By Charles Bardey
As my first introduction to volunteering at Guerilla Kitchen, I was given two main instructions: (1) hang any pots and pans on hooks to preserve the limited space; (2) don’t break the food processor, because it’s “really, really important.” This instruction was part of no official orientation, but was instead dashed off quickly by Elise, a longtime volunteer and organizer at Guerilla, as she showed me the locations of items as we came upon them in the kitchen and dining room: salt, beans, cutting boards, beer. She was remarkably friendly, considering that I could have been literally anyone: I had entered a roomful of twenty-somethings busily chopping vegetables, and had meekly offered myself as a volunteer to a young man behind a bar, who directed me to Elise. The tour was brief, as Elise had to return to preparing in the kitchen—it was already 4:16, and the kitchen would be open in just under two hours. “See who you can help,” she offered, leaving me standing awkwardly in the middle of the dining room. Mercifully, that didn’t last long: a twenty-four year old Dutch art student named Emily invited me to chop a box-full of apples with her in preparation for dessert. This, at least, was a task I knew how to do.
It turned out to be a better instruction than I assumed at the time, albeit not in the way I had expected—the home of the pots and pans was among the more self-evident rules of Guerilla Kitchen, and I never even got close to using the food processor. Still, that brief tour presaged much of the Guerilla ethos: welcoming, anti-hierarchical (read: a bit disorganized), but seriously devoted to their mission. And that food processor did turn out to be really, really important.
Over the course of four months, I volunteered at Guerilla Kitchen’s weekly food feast, observing and talking with volunteers, patrons, and organizers. All interviews were done in the context of the space Guerilla Kitchen uses, either over a meal, while chopping vegetables, or while scrubbing pans. In doing so, I hoped to explore the forces that united these groups from various countries around the world, and to understand how they conceived of their work, and what their goals were—did they see themselves as saving the world, or just making Amsterdam better? And did they really eat rotten food?
Guerilla Kitchen is one of at least five food waste reduction kitchens currently active in Amsterdam. They vary in size and formality—Guerilla sits on the lower end of these spectra—as well as in mission. Some, like Instock, perhaps the most widely known, is a functioning restaurant that charges up to 20 euros for a three-course meal.
Housed temporarily in what I later learned was a refurbished squat in Amsterdam-West, Guerilla hosts a weekly “Food Waste Feast” every Wednesday, feeding anywhere from fifty to two hundred people using only food that would otherwise have been thrown away by supermarkets and food distributors. They run on a “pay what you want” model, to cover the cost of the space—they rent it every Wednesday from Robin Food, a non-profit collective that rents it from the owners of the former squat—and the few additional foodstuffs that cannot be salvaged—salt, pepper, oil, and a few spices. The food they serve is entirely vegan, save for the occasional honey. This is partially by necessity—expired dairy and meat tends to be less salvageable than vegetables—though it also certainly reinforces their pan-environmentalist, ethical eating mission.
Additionally, the group sometimes caters events in partnership with other like-minded organizations (art collectives, other sustainable groups) in venues around of the city. Recent examples include a benefit organized by Robin Food in collaboration with refugee volunteers aimed at refugee integration entitled “Get to know your neighbors,” and a film festival at the Eye Museum. In cases like these, they generally bring a large tureen of pre-made soup and a salad. They also sometimes bring food to refugee organizations as well, though the bulk of the work is the weekly food feast.
Admittedly the “they” in these contexts can be difficult to define. The whole project is run entirely on a volunteer basis. Though there are no official leaders, in line with its anti-capitalist, quasi-anarchist leanings, there are a few de facto principle organizers. Among them is Elise, who gave me the tour—a charming and quick-witted event producer in her late twenties to early thirties—and Jaime, a soft-spoken Spaniard in his early thirties who organizes and directs most of the cooking. They are among the eldest and most responsible volunteers, though there is also Sara, a pre-school teacher in her late thirties who volunteers at music festivals almost every weekend and goes to raves twice a week; and Martijn, a man of at least seventy with a long gray beard who speaks in the most spiritual terms about the project. I’ve never been clear what he does.
Most of the volunteers, including some of those responsible for the majority of the organization, are transient. Some are staying in Amsterdam for just a few years to study; some are staying for just a few months. For that reason, the volunteer crew at Guerilla is very international, and constantly shifting. The first day I went, volunteers represented Brazil, Spain, England, Morocco, and the US—a cross section of the young people studying in Amsterdam. Currently, the Facebook group “Guerilla Kitchen Volunteers” has 257 members, though there are probably only fifty or so who come regularly at any given time. Since volunteers also eat when they volunteer, volunteers and their friends represent a large proportion of those consuming food at Guerilla Kitchen, and finding someone unaffiliated at the weekly Food Feasts can be challenging. So do these volunteers constitute a subculture?
Because of the transience of the volunteers, a postmodern understanding of youth cultures was crucial. At Guerilla, many volunteers come in with only a passive sense of the structural problems of food waste, and grow more impassioned with their time. Here, Andy Bennett’s (1999) critique of “subculture” as a concept is useful: “the term ‘subculture’ is also deeply problematic in that it imposes rigid lines of division over forms of sociation which may, in effect, be rather more fleeting, and in many cases arbitrary, than the concept of subculture, with its connotations of coherency and solidarity, allows for” (Bennett, 1999, p. 603). Indeed, in talking about Guerilla Kitchen, the space, organization, and rituals are central; the specific individuals are not.
The room for the weekly “Food Feast” has space for about forty people to sit, including in a loft above; a wooden bar stocked with beer and a few bottles of wine; and an open doorway that led to a narrow kitchen, with a stove, an industrial washer, the biggest soup tureens I had and probably will ever see in my whole life, and, yes, that food processor. The walls of the dining room are covered with food-themed paintings, posters and flyers for events long past, and artistically rendered sayings like “fill bellies, not bins.” The room is decidedly BoHo chic, and would be at home next to any of Amsterdam’s trendy cafés.
Because it exists in a repurposed squat, it is a bit hard to get to. Entering the space requires pushing a buzzer and waiting to be let in, which, because the buzzer is outside in the hallway and the kitchen can get busy, can take a while. Once in the building, a visitor walks down a hallway past other artistic looking co-op spaces to a doorway at the end of the hallway on the right. First encountered is a vestibule, which houses Guerilla’s “Food Waste Supermarket,” where they put the food that they did not use in the meal itself, which often amounts to up to half the entire haul for the day. This food is entirely free and open to the public, and is as popular, if not more so, than the meal itself, with many coming just for the free produce.
After the vestibule, you must walk another hallway before entering the dining room. This hallway is lined with miscellaneous clothing as part of Robin Food’s clothing exchange. A sign reads: “take or leave as much as you like.” The unfamiliarity of taking free clothing and cleanliness issues prevent some from taking, but there is new clothing every week when I attend, so some people must be taking and leaving. I myself have taken two items: massive white corduroy pants, which I borrowed for an evening of volunteering after getting soaked in a brief freezing rainstorm and which I had to hold up using a friend’s scrunchy; and a large eggshell t-shirt which was too soft not to take, and which I now use as a sleep shirt.
Between the long hallways, amateur artwork, clothing on the wall, and, most importantly, the casual vibe, walking into Guerilla Kitchen feels a bit like walking into an apartment building. That sense of intimacy runs through the initiative, and is ultimately central to it. By the end of my volunteering, I will have made some of the closest friends I make in Amsterdam, having bonded over meals, beers, and ideology.
The food itself is often surprisingly tasty, considering its sources, though it is admittedly a bit repetitive, and I have witnessed a handful of spectacular failures. Meals tend to fit the following form: a puréed soup to start, usually a mix of about seven or eight different vegetables with a strong pumpkin or squash lead (hence the absolutely critical food processor). The “main” dish is usually a plate of several different vegetables prepared in various ways, often with a side of guacamole made from mushy avocados (imagine the consistency of water balloons). Dessert is almost always a fruit salad with a fruit compote, though there is sometimes a vegan cake as well. The main weakness by my estimation is quantity: I have multiple times found myself hungry an hour after the meal. They rarely use grains—they are less frequently given away, and gluten-aversion fits with the kitchen’s ethical and healthy eating mission—and creating a full meal with only found fruits and vegetables can be difficult.
Food preparation seems orderless to me, and I am surprised anew every week when the kitchen manages to serve people on time. The only point of centralized communication is the Facebook group, which puts a signup the night before each event for various shifts, though this signup is never checked or corroborated or looked at after it goes up. Food is picked up from the Amsterdam Food Center at 11am by Jaime and two other volunteers, after which a second wave of volunteers (usually between four and six) arrive at 3pm to begin chopping and preparing. Judgment is left to individual volunteers what food should be kept and what should be chucked—a crucial decision when the food in question is not legally allowed to be sold in stores or used in supermarkets.
Since the issue of what to throw out cuts to the heart of the mission of the organization, questions of what food to use can act as a bellwether for individual volunteers’ relationship with the mission. Some volunteers are markedly more serious about wasting food than others, and are therefore liberal in their selection, using fully browned avocados that most would have thrown out, or will alternatively carve out every last bit from usable flesh from fruits that others would have condemned as long gone. “Are you serious?!” Sophie, a twenty-four year old from Australia who has worked at Guerilla eight months, scolds me when I toss half a sweet potato one evening. These volunteers view wasting food as a true travesty, and are here for the work in its reduction as much as anything else. “Most of that’s still good!” I am skeptical: a rot had started to spread from one end of the half of the sweet potato, and I’d given at least an inch of space around the rot. “Just cut around the rot!” I was, I protest, but the longer I volunteer there, though, the space I give around the rot shrinks.
Others are more casual about it, erring fully on the cautious side, reasoning they’d rather waste food then let someone go sick. For these volunteers, any food tossed would have been tossed anyway, so there is only net gain. Even by the end of my time volunteering, I fell mostly in this camp, the “better safe than sorry” group. Certain other practices also seemed suspect to me. I felt strange about continuing to use a knife after it had cut through moldy fruit flesh—one of many regular occurrences that struck me as fundamentally unsanitary that others seem to accept as par for the course.
For the volunteers insistent on embracing grossness and any potentially unsanitary food, this posture can seem like a sign of status and heightened devotion to the cause of food waste reduction. This is one of the few moments that subcultural hierarchies are created within Guerilla Kitchen, though that they exist should not surprise. In her exploration of club cultures, Sarah Thornton (1999) demonstrates how hierarchies appear even in cultures that might seem immune to them. In particular, the few hierarchies exist around authenticity, or devotion to the goal of wasting less food. Not everyone shares these hierarchies, however: unlike club culture, which is a “taste culture,” Guerilla Kitchen is oriented towards bringing people together, and for many, reducing food waste is only of equal, or even lesser, importance.
Legally, Guerilla Kitchen benefits from its small stature and generally lax Dutch laws around food service, Elise informed me. She refers to a Dutch concept called “burgerinitiatief,” which roughly translates to “citizen initiative,” an initiative “by the people, for the people.” That, apparently, is all the legal standing they need. In order to gain entry into the Food Center, a produce depot where restaurants come to get their stock, Guerilla borrows the pass of Robin Food, their host organization, which qualifies as a restaurant. They similarly borrow Robin Food’s registration to legally be able to serve food. Because they are a small organization, no one asks any questions. While working there, though, I repeatedly consider how many different components of this operation would not be possible in New York City, my hometown. There, the advent of consumer class action lawsuits and a deeply bureaucratized government mean each and every step would have to be vetted and approved by inspectors and health regulators, and certain practices—like serving legally expired food to patrons—would simply not fly. Even if it would, there would necessarily need to be strict regulations as to what food would need to be thrown away—no, “eh, it’ll become guacamole anyway, no one will ever know.” I might not even be allowed to use the knife I wield without a six-hour safety training VHS, notwithstanding that I’m using it to carefully slice around mold.
Guerilla’s ability to exist so untroubled highlights the importance of legal and physical infrastructure in the existence of youth cultures. Not all are so lucky. In “Fragile scenes, fractured communities: Tunisian Metal and Sceneness,” Stefano Barone (2016) demonstrates how the dissolution of material infrastructure threatened the Tunisian metal scene. As for Guerilla, it is just one strict food service law away from being existentially threatened.
Out of curiosity, one week I volunteer to attend the food pickup at the Amsterdam Food Center. I have only the roughest outline of what to expect: we go to a place where there is food and we get the food and bring it back. I meet Jaime, who goes every week, and Sophie, who has been volunteering at Guerilla since September, at 11am. We biked to the Food Center, Sophie and Jaime riding Guerilla’s two “bucket bikes,” and me on Sophie’s bike. We arrive just five minutes later at a massive lot full of warehouses, one for each food company. We stop at several food suppliers. Jaime and Sophie know all the managers, who escort us to the food we are allowed to take, usually stored in a back room. On our way, we pass by the food that’s yet to be shipped—the stacks of boxes of gorgeous red cherry tomatoes, the leeks, the citrus. At first glance, much of the unusable food looks the same—a box of carrots marred only by a splotch of blue and white mottled fur at one end. At some warehouses, Sophie strategically flirts with the workers to get better quality produce, and on this particular day we end up with some quality kiwi, which I will later in the day slice into a fruit salad.
After several warehouses, we have to stop: we are limited only by the space in the carts. Maximizing the haul is crucial, and Jaime is an old pro at maneuvering and repackaging the boxes of produce in the carts. Several times Sophie swoops in to protest Jaime’s rough treatment of the produce—she wants to protect the avocados from being squished underneath the boxes of radishes. At the end, the carts are absolutely full above the brim, and seem a bit precarious to me. The wheels on Sophie’s cart look like they might buckle, so she trades some heavy canteloupes for the thyme Jaime is carrying. Our last stop is to collect potatoes, to ensure that we have enough caloric content in the meal—filler. No one is manning the potato warehouse, so we head straight for the reject bucket, which is currently being filled by a conveyor belt carrying lone potatoes, about one every four seconds. Once our satchel is filled I carry it on my handlebars. The disparity between our loads is comical. As we bike out, slow and wobbly, an eighteen-wheeler truck full of food thunders past us, headed presumably to one of Amsterdam’s many high-end restaurants. Later, while turning on a busy roundabout, a box of avocados will fall off of Sophie’s cart—“all that work protecting them for nothing,” she laughs. We will still use them in the guacamole.
At 5pm, a new wave of volunteers arrives to prepare the space, which opens for dinner at 6pm, and to serve the food and staff the bar. It is by far the easiest job (especially bartending, since Guerilla only offers wine and beer at a suggested donation of one euro), and it is always the job with the most volunteers. Cleaning up and doing dishes—a job that is larger and more thankless by magnitudes—is chronically understaffed.
During meals is when the informal structure of the operation is most glaring. Guests who are unaffiliated or unfamiliar with Guerilla are often confused as to whether they are supposed to wait to be served or go to the kitchen and retrieve the food themselves (answer: they can do either). Volunteer waiters are not assigned to tables, and instead serve tables when they see the need. Since many volunteers come with their friends, some volunteers will serve for a while, then bring food to their friends and eat with them (or at least that’s what I did). Of course: everyone who wants food gets food. There are rarely, if ever, complaints about the service.
Consumption as Respite
There is no conclusive data on how much food is wasted globally both before and after it reaches a consumer, estimates place it somewhere between 30 and 50 percent. With upwards of 795 million people currently undernourished, reducing food waste must necessarily be a crucial component of any plan to feed the planet. Though not every volunteer I speak with can give me these specific numbers, they all agree that it is Too Much food wasted.
Food waste reduction is not just important in and of itself. Food production is inextricably tied to a global capitalist consumption system driving climate change. Finding alternative sustainable means of consumption are existentially crucial for human life, and of this fact every volunteer at Guerilla Kitchen is aware. Frustrations in general range from small—plastic wrapping around individual produce items in supermarkets—to immense—corruption in the World Health Organization and the failures of neoliberalism and capitalism. It is often in these grandest of terms that volunteers speak when they discuss their involvement. “The current systems of consumption are completely unsustainable,” Allegra, a Philosophy student from London tells me. “A lot of people think it’s a matter of recycling, or taking shorter showers, or being green, but it’s the whole system.”
Volunteers focus on different elements of this problem. Some, like Emily, the art student, are environmentalists first and foremost: “humans are depleting the earth, and it has to stop!” Others are more anthropocentric. “Why are so many people hungry in the world if we are throwing away so much food?” Dilara, a volunteer from Turkey, says. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
Still, if the problem is so global, and does indeed go all the way to the top, as many volunteers tell me, why get involved? Or, in other words: if the problem is global, why do anything, especially if that something has as small a reach as Guerilla Kitchen’s: just a few hundred meals a week. Guerilla Kitchen does not necessarily meet the model for traditional activism. Though they have identified a problem, few are under the illusion that their action can or will make a meaningful change in the global food system, even if they may speak in those terms.
When I (delicately, sensitively) pose this to volunteers, I get a variety of responses that get closest to elucidating the true purpose of Guerilla Kitchen. Two threads emerge repeatedly in these conversations. First, a deep sense of atonement for the guilt of existing as a neoliberal consumer in a developed country. “Well, you just have to do something,” Allegra laments. “I just feel like I consume so much and I never fucking do anything. Like I’m a giant leech on the Earth’s resources. My degree is in Philosophy, for crying out loud.” While Allegra is more outright, this sense of guilt seems to underlie much of the discussion around Guerilla’s purpose. Many (though not all) invoke their personal consumption habits, either speaking directly for themselves in the “I” perspective, or first person plural, whether that “we” is as a species, as a representative of a nation, or as a class of people privileged enough to travel and live internationally. Though there is a ubiquitous sense that the problems plaguing the world are global and institutional in nature, there is a simultaneous sense that “we” are failing even as individuals to make the world better.
And of course, we are, and we’ve never been more aware of it. The past decade has seen a resurgence of student activism, and anti-capitalist sentiment, sparked, at least partially, by the Occupy movement, and subsequent (self-)transformational movements like Guerilla are at least spiritually indebted to that movement for its existence. That Guerilla Kitchen has international appeal, drawing volunteers from all across Europe and North America, speaks to the breadth of that sentiment. There are various sources for this movement outside the scope of this paper, but the sentiment could not be better encapsulated than by a phrase that continues to make the rounds on Tumblr and Twitter: “There is no ethical consumption in late capitalism.” In a world built as ours, existing perfectly ethically will be impossible, and Guerilla volunteers know it.
The presence of guilt in many of the volunteers might call into question some elements of postmodern youth cultural theory. Bennett (1999, p. 599) discusses the failures of the term “subculture” in favor of “neo-tribe,” and argues that “rather than being tied to issues of social class, as subculture maintains, are in fact examples of the late modern lifestyles in which notions of identity are ‘constructed’ rather than ‘given’, and ‘fluid’ rather than ‘fixed.’” While Bennett’s emphasis on fluid, constructed identities is appropriate, class certainly, irrevocably plays into Guerilla Kitchen. “We’re just so privileged,” Sophie explained to me once. Language such as this—‘privilege,’ ‘developed countries’—highlight the importance of relative class in the formation of the Guerilla Kitchen space.
This, then, portends the second immense appeal of the project: the idea of Guerilla Kitchen as a communal space for similarly minded individuals to exist and consume beyond the global structures of consumption: a respite. Even if Guerilla Kitchen does not solve the global food waste crisis (and it won’t), it can provide a space where its members can find community while assuaging their neoliberal guilt. Tellingly, many of the organizers emphasize some version of this purpose when they talk about Guerilla. “We want to do social projects we like to do together with people who share the same goals and want to be active,” says organizer Elise. “We don’t buy anything cause it’s basically against our belief that we can make delicious meals without a mandatory payment.” She speaks here with great passion and excitement, and it is clear that the community she has helped create is an immense source of pride. This is evident in the informal leadership structure of the group, which makes all decisions over drinks during Wednesday’s food feast; anyone who cares enough about the mission is welcome to join.
One inauspicious fixture at the Wednesday food feast underlines the importance of the communal element. On the bar, to your left as you enter the room is a large, microwave-size wooden box, painted with the words “pay what you feel!” in excited, multi-colored letters. Costs of Guerilla Kitchen are minimal—most food and all labor is entirely free. The money collected goes entirely to the cost of the rented space, to any costs incurred during other catering projects or events, and to various refugee organizations around the city and abroad. This doesn’t include beer or wine, which is one euro a pop (suggested donation), which goes to the cost of the beer and wine itself.
While “pay what you feel” suggests donation, the two are distinct. A donation has a particular capitalist framework: supposedly selfless giving in exchange for the warm fuzzy feeling that comes from selflessly giving, and sometimes a gift bag. In Marcel Mauss’ seminal text The Gift, he posits gift-giving as an act of inherent reciprocity—no donation is truly selfless. Likewise, a “pay what you feel” system is conceptually distinct from traditional payment. Using an exact price denotes that a transaction is final, as nothing is owed.
A “pay what you feel” system subverts both of these models. Though Guerilla is rightly framed as a good cause, the payment is not exactly a donation, since those who pay have received a full meal. The framework of a donation works because it is not compulsory, and therefore giving is framed as selfless. “Pay what you feel” does ask for some form of payment, even if there is no exact valuation of the meal.
The result is the creation of a relationship that transcends the singular financial exchange while eliding the differences between being a beneficiary and a sponsor of charity—not one entity giving to another, but everyone giving in different ways to the same project. The model suggests that it is an ongoing project as well: if you can’t pay that much this time, maybe you will next time, or maybe you will wash the dishes. It is a subtle difference in frameworks, but a radical one, hence the discomfort of many of the Americans who experience it, and don’t know exactly what they are paying for—their own dinner? The project of food reduction more broadly?—or what their role is.
Among the most striking things about Guerilla Kitchen is the vibe of its dining room during dinner. Specifically, it is shockingly hip, crunchy, young, and homey and it is clear that Guerilla is as important, if not more important, as a communal space for this particular sensibility. There are a few factors that account for this. Primarily, students, and particularly international students, are overrepresented in Guerilla’s volunteer network. This is a self-perpetuating phenomenon—students tend to know students, and volunteers tend to come to Guerilla via other volunteers. Beyond the volunteers, the space itself suggests a hip clientele. Taken altogether, the fact that many of the students look wealthy enough to not need a free meal is in itself strange on face value.
This was the source of criticism I heard more than any other while working at Guerilla. This criticism, though, misses the point. Volunteers pointed to a few things in response to this criticism. Some noted that the clientele of the free supermarkets were notably different than those who ate at the food feast itself. These patrons came, took what they wanted to make at home, and left. Part of the mission of the Food Feast, and Guerilla Kitchen, then, was about creating a community, not just reducing food waste. Many of the volunteers I spoke to mentioned this as a feature they valued and had explicitly sought out in Guerilla Kitchen. They liked being around people who held similar values and similar goals. Volunteering, it should be said, is fun: there is music playing, people joke around, and you get to meet new people. And of course, though no one said it explicitly, they liked to feel like they were doing good, or at least that, for once, they were not actively participating in the destruction of the planet. “Everyone who eats here is not making a meal at home, and therefore buying less food,” Emily noted.
The culture of Guerilla Kitchen is therefore not incidental to its mission, then, but is inherent to it, and should not be brushed aside. If Guerilla Kitchen’s vibe attracts a specific type of volunteer and diner type, that is because those are the people it serves—not the planet broadly, but them. That is not to diminish its importance, nor the truly important work it does. In providing a refuge from the psychic traumas of participation in unethical capitalist structures, Guerilla re-energizes and motivates its volunteers, many of whom will return home newly driven. This is not inconsistent with Guerilla’s in-group community orientation. Rather, they are all processes towards the ultimate project of uniting an international community in a local space with a shared, alternative vision for the globe. The world may not ethically consume, but Guerilla Kitchen does.
As much as anything else, then, Guerilla Kitchen is a case study in the creation of a cultured, political space. By integrating a specific political orientation, unique financial structures, and a specific, hipness and youth-oriented visual culture, Guerilla Kitchen provides its volunteers a space for ethical consumption in a world that all but makes that impossible. There is an irony here: in a world being strained by consumption, Guerilla Kitchen finds respite in communal consumption. The research suggests that such resistance is inherently communal, and that any resistance to neoliberalism cannot exist without such an element.
That I was so readily integrated into the space is a testament to this fact. Though this sometimes made for an interesting research process (it is hard to take notes when scrubbing trays caked with charred vegan banana bread), it ultimately allowed for a more thorough, in-group perspective. My research was not compromised by my status as a researcher, as is often the case with ethnography, as I was, in many ways, a typical volunteer: young, privileged, concerned, international, transient, and passionate, and it wouldn’t have been Guerilla Kitchen if I did not fit right in.
(Written for Youth Cultures in a Transnational Context)
 The Future of Food and Farming, “Final Project Report,” The Government Office for Science, London, 2011, pg. 18.
 “State of Food Insecurity in the World IN BRIEF, 2015,” Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations; International Fund for Agricultural Development; World Food Program, 2015, pg. 1. Accessed at: http://www.fao.org/3/a-i4671e.pdf
 Reddit user “Weedwacker” does a nice job explaining the history in this Reddit thread: https://www.reddit.com/r/OutOfTheLoop/comments/3gh73r/where_does_there_is_no_such_thing_as_ethical/
Barone, Stefano (2016). “Fragile scenes, fractured communities: Tunisian metal and sceneness,” Journal of Youth Studies, 19, 20-35.
Bennett, Andy (1999). “Subcultures or neo-tribes? Rethinking the relationship between youth, style and musical taste,” Sociology, 33, 599-617.
Mauss, Marcel (1990). The Gift: The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies. London and New York: Routledge.
Thornton, Sarah (1999). “The distinctions of cultures without distinction,” in Club Cultures: Music, Media and Subcultural Capital. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press.
Cover illustration: https://www.facebook.com/guerillakitchenamsterdam/