He didn’t send it to labels. He uploaded it anonymously to a obscure SoundCloud page with a black square as the avatar. The track was 140 BPM of pure, unrelenting dread. A kick drum that sounded like a pile driver on wet clay. A bassline that wasn’t a note but a pressure . And over the top, a ghostly, pitch-shifted vocal sample from an old safety instruction video: “In case of emergency… remain calm.”
In the sprawling, flat landscape of the southern Netherlands, where the chemical plants of Rotterdam and the petrochemical refineries of Zeeland spit artificial sunsets into the grey sky, a sound was born. It was not the cheerful, melodic house of Amsterdam nor the commercial hardstyle of the big stadiums. It was the sound of rusted metal groaning, of a factory grinding to a halt, of a thousand terrified synths decaying into noise. That sound had a name: Sjoerd Valkering .
Within weeks, the track had 200,000 plays. No one knew who made it. Speculation ran wild. Was it a side project of Ancient Methods? A lost recording from Surgeon? The mystery was the fuel. sjoerd valkering
His live sets became legendary for their intensity. He never spoke. He never took requests. He once played a three-hour set where the tempo gradually slowed from 150 BPM to 60 BPM, ending in a wall of feedback so dense and warm it felt like a blanket. People stood in stunned silence for two minutes after the last tone faded. Then they cheered.
Sjoerd, meanwhile, was working a day job designing labels for cheese. He’d come home, feed his cat, and spend six hours meticulously crafting the sound of a chain-link fence being rattled in a hurricane. He didn’t send it to labels
His first live show was at a venue called De Nieuwe Anita in Amsterdam. There were no lights, just a single bare bulb swinging over his battered mixer. He wore welding goggles. For 75 minutes, he didn’t play “tracks” so much as summon them. He used contact microphones to amplify the sound of him scraping a metal chair across the concrete floor. He ran a police siren through a modular effects chain until it became a mournful, rhythmic drone. The crowd, a sea of black denim and thousand-yard stares, didn’t dance so much as shudder in unison.
Success did not change Sjoerd. He refused to play major festivals like Awakenings, calling them “the McDonald’s of kicks.” Instead, he curated his own events in forgotten places: a decommissioned water pumping station, the cargo hold of a rusted freighter in the port of Dordrecht, a Cold War-era nuclear bunker near Maastricht. He designed the flyers himself—bleak, typographic compositions using only the industrial font DIN 1451, often just a location, a date, and the word “SJOERD” scratched out in blood-red. A kick drum that sounded like a pile driver on wet clay
He studied audio design, but found the academic pursuit of "clean sound" sterile. His thesis project, a sound installation titled Deconstructie van de Stilte (Deconstruction of Silence), was a cacophony of slammed car doors, breaking glass, and the slowed-down groan of a cello string being tortured with a violin bow. His professors were horrified. His peers were intrigued.