ECHOES FROM THE OUTSKIRTS! KITTIN AND VENA IN CONVERSATION AT GOLDEN GOOSE HAUS

VENA operates on the belief that sound is not merely an aesthetic or cultural product but a force that actively reshapes spatial and social relations. Drawing from the principles of sonic warfare, VENA understands frequencies as agents of disruption, cohesion, and resistance—capable of both reinforcing existing structures and dismantling them. In a world where entertainment is often reduced to passive consumption, VENA challenges this paradigm by advocating for spaces where sound becomes a vehicle for autonomy, friction, and collective transformation. These sonic interventions, often taking the form of micro-festivals and artistic residencies, function as temporary zones of intensity, where participants are not just spectators but active agents in the construction of alternative cultural narratives.

Central to VENA’s mission is the concept of outernationality—a mode of cultural exchange that transcends national and geographic boundaries, instead prioritizing networks of sonic resistance and collective artistic expression. Unlike the homogenizing forces of globalization, outernationality does not flatten cultural specificities but amplifies them, fostering new forms of solidarity between local underground movements and global countercultural currents. Through this outernational approach, VENA acts as a cultural translation device, ensuring that hyper-local sounds, traditions, and artistic practices resonate beyond their immediate contexts without losing their depth or subversive potential. By fostering environments where music, design, and editorial practices converge, VENA explores the radical potential of subcultural interaction as a space of negotiation and redefinition.

At the intersection of these creative endeavors, Golden Goose and Studio XYZ invite VENA Curator Federico Marcelletti and Creative Producer Diego Papetti to meet with French DJ and producer Kittin at the Golden Goose Haus, engaging in an open dialogue centered on the essence of escape. The interview revolves around escape not merely as a physical act of flight but as an intrinsic creative necessity—an essential force in shaping artistic identities and musical communities. Whether through sound, movement, or the creation of alternative spaces, escape emerges as a defining element in the continuous reinvention of cultural expression.

Set in Marghera, a location once known for its industrial past and now transforming into a cultural hotspot, the conversation begins by exploring the tension between the outskirt and the center, the margin and the scene, which mirrors the narrative of electronic music itself. The question arises: is being “outside” a barrier or a resource for creators? In a rapidly shifting cultural landscape, where underground movements constantly oscillate between visibility and marginalization, the act of staying outside the mainstream may not be a disadvantage but rather a strategic position—one that allows for radical experimentation, resistance, and the formation of new creative alliances.

The night before, Kittin was invited to DJ at the Golden Goose Cosmic Carnival party, a celebration of a Venetian Carnival of the future. Hosted at HAUS, a global cultural platform for the brand’s community of Dreamers, the event reflected Golden Goose’s commitment to fostering a community of creatives across multiple disciplines and backgrounds. Rooted in Marghera, the industrial port of Venice and the birthplace of the brand, HAUS serves as an immersive space that embodies Golden Goose’s DNA, spotlighting its core values through craft, culture, and art.

Federico Marcelletti: Can you tell us about your early experiences with music? What was it like to discover the world of raves and techno in those formative years, and how did that sense of belonging to something new and evolving shape both your personal journey and the community you were part of?

Kittin: I grew up in Grenoble, a city that’s half Italian—we’re not far from Italy and Piemonte. The Hacker is Italian, Sicilian. We used to go to a club outside the city, one of those big, complex venues from the ’70s and ’80s, where you had a rock ‘n’ roll room, a tropical room, and a new wave room. We always went to the new wave club, and over time, it evolved into an electronic music scene, the early days of techno. Imagine: we were just kids in a small town, going to this suburban club, and suddenly, a DJ turns up, and our whole world changes. We started going to raves—just a bunch of friends who are still my friends today. That feeling of belonging to something new, something just being born, is so powerful. It changes your life.

F.M.: When our project started, we met in front of a sound system. The first time, we were just there. The second time, we started talking. The third time, we shared emotions and visions. And soon after, we were building something together. It all began with a sound system—it always starts there.Another theme I want to touch on is imperfection, mistakes. Your voice was never about being perfect. In the early 2000s, you introduced a new way of singing, of narrating, of connecting your thoughts to your production. It was raw, real.

K: Yeah. And to pick up on your word, “outskirts”—I was once asked to make a track for a compilation. I didn’t know how to produce music. The only person I knew with the right equipment was The Hacker, and he was making gabber and hardcore—fast, intense stuff. I told him, “It’s impossible to make techno. Jeff Mills is the best. Aphex Twin—maybe not strictly techno, but in spirit. How could we ever compete with that? We’d just be average.” So we decided to do something completely different.
When we first heard Dopplereffekt and I-F, we thought, “This is what we want to do.” We were a niche. No one took us seriously. We sent our demo to DJ Hell, and suddenly, he was playing it everywhere. We had no idea. That’s the value of the unexpected—when you go sideways, strange and beautiful ideas can come out. We didn’t expect anyone to understand it; we just did it for ourselves. And maybe that’s why it worked—because we weren’t chasing approval.

F.M.: Craftsmanship can be a problem in music. It’s not about perfection in detail but about the soul behind the intent.

K: Exactly. And the word we use the most in music is “play.” We play music. We play with instruments. It’s like childhood imagination—you nurture that inner child. Even now, when I play, I feel like a kid. Every set is about exploring, learning, figuring out who’s in front of me. How do I navigate this new space? It’s like being a child again, using every part of your brain and heart to create something fun. That’s the thrill. Searching for the right record is like digging through a world of possibilities without boundaries.

F.M.: That idea of pushing boundaries is crucial. Right now, club culture is in crisis. There’s so much control, so many limitations. But every generation has to ask itself: if these boundaries exist, maybe we should create new spaces instead of just fighting against the ones we don’t like. The most important thing is to connect—artists, creators, clubs. But at the same time, I feel like we often blame external forces—political and social restrictions—for our limitations.

K: Yes, but we also impose boundaries on ourselves. We fear failure. We fear being less than others, especially with social media constantly forcing comparisons. It’s a way for society to control us. The real work is internal—becoming conscious of these fears, breaking our own limitations, and working on our freedom. Stop blaming the world for not letting you achieve your dreams. In art, in creation, anything is possible—but if you’re creating with the expectation of success, of fixing your problems through recognition, that’s a dangerous mindset.

F.M.: Two weeks ago, I was in bed. There were no club lineups in Milan that interested me. Then, at 1 AM, a message arrived on Telegram with the location of a rave. We got there, but police were already controlling the area, not letting people in. Still, there were about 1,000 people inside, and 200 of us outside. We found another way—walked a kilometer through fields, and yeah, we had to break a wall to get in.
Inside, it was completely safe. People assume that DIY, self-organized spaces without official regulations must be unsafe, but that’s not true. Meanwhile, in legal clubs, the ones that are supposedly safe, there’s little talk about risk reduction or awareness. So why were the police keeping people out? It makes you wonder what’s really being controlled.

K: That’s always been the case. I grew up in the ’90s rave scene, constantly chased by police. My name was in police reports just for going to parties. Friends who organized raves were arrested. But if you’re doing nothing wrong, if you live in a relatively free country, nothing truly bad can happen. The same goes for creativity—if you fear failure, you create blocks for yourself. Right now, I’m struggling with that. For the past two or three years, I’ve been trying to write an album, but I keep rejecting my own work. I know why: I see it as my “ultimate” album, my last. That pressure kills creativity. I’m looking at the peak of the mountain before I even start climbing. So I’m trying to undo those knots. It’s hard. You have to step back, start from zero, and learn again. Sometimes, the best thing to do is just live—walk, be with family, take inspiration from other places—until the door opens again. It humbles you. Nothing is guaranteed.

F.M.: In a recent interview, you said that working in music for 30 years is about working for freedom. Maybe now, this process will help you escape yourself, find a new version of you.

K: Honestly, I’m surprised I’m still doing this after 30 years. When I started, this wasn’t a job. You couldn’t go to a bank and say, “I’m a DJ.” You had to carve out your own life. Now, DJs are rock stars. It’s mainstream. And instead of complaining—”The underground is gone! It’s all about social media!”—I think we should embrace change. There’s space for everything. The underground still exists. Huge clubs still exist. It’s about where you put your energy.
In French, we have a word: “obscurantisme”—darkness, ignorance. I refuse to dwell in it. Even when exploring darker themes, I stay motivated by light, by joy, by the excitement of creating and meeting people. I’ve always kept my distance from fashion, even though our music was used in it. But here I am, in a new space, discovering new things, being inspired again. That’s the key—to keep renewing your imagination.

F.M.: And now, music can be experienced in so many ways. It’s not just about clubs. There are artistic residencies where artists can actually focus, collaborate, and create without constantly being pressured to perform.

K: Exactly. But it depends why you’re an artist. If it’s for the lifestyle, for social or ego validation, that might work for a while, but it won’t make you happy. You can’t fill an internal void with money or fame. But if you’re an artist because there’s no other way for you to express yourself, then you’re safe.
For me, music was a way to be heard. I come from a family where I still don’t feel understood. Through music and my friends, I finally did. That’s why I feel connected to minorities—I know what it’s like to not be heard. If you create for the sake of creation, with no expectations, you can survive anything.

F.M.: I always look for one thing when I listen to an artist’s set: the narrative. Sure, I pay attention to the quality of the selection, but the real question is, what is the artist telling me? What’s the story behind it?

K: That’s a mystery. A lot of the songs I’ve written, I still don’t really know how I did it. I’ve talked about this with the hacker—neither of us listens to our own music much. But sometimes, I’ll hear a track that wasn’t really famous, especially from the second album, and I’ll think, “Wow, Michel, this is amazing.” And I’ll wonder how we came up with that idea. Sometimes it’s from your unconscious, like a dream. You don’t always know why you write something, but later you realize the meaning behind it. I think a lot of painters experience this. People like Pollock, who work intuitively, only understand why they did something later. I love that—it shows you can access the 90% of your brain we don’t use, and that fascinates me.

F.M.: What about your production and performance practices? When you play, do you push yourself outside your usual boundaries, looking for sounds from artists you respect, or do you try to find similarities to your own work?

K: It’s two different exercises. DJing is something I’m most comfortable with because it’s always changing. You’re playing music from other people, which I love, which is why I rarely play my own music. When I write, I’ve realized that I’m a songwriter, not necessarily a techno producer. It’s strange for a techno DJ to not make techno and to write pop songs. When I write with the hacker, he sends me the music, and I immediately have images in my head—often, he has the same ones without me telling him. The melodies and lyrics come almost like a channel—it’s really strange. But when that energy’s there, it’s fast. I might not go to the studio for months, but when the moment hits, I could write an album in a week. I know some people need to be in the studio every day to create, but that’s not me. I struggled with that for a while, but I’ve accepted that it’s just how I work. It can be frustrating when I’m not feeling creative, but I’ve learned to accept the ebb and flow of it. That’s why I love DJing—I’m always searching for that flow. I think DJing is more like a game, where it’s not just about playing the best track but the right track at the right moment. It’s about being in the moment, using all your senses to feel what works.

Diego Putto: But your lyrics were revolutionary in a way, right? Not just for music, but for the whole aesthetic.

K: Yeah, it turned into an aesthetic movement, but it wasn’t planned. It was spontaneous, and I think that’s why it resonated with so many people. Authenticity is something you can’t fake. You can filter everything nowadays, but people can still tell what’s real, and that’s comforting. What we created, we did so in Michel’s bedroom in the suburbs of my hometown. It’s only recently that I’ve understood what we did. I wouldn’t have written those songs without him. He gave me the soundtrack to tell those stories, and we worked a lot on the lyrics, but his notes were just as important. Some of the songs, like Frank Sinatra, felt stupid at the time, but they meant something later.

D.P.: So what inspired you back then?

K: We were kids at illegal parties, part of Spiral Tribe and all that, in the woods, wearing army clothes. We’d see rich people at fancy parties on TV, and we thought, they have all the money but they’ll never experience dancing in the woods like we do. That’s what inspired a lot of the music. We didn’t have money, but we had the real experience of freedom and celebration. And then, ironically, Frank Sinatra became an anthem played in VIP areas. It’s funny how things turn out.

D.P.: And then, of course, clubs began embracing that culture.

K: Exactly. Gay clubs were always the first to adopt it. For us, inclusivity was just normal. But we didn’t realize how unsafe our gay and trans friends were in the outside world. It’s a big difference. Clubs were crucial for us, though.

D.P.: And how is life now? I heard you’re living a more countryside life these days. Is that true?

K: I guess I’ve become the cliché! I remember hearing that Suzy Sue from Siouxsie and the Banshees was living in the South of France, raising chickens, doing yoga, and I thought, “No way, I’ll never be like that!” But here I am, ten years ago, buying a house in a small village in the country. The house was super cheap, I renovated it, and I didn’t want to go back to Paris. Living in the city was always tough for me, even though I’m not from Paris. I’ve lived in Berlin, Geneva, Grenoble, Marseille—never thought I’d end up in the countryside. But now, here I am. It’s humbling, too. I’ve traveled the world, but the basics, like mowing the lawn or making a fire, were new to me. I was planting things in the summer, not realizing they needed to be planted in spring or fall. It was a real eye-opener.

D.P.: Do you grow anything?

K: Yeah, I’ve become passionate about learning these simple things. I never realized how disconnected I was from the basics of life. For example, I was buying tomatoes in winter, never thinking about seasonality. Here in Italy, there’s a greater awareness of that. It’s made my life so much richer. I’d go play gigs on the weekends and it started to feel so insignificant compared to this new, grounded life. And suddenly, I understood what success really means. It’s not about the gigs, not about the music. It’s about having a fulfilling life at home, and that makes the rest secondary. Music was my escape, but now I know what really matters.

D: I think it’s amazing, because you’re living a life that’s so different from what many would expect. So, let’s normalize living in the countryside.

K: Exactly. When I was younger, I would have never imagined living in the countryside. Now, it’s where I find peace. I’ve learned to appreciate the quiet and the simple things.

D.P.: So, what would you say to those who want to start in the music world, or even in performance and theatre?

K: I’d say it’s all about finding what you truly love and sticking to it. You can’t fake authenticity, and that’s what people connect to. Whatever you do, be real and true to yourself. Don’t get caught up in trends, and don’t be afraid to be different. And most importantly, never stop learning.