Ihitiko Ksespasma: Self-Managed Spaces, Radical Anticonformity, and the DIY Scene in Greece
An interview with the self-organized DIY punk collective Ihitiko Ksespasma from the Fabrika Yfanet squat in Thessaloniki.
The DIY punk scene in Greece has long been a stronghold of radical anticonformity and political organizing. Ihitiko Ksespasma (Ηχητικό Ξέσπασμα, or Noise Outburst) is a political DIY punk collective based in Fabrika Yfanet (Φάμπρικα Υφανέτ), a long-standing squat in Thessaloniki, Greece’s second-largest city.
The collective organizes DIY punk gigs, political discussions, and documentary screenings within the squat, all operating under a strict “pay-what-you-want” policy. Beyond DIY punk gigs, Ihitiko Ksespasma actively strengthens the political dimension of the scene by reading texts on the mic during shows and publishing zines, pamphlets, and books on DIY ethics.
Last year, we launched DIY Solidarity, a project aimed at redistributing funds among DIY communities worldwide. One of the collectives we were able to support was Ihitiko Ksespasma, helping them acquire a larger sound system to organize bigger events at their squat. Not long after our campaign, Ihitiko Ksespasma organized the first nationwide meeting of DIY concert collectives and self-managed recording studios in Greece—a significant step in strengthening the anti-authoritarian DIY network across the country.
Curious to learn more about their activities and the inner workings of Greece’s DIY scene, we reached out to the members of Ihitiko Ksespasma for this interview.
This year’s DIY Solidarity application window will be open from March 1 to 31!
Fabrika Yfanet has been a self-managed space of resistance and anti-authoritarian organizing for over two decades. Can you give us a deeper understanding of the occupation—its history, the structures of autonomy and mutual aid that sustain it? What motivated you to create Ihitiko Ksespasma, and how do you see your collective’s role in the struggle against oppression and domination?
Fabrika Yfanet is a squatted space in Thessaloniki, Greece, since 2004. The building is over 100 years old and used to function as a textile factory until 1967.
Throughout the years, Fabrika Yfanet has been involved in various political struggles, such as actions against Greek nationalism, resistance to the state’s anti-immigration policies, participation in the December 2008 uprising, and involvement in the struggles against austerity during 2010–2012 (neighborhood assemblies, refusal to pay water bills, blocking the imposition of hospital fees, etc.). Over the years, many collectives have formed around Yfanet, addressing issues such as gender oppression, precarious labor relations, the gentrification of our city, the exploitation of migrants, and the cost of living.
Today, after years of work and repairs, Fabrika Yfanet has various infrastructures, including a cinema hall, a lending library/radical bookstore/grassroots archive, event halls, a kitchen, an underground concert hall, a housing structure, a music studio, a bar-café, an indoor BMX park, and a woodworking space. All these structures and collectives organize events, concerts, theatrical performances, festivals, screenings, book presentations, and collective kitchens on a weekly basis, following the ethics of self-organization and strictly operating on a “free donation” (aka Prix Libre, or “pay-what-you-want”) policy.
Ihitiko Ksespasma (Noise Outburst) was born in the autumn of 2022 by people who were already participating in Fabrika Yfanet. What mobilized us was not a shared taste in music but an attack from the state: the eviction of the Biologica squat—an iconic self-managed space in the city that, for 34 years, was deeply intertwined with the punk counterculture. With this act, we wanted to contribute to filling this void. We decided to act in the cultural field in a more stable and structured way than we had until then.
Since then, Ihitiko Ksespasma has been publicly inviting more people—including those not previously involved in the Fabrika Yfanet squat collective—and has been organizing shows, bar nights, movie screenings, and discussions to promote DIY culture and ethics.
Considering all the above, it is obvious that we did not form this collective just to organize shows but to promote, through our words and actions, a critical stance against what we call “bourgeoisie culture” or the “culture of the dominant state.” Our starting points extend into a broader opposition to the existing status quo, touching various aspects of everyday life, work, interpersonal relationships, and more.
Can you talk about the origins of the self-managed network of squats, DIY recording studios and punk gigs in Greece? Do you see Ihitiko Ksespasma as following the legacy of squats like Villa Amalias in Athens? And can you explain the so-called “rupture of 1993,” when lines were drawn between the political punk scene, with bands playing and recording only in squats, and the rest of the alternative music scene, which continued to perform in bars and venues?
The squatter movement and the punk counterculture in Greece were two different things when they first appeared in the early ’80s. The squatter movement was (and continues to be) closely linked to the anarchist movement, while the punk counterculture was a means of expression and communication for mainly youth groups that mainstream culture tried to marginalize. These two currents “met” at the end of the ’80s, in a climate of generalized questioning of the dominant class—mainly in the form of house squats in Athens and free social radios in Thessaloniki. The DIY counterculture that emerged during this period combined practices and ideas from both spaces, managing to deepen and expand the thinking and characteristics that prevailed both in the punk community and in the broader anarchist/anti-authoritarian space.
Regarding the so-called “rupture of ’93,” it should be made clear that this did not only concern Villa Amalias, nor was it something that began and ended with its severance from bands that played in clubs. In our opinion, it was a broader process that criticized issues of commercialization, creator-consumer relations, expression, lifestyle, monetary value, and the entertainment industry. Various collectives contributed to this radicalization of self-organized sound. Some typical examples include Villa Amalias squat and the Apogonoi ton Vandalon (Descendants of Vandals) collective in Athens; Radio Utopia social free radio station, Anoixi ston Skoupidotopo (Spring in the Garbage Dump—the collective active in Biologica Squat), and Villa Varvara in Thessaloniki; as well as various bands of that time, some of which did not even define themselves as “DIY” but still critiqued the very label—such as Smerna and Ohra Spiroheti (Ωχρά Σπειροχαίτη).
In our opinion, this decision (which divided and continues to divide the DIY community) cannot be separated from the broader socio-cultural context of that time, which was marked—both in Greece and globally—by the rise of alternative/indie music. It became increasingly clear that many bands within the underground/”independent” scene only remained there until they had the opportunity to move to “higher levels” of recognition. At the same time, record companies and clubs were more than willing to absorb this trend, “selling” revolutionary ideals with profit as their main objective. This sparked debates about whether squats and political spaces were ultimately being instrumentalized by these bands—used merely as “stepping stones” to enter the mainstream scene. Over time, these discussions led to a rupture with the bands that continued to play in clubs.
In our view, this should not be seen as “exclusionary,” as it is often described, but rather as another step in the search for ways to ensure free access to creative and cultural expression of subversive ideas. If there is exclusion anywhere, we see it in places that impose it—through ticket prices that limit access, security guards who enforce the rules of the industry by policing “deviant behavior,” and venues that refuse bands if they aren’t profitable enough to make the space commercially attractive.
Finally, as Ihitiko Ksespasma, we do not in any way consider ourselves to be carrying on the legacy of any particular collective. We are inspired by movements of the past just as we are by movements happening around us today. We do not see the past and memory as heritage, tradition, or “holy scriptures” but as tools from which we take what is useful to us. In this case, we find that the “rupture of ’93″—the refusal to cooperate with bands that choose to balance between DIY spaces/squats and the mainstream cultural industry—is still relevant today. It can promote our content, open up important conversations, and create meaningful agitation within mainstream culture even now.
We’re not just talking about building an autonomous DIY punk scene that rejects advertising, sponsorship, and the media, but also about refusing to cooperate with regular music venues—even those that are sympathetic to the music and its political ideas. Is this the only practical way for punk rock to effectively protest against the music industry and music as a spectacular commodity?
Let’s start by saying that although we formed as a punk concert collective, we recognize that significant parts of the punk rock scene have assimilated characteristics that place it on the commodity side of artistic expression. While some of us (though not all!) are drawn to the lifestyle—unusual haircuts, patches, and all—we have come to the conclusion that we want to provoke the world more with our ideas and the issues we raise in society rather than just with our appearance. Many of these issues have “traditionally” been central themes in punk band lyrics—topics such as sex, love, race, gender, religion, politics, nationalism, war, ecology, social classes, unemployment, exploitation, city life, and more. We don’t believe that this rhetoric is completely erased when performed in commercial spaces. However, what ultimately tends to dominate is not the message the band conveys through its lyrics and general attitude, but rather the means dictated by the organizer, which become the actual message.
We can’t ignore the contradiction of fiery speeches against patriarchy or labor exploitation being made while security guards monitor the crowd, waitresses endure sexist comments, and venue owners profit from an audience that pays for the spectacle. The same contradictions exist even in underground or alternative venues with cheaper tickets—the fundamental problems of the music industry remain. For example, surplus value isn’t just financial; it also manifests in reputation, career advancement, and other forms of capital. This mindset is in direct conflict with the principles of the anti-commercial DIY scene, which is based on selfless collective work, with no intention of earning money, fame, or artistic recognition.
In other words, if we want punk rock to take a fighting stance against dominant culture, we believe that stance lies in the refusal of commodification and assimilation. And this doesn’t apply only to music—it extends to theater, cinema, comics, graffiti, poetry, and every other creative field that contributes to an industry built on the fetishization of “free time” or “creative labor.” If all these activities—the things we casually describe with phrases like “in my free time, I like to…”—are understood as part of this (invisible but crucial) battlefield, then they may take on a new meaning and value.
It seems that the underground has always been the lifeblood of mainstream culture, providing it with fresh ideas and helping it reinvent itself to avoid stagnation. Today, we see commercial venues and festivals adopting elements like serving vegan food, inviting political speakers and radical publishers, and shaping a more “progressive” image, while some supposedly underground venues and DIY festivals receive government funding or NGO grants. How do you see these dynamics from your perspective?
Underground culture has always nourished and revitalized the mainstream, acting as a stimulus for its reinvention. The entertainment industry has repeatedly shown that, with the right processing, it can absorb and incorporate any fresh or subversive idea. Rather than filling us with despair, this should push us to sharpen our tools and practices even further.
It’s true that 40 years ago, walking around with a mohawk and a battle vest might have been subversive in a world dominated by trash TV, lifestyle magazines, and pop culture that dictated how you should dress, speak, or what music you should listen to. Now, however, we are faced with an overabundance of such identity-based models—to the point of saturation. And this applies not only to stylistic or musical choices but also to the circulation of ideas, the inclusion of diversity, and the mainstream’s growing receptivity to things that were once considered “challenging.”
If we recognize that the common thread among all these models is that they are designed for consumption—rather than to push us toward acts of life and self-determination—then perhaps one solution is this: to expropriate these ideas and practices, which are now presented to us as sterile products in academic halls or NGO-sponsored festivals, and instead use them in an antagonistic way in our daily lives. If the songs we listen to or the books we read speak about the unbearable working conditions we experience, the loneliness that haunts us in the desert of the big city, or the suffocating reality created by a racist and nationalist state, then they should serve as a catalyst for introducing new values and behaviors into our daily lives. To be present in social struggles and collective actions—not just in ideological terms, but through our individual behaviors as well.
Perhaps this is the only way for these ideas to escape the fate of becoming just another product on the shelves of the “supermarket of consciousness” and instead become something truly dangerous.
As far as I understand, when international bands tour Greece, they face a choice: play exclusively in squats or perform in regular venues, as DIY gigs in self-managed spaces don’t allow overlap. Can you elaborate on this infrastructure and the level of coordination between different cities and squats when it comes to booking punk shows? How does this system reflect the broader principles of the movement?
Obviously, each region has its own particularities when it comes to the DIY scene, so our approach cannot be applied universally by people coming from different political backgrounds and social movements. We recognize that, on an international level, DIY operates differently in several aspects compared to how we approach it here, and to some extent, that’s understandable.
Nevertheless, we set a minimum expectation: that bands playing at Yfanet squat do not participate in commercial events elsewhere in Greece during their tour but instead collaborate with venues similar to ours. Otherwise, all the effort, exhaustion, passion, and enthusiasm we put into organizing these shows would ultimately contribute to a tour that financially benefits certain businesses. We try to communicate this clearly to the bands we host because we consider them an equal part of what we do—not “special guests” who will play in a self-managed space one night and then perform the next in a venue that belongs to the very music industry we aim to erode through our actions.
We maintain contact with other DIY concert collectives in Greece whenever necessary to resolve practical issues. However, to be self-critical, the reality is that coordination often relies on personal relationships that have been built over the years rather than on a more structured, collective effort to deepen these connections.
The need to deepen (or in some cases, establish) relationships between DIY concert collectives and studios—something we mentioned in the previous question—was a key reason that prompted us to take the initiative and organize this nationwide meeting. The reasoning behind it was simple: whenever we found ourselves at concerts with people from other collectives or bands, we noticed a spontaneous need to open discussions, share perspectives, and seek answers about how we understand and apply DIY principles.
However, this debate had never taken the form of a public dialogue between collectives. We felt that the infrastructure of Yfanet squat could serve as the perfect setting for such a gathering. After several months of preparation—ensuring that all collectives were informed, had time to confirm participation, and could exchange materials in advance—the meeting finally took place in June 2024. To our complete surprise, almost 20 collectives from across Greece participated, far exceeding our initial expectations.
The discussions spanned two days and touched on several key topics, including the political nature of DIY and how we understand our structures as inherently political; our stance toward the cultural industry and bands that choose to play in ticketed, sponsored, or advertised venues; the financial sustainability of our spaces and the ways we support them; as well as addressing disruptive or sexist behaviors and confronting problematic punk “traditions” like uncontrolled pogo and macho attitudes. We also explored the potential for greater coordination and mutual support between collectives.
Overall, we felt the quality of discussion was strong—despite inevitable disagreements—especially considering that this was the first time we had all gathered to engage in such a structured dialogue. The impact of this meeting cannot be fully assessed in such a short time, and much will depend on the work that each collective chooses to undertake moving forward. As for our own collective, we view this experience entirely positively, and since then, we have been actively working to make use of the new connections and possibilities that emerged. Strengthening relationships, improving communication, and deepening contact with the bands and collectives we met during those two days has become a priority for us.
It was an unprecedented experience—one we will never forget. The feeling of finally meeting people we had never seen in person but instantly recognizing our shared values was incredible. To finally put faces to collectives we had only known by name, to reunite with old acquaintances, and to see the factory buzzing with life—transformed into a vibrant space of dialogue and self-organization—was deeply moving. Hundreds of people collaborated and contributed, ensuring that discussions, hospitality, food, and concerts came together in the best possible way.
And then, at night, we danced together to the sounds of our friends in Kalashnikov, Tenia, ΜΟΡΜΩ, and Pano Ap’to Ptoma Mou (Πάνω Απ’το Πτώμα Μου), only to stay up until morning, discussing the same things over and over again—yet never feeling like we were repeating ourselves, never growing bored.
We hope others felt the same way during those days, and we look forward to transcribing the main discussions so they can be valuable to the entire movement.
Many old-school anarchists dismiss cultural-ideological activity like punk shows as not serious enough, but it could be argued that these activities are deeply political in an infrapolitical sense—working beneath the surface to shape, or undermine, social and political reality at both interpersonal and systemic levels.
There was indeed a time when many anarchists saw punk counterculture as completely apolitical, consumerist, and unserious. Likewise, punks often viewed political collectives as intellectualist, rigid, and full of formulaic rhetoric. However, we would argue that this divide had already begun to dissolve by the 1990s in two key ways.
On one hand, DIY culture proved to be a gateway for new people to come into contact with political collectives and spaces, serving as a reference point for already “suspicious” youth—those looking for something different from the mass-media-fed reality around them. It became clear that DIY’s strength as a space for socialization allowed it to embrace and be embraced by people from diverse backgrounds, both in terms of their living conditions and their musical expression. This, in turn, became an “injection of vitality” for a political movement that, due to state repression, often faced the risk of marginalization.
On the other hand, those who contributed to DIY spaces—not just musicians but many others involved in the scene—demonstrated through their consistent presence and actions that they weren’t simply operating on opportunistic “sparks” of rebellion. Whether consciously or not, they developed and embodied a broader political vision—one that, over time, had to be acknowledged and respected. Squatted DIY spaces materialized a real counter-proposal for everyday relationships, showing that they weren’t just about an alternative “lifestyle” but a continuous challenge: proving that the ideas we promote aren’t just hollow words in pamphlets but principles we actively apply in our real lives.
Today, we would say that the biggest issue we see in how counterculture is approached by narrowly defined “political collectives” (even though some of us also participate in such collectives) is its instrumentalization. That is, counterculture is often seen not as something with inherent political value but as a tool to compensate for the anarchist/anti-authoritarian movement’s limitations in terms of mass appeal and hype. Unfortunately, we still see parts of the movement using concerts merely as financial supplements to political events—without considering which bands are playing or what they represent, as long as they bring in a crowd. This not only reproduces the logic of spectacle (headliners, support acts, etc.), but it also depoliticizes DIY counterculture itself, treating it as a mere “dessert” after the “main course” of a political discussion or event—regardless of the fact that, in the end, most people only show up for the dessert.
For us, as Ihitiko Ksespasma, the political value of DIY counterculture is reflected even in the process of organizing a concert. Beyond the internal exchanges among ourselves, there is deep interaction and communication with everyone involved—whether they play in a band or not—often bringing together people from different cities or countries, with varying perspectives and practices. In this way, we see our ideas being shared, evolving, and constantly transforming. Ultimately, this friction helps build the kind of comradeship we strive for with the people around us.
At the same time, the shared effort we put in yields immediate and tangible results: we see our desire for both fun and political expression being realized through self-organization—here and now, on our own terms. And in such difficult times, this can be a powerful way for someone to break free from the feeling of futility and helplessness.
Practices like speaking on the mic between bands or hanging political banners on stage explicitly connect music to political messages. However, this approach is often criticized as “preaching to the converted”. How do you respond to this criticism, and how do you see the role of DIY punk in influencing social change while maintaining its radical nonconformist stance?
This criticism might be valid if we were talking about spaces without a particularly broad social reach. In Greece, especially after the 2008 uprising and for many years afterward, our political spaces experienced an unprecedented flourishing. However, this didn’t mean that all the people who engaged with these spaces had a deep understanding of the ideas they advocated. In such a context, hundreds (even thousands in some cases) of people may participate in a DIY concert simply by consuming its subversive content.
Because of that, we believe that doing everything in our power to intensify our political presence is not useless—on the contrary, it is both desirable and necessary. Reading texts and promoting anti-authoritarian ideas can introduce individuals to anti-commodity culture and provide an initial spark for further exploration and awareness. After all, the people who are there already identify with anger, frustration, and opposition to the current system—they are already in the space looking for an outlet, searching for ways to break free through the lyrics of the bands they came to see.
Can you tell us about the other activities Ihitiko Ksespasma has been involved in beyond organizing DIY gigs? I know you’ve hosted discussions, screenings, and produced pamphlets and zines. I also heard about your intervention at a mainstream festival where you handed out leaflets mocking its values—can you share more about that and how these actions fit into your broader political and cultural vision?
It is true that so far we have mainly focused on the activities you mentioned, which are the usual practices of a DIY collective. However, stepping “outside the walls” and experimenting with different means of expression and action are things that constantly concern us.
In this context, about a year ago, we attempted an intervention at a mainstream festival in our city by altering its logo and language to critique the way it perceives and promotes concepts like art and creativity. To be honest, this move didn’t generate much buzz, but it was something we enjoyed doing, and we are definitely open to exploring other ways of spreading our message rather than limiting ourselves to the usual gig structures.
What are the challenges and struggles you face as a collective, and what are some ways to survive the damage and new state repressions as we have just entered another year of late-stage capitalism?
Unfortunately, we are currently experiencing a wave of back-to-back squat evictions, including spaces that housed some very active DIY collectives. At the same time, however, we have also seen important re-occupations, as well as the emergence of new DIY venues that choose to operate without entrance fees and maintain a strong political stance on DIY ethics. This last fact convinces us even more that if there is any hope of preserving and expanding what we’ve achieved, it lies in the political nature of our structures.
It’s true that things look difficult if we only see them through the lens of a concert collective losing access to its venue. How do we start new projects when there are so few of us? How do we individually endure the weight of repression? How do we handle financial or logistical challenges when trying to establish something new? These are difficult questions, and we don’t claim to have the answers.
However, the process of finding solutions becomes easier when you stop seeing yourself as an individual and instead as part of a broader movement. We dare to say that the historical strength of the DIY community has been its accumulated momentum—the success and endurance of the movement over time have always been tied to its political character, not to individual “successful” concert choices. In the hard times we are going through, and those still to come, this is where our focus should be: on the endless possibilities that come from networking and forming relationships with people who stand beside you—not necessarily because they listen to punk, but because they recognize your effort as something valuable for the movement as a whole.
What events do you have planned for 2025? Are there any new projects or collectives you’re collaborating with in Thessaloniki or elsewhere in Greece? Also, can you recommend some local punk bands we should check out?
We are grateful that we were given the opportunity (for the first time) to talk about our ideas in such a way.
For 2025, we have already started planning some concerts through the summer, and we are looking forward to a special two-day event with Athens’s concert collectives and bands that we felt we built strong connections with during last year’s meeting.
We could recommend many local bands, but we will refrain from doing so because we would inevitably leave out some important ones in the movement. However, a great initiative for mapping the DIY scene in Thessaloniki and across Greece is the Laterna website, created by Free Social Radio 1431. On this platform, anyone can listen to, download, or upload music from self-organized artists—without direct (royalties) or indirect (ads) exploitation, without “likes” or “shares,” without “premium subscriptions” or streaming metrics. Laterna significantly expands what DIY culture has achieved so far, and we are happy to see more and more bands choosing to share their music there.
Thanks again for this discussion, as well as for your support last year!
In solidarity,
Ihitiko Ksespasma
