A love letter to The Ruby Lounge: Picture Parlour on the lost local venue that made them
Editor’s Note: In December 2022, Picture Parlour played their first-ever gig at the Windmill in Brixton. Off the back of that show and the buzz the new band generated, their name spread swiftly elevated to one-to-watch status. Powered by the vocals and songwriting of Katherine Parlour, they brought all that hype to fruition on their 2024 EP, Face In The Picture. As a band whose entire story was started and supported by independent venues, Parlour penned an ode to the place that first made them fall in love with live music, local scenes and the places that nurture them.
By day, you’d barely notice it. Sat on the edge of Manchester’s Northern Quarter, cramped amongst the scratched-up and rusted shutters of the inner city’s forgotten businesses. By night, it was a different story. I’d lived in Manchester for only seven days before The Ruby Lounge placed its hand around my neck and lured me in. Each evening, I would pass by on the infamous ‘magic bus’ and be sucked into its seedy neon red sign and the mounds of smoke that bundled below it as people lit their cigarettes. Then it became a ritual, every week, like clockwork—wear your finest rags, pre-drink your cheapest ale, find your best buds and get to The Ruby Lounge.
I remember stumbling down the dark, uneven staircase for the first time and entering this oddly shaped subterranean space. The room possessed a kind of seediness I hadn’t quite conquered back home in Liverpool’s Concert Square with my fake ID. Alcoves and recesses shot off in various directions, drawing us deeper into the dimly lit no-frills venue. My eyes scanned the room aggressively, searching for a bar top which lit up like a mirror ball. The place smelled like a smoke machine that was on over time. Before I could make my pilgrimage to the two-for-£8 doubles, my eyeline was met by a sea of Mia Wallaces dancing in ecstasy.
I quickly realised that I had entered a Pulp Fiction-themed event, and just like that, my teenage world exploded. People were sprawled out on roughed-up sofas in the back room, which were strategically plonked in front of two giant projector screens playing Tarantino films on repeat. Some folks were watching the screens intently, some making out, and others simply chatting amongst themselves while taking a break from dancing. I was in love with everyone in this place, and, well, we were all in love with each other, I suppose. I scanned the room and was injected with a healthy dose of expression and freedom that I’d never had access to before. This very moment was when I realised that independent venues like The Ruby Lounge were something more than live music or club nights.
I remember a similar experience at their Remake Remodel: David Bowie night. I spent one half of the evening visually drowning in everyone’s interpretations of Bowie and the other half fighting the fog that was being spat out by the aforementioned smoke machine. With each flicker of strobe on the dance floor, I examined the lightning bolts that were brushed onto people’s skin, slicked hair and huge flares. We all screamed at the top of our lungs until we passed out on the sofas in the back room while Labyrinth and Ziggy Stardust-era music videos replayed on the projector screens. The Ruby Lounge had created an ecosphere where visitors could bounce between the musical and cinematic worlds all in one night or be in both at the same time. To think that below street level, there was this Wild West inner-city snicket, not just a bar with a stage, but a place of worship for culture and art, was truly life-changing for me as a teenager.
Stooping over the dance floor was a modest-sized stage that later hosted many bands I came to love during my time at university. If you wanted to know who was coming up in the indie scene, you’d scan the posters dotted around town and see who was visiting The Ruby Lounge that month. We’d go see local legends like the Courteeners and even bands we adored from over the pond, such as Mini Mansions. All of which were affordable and intimate gigs. A pivotal moment in my own musical evolution was having the chance to see Black Honey at this venue, which my band supported nearly a decade later. If I hadn’t had the opportunity to witness a frontwoman rock out on stage and demand a room like I saw Izzy Baxter Phillips do that night, then maybe I wouldn’t have built up the courage to do it myself. These shows provided me with access to believe that it is possible for people like us. It was the first place that made me feel like performance and creation were things I could do. I belonged in that space. I wanted to start my own band, to have my song blasting above people’s heads as they handed themselves over to the venue for just one night.
In between dancing, we would pile into the toilets to make out with transients and then head out front into the blistering cold of the Northern Quarter for a smoke with fellow comrades. We’d discuss all sorts of things while standing outside with strangers, who were equally bursting to return to the dance floor and escape the harsh weather. Heated debates would range from which Bowie album is best to what gigs were worth visiting in town that month. I vividly remember bonding with someone who had been at the same Wolf Alice gig as me that week and how close we must have been to each other in the crowd without knowing of each other’s existence. She had caught a guitar pick from Ellie Rowsell at the show, which was still wedged in her jean pocket. She swiftly showcased it to the group of smokers we stood with, like a golden relic, proof that it had actually happened.
But it wasn’t just musical rumblings that occurred between The Ruby Lounge comrades. Beyond the exterior and aesthetic, there was an open and uncompromising exchange of social and cultural identities. There were talks about sexuality, gender, and different upbringings, questions and answers—a whole world unravelled behind these walls. It was an introduction to who we were all about to become. You left this place knowing yourself just that little bit better because Ruby Lounge championed everyone who visited. It was the first place I openly discussed and explored my sexuality with both friends and strangers because it allowed me to feel safe. Visiting independent venues like this put kids like Ella Risi (Picture Parlour’s guitarist) and me in an environment where we could learn and grow into ourselves and as creatives. The access to this kind of personal evolution is vital, and it is something all young people deserve. Without venues like this, we’re robbing people of an enriching opportunity to learn about themselves and others too.
As I said earlier, there was a ritual to it all until we were slammed with the news:
“Manchester’s music scene will soon bid farewell to The Ruby Lounge to make way for a £79million city centre development. Plans to demolish the ‘unappealing’ and ‘unattractive’ building which housed the venue have been backed following a public consultation”.
Seven years later, and it still hasn’t happened.
“Venues like Ruby Lounge don’t just provide a stage for artists; they’re just as much about the people off stage. They provide local jobs, and are a tangible environment for the local music scene to flourish. This ‘unappealing’ and ‘unattractive structure’ helped shape me and spurred me on to discover my own voice as a writer and as a lover of music.”
Katherine Parlour
The Ruby Lounge was parked on the fault line connecting the restless tectonic plates of the Northern Quarter and the rest of the city centre, one that fell victim to ‘regeneration’. What was “unappealing” and “unattractive” to the council was life-changing for me. I always dreamed of playing there one day with Picture Parlour. It would have been a full-circle moment for us and a chance to give back to one of the venues responsible for my own future successes. Venues like these don’t just provide a stage for artists; they’re just as much about the people off-stage. They provide local jobs and are a tangible environment in which the local music scene can flourish.
This unappealing and unattractive structure helped spur me on to discover my own voice as a writer and as a lover of music. Visiting this place regularly introduced me to new genres, bands, and styles of clothing. It made me, as a very awkward teenager, feel like I was in good company. I could continue listing off all of the reasons why the abandonment of grassroots venue culture is devastating, but I think it’s more important for us to now think about how to protect the ones left standing with us.
From The Ruby Lounge to the Windmill:
Ella and I relocated from Manchester to London in 2020 to pursue our studies and to work. This was a particularly turbulent time for the indie music scene. We were seeking out independent venues, but this time, we were trying to play them as a band, not just to attend as punters. It was a little fish, big pond kind of job, as we didn’t know a soul down south. All we knew was that back home in Manchester and Liverpool, we had small but mighty grassroots scenes featuring melting pots such as The Jacaranda and YES. These venues are fiercely loyal in platforming local talent while extending their arm to new ones from outside the city, and we needed to find that down there. That’s when we met Tim Perry of Windmill, or Gandalf, if you will.
Since our new turf was South London, we scoped out all of the local independent venues. We asked for their email addresses, sent them our demos, and asked if we could play there. A few months later, we had one response from Tim, who offered us a midweek opening slot. Walking in there for the first time was slightly different to The Ruby Lounge; there were a few fewer sofas and no projector screens, but the feeling was the same. A deep sense of pride permeated the walls, there was a genuine love of all types of music, and a refusal to please. Though, the most striking quality was the unabashed warmth. If you closed your eyes for long enough, it could even start to feel like you were back up north for a moment.
After our show, we bonded with Tim over connections between the Irish and Scousers and aired our mutual frustrations with a music industry historically oversaturated with rich kids. We spoke about how impossible it felt for working-class musicians to infiltrate this invisible yet impenetrable bubble called ‘the London music scene’. After that night, Tim took us under his wing and really kept an eye out for us. We started returning to the Windmill to both play and watch shows. Attending and playing shows there felt like a moment in the week when I could step off the clinical streets of London and feel a sense of community and human connection again.
As an artist, I was given the chance to practice and trial material without judgment or the sudden disinterest that is all too familiar in the creative industry. This patience and unwavering commitment from a venue or a booker is integral to artist development. I don’t know who I’d be right now without the patience of independent venues who have endured endless disastrous performances from myself and the bands I’ve been in over the years. Even as recently as last week, we played Windmill and trialled out new material. Tim stormed straight over to me post-gig and excitedly asked what the new song was, providing me with feedback. That is someone who doesn’t miss a trick and who truly cares.
“The stages are small but mighty, the floors are sticky but always open, and the people behind these independent spaces care the most.”
Katherine Parlour
As we began playing further afield, we’d return to watch Windmill veterans Mary In The Junkyard in admiration of how effortlessly they seduced the entire room night after night. Then, a few months later, we got to share the stage with them, thanks to Tim. The most magical thing about an independent venue is the space it creates for artists to find a sense of community, normalcy and opportunity after moving to the ‘big smoke’.
But what is perceived as a rough and ready live music venue is now a cauldron of taste-making that inadvertently lures in all sorts of industry sheep desperate to find the next best thing. Venues like this are not just the beginning of careers; they’re the nucleus of a gargantuan money-hungry industry that relies on the hard work and authentic taste-making of the few, such as Tim. These independent venues are crucial because they push artists and nurture our naivety and vulnerability. They give chances when every other door just won’t open and fight for the artist with no poisonous ulterior motive. So alas, there’s so much lost all over our country with venue closures such as The Ruby Lounge, and there is still so much to protect in strongholds like the Windmill that are left standing. The stages are small but mighty, the floors are sticky but always open, and the people behind these independent spaces genuinely care.
