade earlier, Zagreb's own Pride parade was similarly attacked.

Mislav and his boyfriend, both 22, are among the youngest punters here tonight and have travelled from Ivanić-grad, 38 kilometres on the opposite side of Zagreb, to be here. Theirs is a small town where at weekends, folk from the surrounding villages come to party to a soundtrack of mostly Serbian turbo-folk known locally as cajke. Das Haus is not a gay night, and there are exclusively gay clubs in the centre of Zagreb that the pair could easily have visited instead. But it's not just the liberal mind-set of the crowd that they've come for.

"The music here is fantastic", says Mislav's boyfriend Bernard, who is an amateur music producer. "We heard of the party maybe two years ago, but didn't come because it was too far," says Mislav. "The first time was less than a year ago and we came by the first bus in the morning, after we'd be at clubs in the centre all night. It's OK to do that here because the parties can go on until 4pm in the warmer months."

"Das Haus has a special energy and a special crowd," says Ivana as the party draws towards its 11am close.

"It's like some magical territory. On the coast, at the festivals, sure, people go wild. It's summer and the tourists are trying to get the most out of their week in the sun. They play a lot more summery house, lots of vocals. All the tourists are drunk and happy, and they all sing along. It's like the music is just for them. Das Haus is more relaxed than that. It's friendly and welcoming to outsiders, but it feels like it's ours. We needed it, so we built it."

[Photos: Davor Birt]