oldpark squaddd!

GET YOUR SELF ON TO THE KITCHEN FLOOR AND BUST SOME GROOVES

PARTY WITH THE ARDOYNE SQUAD

In the battered veins of Sarajevo, a city gripped by war, life pulses under siege. The Miljacka River flows beneath shattered bridges and smoldering ruins, its rhythms shaped by artillery and desperate radio signals. In dark basements, Ada performs, her fingers coaxing defiant sounds from battered gear, while masked Kian weaves heavy distortion—each beat a memory, every drop a silent scream of resistance.

Outside, the threat shifts and multiplies. The city survives not just endless shelling but the emergence of a new horror: whispers of rich men from Europe and America, who pay for the chance to hunt Sarajevo’s civilians for sport. They arrive through secret deals and shadowy payments, granted rifles and vantage points by corrupt warlords. The myth of “sniper tourists” becomes a chilling reality for those who must change routes daily and avoid standing too close to windows.

As fear thickens in the city, Ada’s underground sanctuary fills with stories: friends lost to random shells, neighbors gone from sniper fire. Those who gather seek refuge in the music, breathing in the heavy, strobing frequencies that try to reclaim hope from beneath the horror. The music changes. Ada now samples foreign radio chatter—chilling accents, laughter, gunfire—twisting them into the soundtrack of survival. Her sets throb with anger and paranoia. Every song carries the ghosts of those hunted for money, their lives sold and forgotten by outsiders.

Journalists report rumors: some shooters pay tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars for a weekend behind enemy lines. War becomes spectacle. Out in the streets, the crowd thins with each passing day, but the underground remains—thinner, yes, but fierce and unwilling to be erased. Ada overlays field recordings of survivors’ voices, mothers calling lost children, analog cries against digital beats. Each performance is commemorative and rebellious: a dark requiem for the lost and a warning for the living.

A rare blackout silent nights, Kian triggers a remix of a Bosnian folk song distorted and haunting. The music softens, blending sorrow with hope. Even in darkness, arms lift, eyes close, and the crowd—united in pain and defiance—clings to the last patch of ground untainted by violence. The truth of foreign mercenaries radiates in every track Ada creates, but so does the resilience of those who remain.

When questions finally come—who paid for these deaths, who remembers—the answers echo in Ada’s music and the city’s battered heart. Above the devastation, beneath the concrete, the rhythm persists: a pulse of unwilling ascendancy, the sound of memory and survival. In Sarajevo’s darkest days, music becomes the only voice untouched by blood money, the only hope that endures when nothing else is left.


cloudless Sky

Stuart Dillon