Independent Venue Week: Chappaqua Wrestling at the Polar Bear, Hull
Chappaqua Wrestling visited Hull as part of their Independent Venue Week tour. What unfolds is a masterclass in sound, a trip down memory lane, and a reminder of why nights like this matter more than anything.
There isn’t much to be said about Hull train station. It has tiled floors, seven platforms, 30-something bus terminals, a tonne of what the untrained eye would perceive as wrong ‘uns and two Greggs. No notes, change nothing. Like everywhere in Hull, there is a profound beauty here, a sense of community driven by unrelenting stubbornness that seems to keep wheels turning and rubble together. There are shadows of Blitz’s mentality heightened by working-class spirit. Smile at a stranger and you’ll get a friend for life or your teeth kicked in. It’s a hotbed for characters, best mates and music; more importantly, it’s home.
You step off that train and are privy to magic, magic that can be found in the station, the people and the head-down attitude that comes with every corner of the city. It’s out on a limb; no one passes through without staying a while, and no one stays a while without feeling a pull forever. The city’s culture is its own, and anyone can be a part of it, but at the same time, no one will ever change it. There are no stereotypes or traps to fall into regarding dress sense and scene. The result is good people and some of the most versatile and exciting music you’ll find in the country.
Several famous artists have come from Hull, but the city doesn’t acknowledge them. ‘Caravan of Love’ and ‘Rotterdam’ might be sung at local festivals, but that’s the beginning and end of it. In a 2013 article, Dave Simpson wrote about his visit to Hull and his surprise at the city’s inability to acknowledge those they’re proud of.
“Back in those innocent pre-internet days, few of us could have guessed that the ‘Starman’ was actually born David Jones in Brixton, or that the Spiders from Mars were actually from Hull,” he wrote. “Not that you’d know any of this from visiting the Hull area today, where you don’t hear ‘Moonage Daydream’ blasting out over Hull City’s ground or find statues of the Spiders next to the one of Philip Larkin. Instead, their only visible legacy is a ghastly, unloved old stage in Hull’s Queen’s Gardens, rather embarrassingly signposted the ‘Mick Ronson Memorial.’”
This might sound sad, but it’s a blessing. Hull’s music scenes’ reluctance to put famous artists from here on a pedestal means there are no cheap replicas. When you go to a venue here, there’s no telling what genre you might be exposed to. Along Princess Avenue, you have takeaways, run-down pubs and The Adelphi, Dive and Polar Bear, the three most essential venues in the city, and the definition of what makes independent venues important.
Hull’s transport is what lets the city down. Getting in and out of the city centre is a mammoth task, with buses taking about an hour each way, and given there’s no Uber, taxis must be booked a couple of days in advance. As such, people don’t have local pubs and bars in the city centre; they exist in the villages surrounding it. People would travel to the centre of Hull mainly to enjoy whatever new music was sprouting up around the city. These venues became your local; the bar staff became friends, and promoters were your loveable landlords. It has a community that can’t be replicated and was one of the best places to grow up.
Of course, life happens. It’s a big world, and spending all of your time in one city seems a waste, so that love of music, which started in Hull, expands outwards. On 31st January, the familiar walk down Princess Ave to Polar Bear felt somewhat less familiar, given it was the first time I had been there for about nine years.
The room has changed; what used to be a pub with a stage in it has been redecorated to become a fully blown-out venue. The tiled bar stands to the right of the room where people order rushed Guiness’s in plastic cups. A sound engineer stands in front of a black curtain and behind a pine wood guard, punters soles slowly stick to the dancefloor, and the stage is cluttered with a mixture of amps and drums that stand proudly in front of images of polar bears. I’m suddenly reminded just how long it’s been since I’ve watched a gig in Hull, and it’s a feeling of welcome nostalgia and sadness.
People are scattered. Some stand in the smoking area (a proper smoking area now and not just a car park), and some are near the bar, while others are in the pub room next door (which used to have a pool table). The music draws everyone to the stage, the hum of feedback and the click of sticks, a beacon, as Chappaqua Wrestling make their way into the spotlight. “How are you feeling, Hull?” they ask. A slow, peaceful guitar plays over audience chatter before distortion kicks in, and the show officially starts.
An Edwardian-style dome lines the ceiling and stands over the crowd; if the stars were brighter, they would shine through. The audience is a mosaic of the back of heads, which the band towers above as they step on speakers and raise their arms. Close enough to hug, but instead, what happens is a cheer loud enough to match the guitar and drums in volume. It’s a sound so loud yet so contained it grabs and shakes you, and with that, I’m snapped back to reality; the sadness is gone, and all that’s left is the gig.
Chappaqua Wrestling are their own beast. They are entirely individual in the sound they can achieve, which is noisy and chaotic yet drowned in melody. There is such a wall of sound that there is no individual part to pick up on. Instead, all members complement one another, and all there is to focus on is the music. It is less something you listen to and more something you swim in, a true treat from start to finish.
One of the standouts, which can be chalked down to the live experience, is the vocals. They sound good on the studio album, without a doubt, but when done down a microphone and right in front of you, the two can emote a lot more. Again, there is still a sweet-sounding melody there, but a lot more attitude, punk-like, that only complements the sound more.
Adding to what the band are doing are the people in the room. Behind me, someone screams every word to every song, as do the people towards the front of the crowd, creating an independent chorus that, when isolated and deciphered, translates to, “Keep these fucking places open.” Those vocals, the Guinness, the band, the applause, all of it is a time machine. Suddenly, I’m back at my first gig again, and I am reminded why live music has the appeal that it does.
Other signs of community remain present throughout the night, like when the bassist broke a string and had to use one of the support band’s instruments. There was a moment of improvisation between silence when the band announced they “were travelling T-shirt salesmen who play songs.” Meanwhile, the sound engineer running through the crowd to wire the new bass had a haphazardness to it, the whole thing only adding to the charm. As time continues to pass, the set stops being good music and starts morphing into something I’m aware is ending and don’t want to.
As the final song rings out, the drummer stands behind his kit and raises a glass to the crowd. The band says something, but it’s lost in cheers; the lights are up, and the music is over. I leave the venue feeling full after not only seeing a good gig but taking a trip back to my first one, experiencing the innovation and kindness of bands and crowds from my hometown. Getting into my taxi, I overhear two people talking. Only just looking old enough to drink, one takes a drag from a cigarette and says, “That was good”.
The other sips a lager, “We should do this stuff more often.”
