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In the late 1990s, Kosovo, then a part of Yugoslavia, was the site of a bitter year-long war between Yugoslav and Serb forces; its public spaces, as they often are in times of violence, were repurposed. The Pristina train station, in Kosovo's north, served as an arrival point for refugees streaming in from across the region. People slept in the halls, women gave birth there, and others were treated for injuries.
A few years later, in 2002, a group of Kosovar and Serbian party-goers, armed with camcorders and turntables and dressed in halter tops and cargo pants boarded The Road of Peace Train. They left that same Pristina station for Skopje, having a non-stop dance party through former Yugoslavia, spinning Detroit house and ‘90s electronica for hours.
Today, that same station has been transformed again: into a nightclub called Bahnhof. Bahnhof, along with Zone Club, party organizers Next Level, and the guerrilla event group Hapësira, is part of a small, frenetic network of music-lovers trying to bring back the energy of Road to Peace in the tiny, young country of Kosovo—a challenge in more ways than one, especially when Kosovo isn’t even acknowledged as a country by a number of other countries, including Serbia. (The U.S. has recognized Kosovo as a country since 2008.)
Pristina has the organic energy and excitement that clubbers elsewhere wistfully describe when reminiscing about a time when people, without cell phones or the internet, built their identities around a complete devotion to music that makes you move. “The crowds here are more engaged,” says Arbnor Dragaj, co-owner of Hapësira ("space" in Albanian), an arts and culture event organizer. “They don’t have the chance to travel abroad, but they have so much excitement and energy. They are hungry for a good vibe and to have the space to dance.”
Mentioning the war is a tired trope in this part of Europe, but the region’s past has had an undeniable mark on the music scene. “The eruption of electronic music just after the war symbolizes this post-war euphoria in Kosovo,” says Nita Dela, director of Kosovo’s annual international film festival DokuFest. “So many people living abroad came back with music. There were a lot of parties, and it symbolized freedom for the country.”
Nearly two decades after the end of the war, the energy is different, but still largely driven by the underground. That’s partially because Kosovo’s music industry—not unlike the country itself—is still in its infancy. There are no pressing plants or full-service recording stations, and few producers. The only records for sale in the country are a few second-hand jazz vinyls at Soma Book Station, a coffeehouse and unofficial meeting point for Pristina’s bohemian set. There is almost no government funding for the music scene, and most of the people who work in the business do so on graveyard shifts (one DJ I met works for the municipal government; another promoter runs a cafe). For foreigners visiting Pristina, which is already overshadowed by the more established scene in Belgrade, some six hours to the north by car, it can still feel like stumbling on a hidden secret.
“We do it for the passion, not for the money,” says Butrint Baholli, co-owner of Zone Club, before a Saturday-night event featuring Berlin-based artist tINI. Each month, Zone brings foreign DJs to play for jubilant crowds. At around $3.50, entry is affordable (the average monthly salary in Kosovo is roughly $342), women get in for free, and the club is accessible.
With 70 percent of its population under the age of 35, Kosovo feels like it's on the brink of a cultural explosion. Each summer, more and more festivals and concerts are added to the roster—this year, for example, Kosovo darling Dua Lipa headlined the Sunny Hill Festival in an event organized by the singer’s father. While one of the world’s biggest pop stars isn’t exactly underground, her concert is emblematic of Kosovo’s growing art and culture scene: promoted by the artists themselves, along with their friends and family.
“I think that when you become free after the war, you realize just how bad it was, and that’s only starting to come out now,” says Dela. “We were raised by parents whose destiny was taken. There are still so many stories still to be told.”
How to Do It
Ruled by the Ottomans for five hundred years, and a part of Yugoslavia for the majority of the 20th century, Pristina is a mash of contradictions. The official currency is the euro, but Kosovo isn’t part of the E.U. Most Kosovars speak fluent English, but, because they lack E.U. status, it’s difficult for them to travel outside of the country. The country’s population is majority Muslim, and while you won’t find pork on any menu in Pristina, you’ll have to strain your ears to hear a call to prayer.
An ideal night out in Pristina starts with a late dinner. Head to Renesansa, a menu-less, family-run restaurant that's unmarked (but all the taxi drivers know it). Fifteen euros will get you that raki fix, plus wine, mezze, and an array of hearty main courses, like roasted meats and sauced-up vegetables. Properly fortified, head to Club M, a cosy bar and dance floor where you might catch a performance by Ilir Bajri, one of Kosovo’s most revered jazz pianists. For the next stop, check the listings at Zone and Bahnhof; they’re owned by the same group and split events. Bahnhof has a more intimate, underground vibe, while Zone brings in big-name DJs like Mirko Loko—and correspondingly big crowds.
Another less well-known option is Hapësira, which puts on events every other month, usually by taking over some neglected space around the city. On a balmy March night (erm, morning), for example, I caught local DJs spinning tech-house at a cavernous theater housed in a Communist-era building. As the day breaks, rejuvenate with an 80-cent byrek, a greasy phyllo pastry stuffed with meat or cheese, from Piccadilly. Wash it down with ayran, a Turkish yogurt drink, or pick up a macchiato from any of the cafes that line the streets—Kosovo is considered by some to have the world’s best macchiato, apparently a holdover from workers who returned from Italy.
As the capital of Europe’s youngest country, there’s plenty to do in Pristina during daylight hours, too, so if you have limited time it's worth foregoing a night's sleep to take in all of the city’s highlights: The National Library of Kosovo and the souq are worth a visit, but focus on strolling, eating, and chatting to Kosovars and you'll discover the real appeal.
Because Kosovo’s tourism industry, outside of diaspora Albanians, is minuscule, Pristina might be one of the few places in the world where you aren’t treated as a tourist. Taxi drivers won’t rip you off, and no one will jack up the price at a restaurant or shop. Instead, Kosovars will treat you like a guest with a kindness that borders on mania: Ask a local where something is, and they might insist on driving you themselves, as happened to me—twice. The bedrock of Albanian society is besa, a code of conduct that calls for trust, responsibility, and generous hospitality. (Approximately 90 percent of Kosovars are ethnically Albanian, according to the CIA's World Factbook.) And that means that even in dark corner of a nightclub, where you might otherwise feel uncomfortable or weary, you'll generally find only respect. Everyone is here for the music, after all.
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