Dual interview with Ron König and Arthur Akkermans
The Burgerweeshuis is celebrating its 40th anniversary. The body may be creaking and groaning, but the soul is very much alive. What defines this renowned Deventer pop venue, which grew out of a youth center in 1984? We explore this in six double interviews. This is episode 5, featuring Deventer mayor Ron König (born in Doesburg, 1964) and The Grand East singer Arthur Akkermans (born in Goirle, 1991).
Wednesday morning, 9:30 AM. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling illuminate the hall with a functional, cold glow. From this height, you can see exactly where we are: in a black, square box—that’s all it really is. Normally, people are dancing, drinking, and sweating here; now, it’s silent. The only familiar thing is the scent of stale beer.
The mayor of Deventer has only been on the stage of the Burgerweeshuis once before. That was at the start of the anniversary year, not so long ago. Back then, he was standing and wearing a tie. Now, Ron—we’re allowed to call him Ron today—is sitting on an uncomfortable chair, wearing a turtleneck. He looks behind him at the steel bar at the top of the backrest and says, “Who comes up with something like this?”
Bodily fluids
Also joining us is Arthur, lead singer of the rocking whirlwind The Grand East, which considers Deventer its home base. For a few years now, the band has had a studio in the creative hub STROOM in the Havenkwartier. The Grand East has played at the Burgerweeshuis regularly over the past few years. Usually, by the end of such an evening, Arthur would be hanging from the ceiling while beer flew through the air—or he’d be standing on his head. “I like to provoke and really let loose, so people think: what’s happening now?” Yet, this quiet, chilly sight doesn’t feel strange to him. Because playing great music, no matter how many bodily fluids end up flying around, always starts on some afternoon with a blank canvas. Sober.
‘I had to take recorder lessons, I hated every minute of it’
When Ron shares that he played guitar as a child but that it—in his own words—made him sad, Arthur perks up. It sounds a bit like his story, he says, just with a different ending. Arthur: ‘I was forced to take recorder lessons, and I hated every second of it. The guitar lessons that followed weren’t for me either. But I’m lucky enough to be able to sing. Rehearsing for hours on end—I never did that as a kid. I only took singing lessons later on.’ To Ron: ‘So never say never.
“Tell me, how is your voice, actually?” Ron laughs: “It’s weak, that’s hereditary. I’m sorry I don’t have more musical talent, because I love music. What you do sounds wonderful to me.” Arthur: “Who are your favorite artists?” Ron: “I’ve kind of stayed stuck in my era: Dire Straits, Bruce Springsteen, that sort of thing.”
Big, small city
Arthur grew up in Diepenheim, right in the middle of the triangle formed by drawing lines between Zutphen, Hengelo, and Deventer. As a child, he often visited the Burgerweeshuis. He saw dozens of concerts. The memory that comes to mind first: singer-songwriter Daniel Norgren in the garden. Arthur: “The sun was shining, it was a beautiful evening. Afterward, I walked up to him. ‘Can you make a living from this?’ I asked. He nodded. Then I thought: so it is possible!”
They were already at it back then, he and the other members of The Grand East. Where were they then? Arthur laughs and says: “A bit where we are now. We aren’t making much progress. On the other hand: many bands are jealous of us. Who else gets to go out on a Saturday night, play in front of three hundred people, drink beer, and put a few hundred euros in their pocket at the end of the night? That’s amazing! We play at dozens of festivals every year, including in Germany.”
‘When you walk into the pub here, everyone starts talking to you immediately’
To supplement his income, Arthur has a pink ice cream cart with which he travels the country from his home in Utrecht. He sings and acts a bit silly. On colder days, he sells poffertjes. For many customers, he has become a familiar sight. It pays well, he says, especially in the Randstad where prices are generally higher.
Still, he is considering moving here. Arthur: “Deventer has a nice balance between a village and a city. When you walk into the pub here, everyone starts talking to you immediately. I like that.” Ron, who has been listening attentively to Arthur for a while: “I get it. Deventer is a big, small city.”
‘Hey, there’s the mayor’
Ron, mayor of Deventer since 2019, grew up in Doesburg and worked for years in Arnhem and Rheden. He calls himself “a boy from the IJssel.” When he’s in Amsterdam, he thinks at the end of the day: it’s time to go home. Ron: “I love the mentality of the people here, the social norms, and the friendliness.
And the quirkiness, because Deventer is no boring provincial town.” Arthur: “Exactly! That’s what’s so fun. It’s definitely not boring here.” Although Ron does find it a pity that relatively few students live in Deventer. “We used to have environmental studies here, which attracted students from all over the country. Now, archaeology is the only study program exclusive to Deventer. It’s a smaller program, but it does attract interesting characters. It brings life to the city.”
‘Of course, you see someone looking now and then, like: hey, there’s the mayor’
The cultural sector in Deventer calls Ron ‘rich and varied’. He enjoys visiting the Bergkerk and loves classical music. And thanks to his girlfriend, he has also been attending pop concerts more frequently in recent years. His first concert at Burger was Blaudzun. It was during the pandemic; they sat on chairs at a safe distance from other couples. Enthusiastically: ‘But it was really great, we’re going to see Roos Rebergen soon.’ Attending a concert is a way for him to relax, even in the city where he is mayor.
He doesn’t worry about eyes potentially being on him. Ron: ‘That’s the nice thing about Deventer. Of course, you see someone looking now and then, like: hey, there’s the mayor. But most people don’t make a big deal out of it.’
Super exciting
With The Grand East, Arthur plays all over the country, and his band members are scattered across the Netherlands. Yet they dropped anchor in Deventer. Not by accident, he says: ‘You get asked for a gig, you meet people, one thing leads to another. Eventually, you gravitate toward the people you like.’ Every city has its own scene, he knows from experience. ‘Utrecht, for example, I find a bit pretentious and sappy.’
The common denominator of big cities is that people live past each other and everyone is constantly measuring themselves against everyone else. In Deventer, I don’t feel that competition as much. The network is strong, and you often encounter genuine goodwill here. That’s where you really notice that Deventer is a big small town. Here, people still try to build something together.
The fact that Arthur and his band could move into STROOM was, of course, a huge bonus. ‘Try finding a space where you can make some noise without people complaining, for a reasonable price. That barely exists anymore.’ Ron agrees: ‘I completely agree. Every piece of land has become precious because we want to build houses. Where is there still room for art? Places like STROOM belong in a growing city like Deventer. We need to keep an eye on that.’
‘When I go up those escalators, I feel like I’m going on vacation’
Another thing that belongs in a growing city: a good pop venue. Ron shifts in his seat and nods: ‘Yes, yes, absolutely true. Pop venues are one of the rare places in society where people from different walks of life still cross paths.’ He looks into the hall. ‘The annoying thing is: it just doesn’t work in this location anymore.’
At the start of my term, I thought: we’ll renovate and insulate the place, but we just can’t make it work. We’ve reached the limit; we have to move elsewhere. That also creates new opportunities, although I can’t deny that I find it super exciting. How do you preserve the atmosphere?’ As he asks that question, he looks pointedly at Arthur.
Getting a little lost
It was already being discussed before the interview had even properly begun: how do you inject soul into a new venue? TivoliVredenburg, for example, reminds Arthur of Schiphol. ‘When I go up those escalators, I feel like I’m going on vacation. After a concert, I want to be able to drink a beer, and at Burger, that works perfectly. You either stay in the hall or go to the bar. It’s great.’ Ron: ‘But surely you could achieve something like that in a concrete box, I’d think.’ Arthur: ‘Sure, sure, that shouldn’t matter. It’s about how you fill it.’ Asked for good examples, Arthur mentions Muziekgieterij in Maastricht. ‘A new venue, but atmospheric. There are little paintings everywhere, you can get a little lost. Wonderful.’
‘How do we ensure that the place gets a bit of character?’
Politics has chosen, ‘albeit with a narrow majority’, to investigate whether the Deventer Schouwburg and Burgerweeshuis can continue together under one roof. Ron agrees with this decision. ‘Deventer has a surplus of venues. The old film house is empty, and the small hall of the Schouwburg is the same size as the theater hall at Mimik. That’s strange for a city the size of Deventer; it’s the result of previous decision-making.’
I don’t find it difficult to say that the Burgerweeshuis could be a solution to this problem in the proposed new setup, but with the caveat that the Burgerweeshuis gets a full-fledged, independent space. I hope a collaboration can emerge where both the theater and the pop venue thrive. Whether that will succeed is,’ he uses the word again, ‘super exciting.’
Pissing in the corner
Arthur knows the opinion of many Deventer residents about the two-in-one plan: it’s worthless. What he finds particularly unfortunate is that Burgerhaven isn’t happening. As far as he was concerned, it was perfect: the industrial building, the rugged location, the interaction with STROOM and Burnside, the whole ambiance. But anyway, that’s off the table. So Arthur, you tell me. What needs to happen?
He sits up straight, clears his throat, and says measuredly: ‘I want to walk in and smell the beer from the day before. The floor can be a bit sticky. At home in my living room, I have mood lighting everywhere. It just needs to be cozy.’ Ron: ‘You’re putting me on the right track. As mayor, I can’t do much; I’m above the parties, but I can certainly ask questions. How do we ensure that the place gets a bit of character?’ Arthur: ‘This is the way!’
Everyone is skeptical now, but it can change quickly once the door opens and the first impression is: dude, this is cozy! I say: pour a keg of beer on the floor and piss in the corner. Then you’ve got a wonderful pop venue.’
Photography: Isabelle Renate la Poutré
Interview: Job Hulsman