An ode to the independent venue and the people that make them
Memories are the most subjective thing in the world. Everything about you and me, every bias, interest and hatred, all of it can be attributed to either the presence, or lack thereof, a memory. Their uniqueness leads to the unique people who surround us, and in the same way that fingerprints can’t be replicated, so too are memories completely individual from person to person. Any attempt to copy them might produce a somewhat convincing counterfeit but never the real thing.
Yet, despite being entirely subjective in their nature, certain memories run parallel to one another, creating the illusion of objectivity. At one point in your life, you have experienced the same thing or feeling that most other people have. These overlapping feelings are often the hardest to describe, but that loss for words doesn’t invalidate their existence, quite the opposite. Because of them, an unspoken bond created between us as human beings makes even total strangers relatable and is the foundation of empathy and understanding.
Common examples of these memories are love and loss. Just because you struggle to tell someone what love feels like doesn’t mean you haven’t felt it, and when someone can’t find the words when coming to terms with the loss of a loved one, you don’t doubt their emotions in that silence. A hand on the shoulder will do, a nod, a hug, because ultimately you know the feeling; you have shared it, born from a different memory, aspects changed, but the result is undeniable.
Another shared memory we all have in common is the first time we went to a concert. A moment where just the name of the venue and the band are enough for a complete stranger to nod and understand the importance of those two details, as there is nothing, no matter who else you see or where in the world you go, quite like your first time.
Do you remember the first time?
Do you remember? Do you remember standing in front of the mirror, and your planned outfit was just not quite right? Do you remember the Harrington? The leather? The denim? Remember it not falling on your shoulders as it was supposed to? Not hugging your hips like you wanted? Remember constantly pulling on the sleeves because your arms were too long? Or rolling them up because they weren’t long enough?
Do you remember your shoes? The Docs? The trainers? The new ones that looked too new? The old ones that didn’t look new enough? Remember wearing them around your bedroom? The kitchen? The living room? Feeling that rubbing on your ankle? The press on your toes? Remember hoping it would go away and wouldn’t ruin your night? Remember trying to pretend like the feeling wasn’t there at all?
What about your shirt? Do you remember it not fitting the way you wanted? Too tight around your belly? Too loose around the things you want people to notice? Your arms? Your chest? Do you remember your mother and father calling to see if you’re ready? Them telling you that you look nice? Rejecting the compliment because you’re cool? Holding it close because you’re human?
Remember stepping outside and never looking back? Full steam ahead into the rest of your life without a second to lose? Do you remember the weather that could’ve been better but could’ve been worse? Do you remember the queue? The bouncer? The ticket checker? The door? Do you remember the first time?
A worn-down look is papered over by posters for gigs past and future. Any opinion on the weather is left behind, and what could only be described as a foreign climate grips you, the humidity of another country, if you were to step off a plane into better times. There’s a heat made up of sweat, tears and piss, which radiates off the floor, walls and doors, creating a heavy atmosphere that pushes down on your shoulders while your eyes adjust and you try to catch your bearings. There is art on the walls, and a cluster fuck of tat surrounds the bar as shelves are laden with velvet lamps, unplugged phones and merch for bands you’ve never heard of.
Drinks are cheaper than expected and served with smiles. Other punters wear clothes that would make them stick out in everyday life but blend in here like the sound of a heartbeat. Before there’s time to speak, a hush falls over the room, and there is a nod from a sound engineer followed by nervous footsteps. Those you’ve never seen before are about to become celebrities right before your very eyes. Guitars are plugged in and tuned, a mic tapped, and a one-two-one-two as drumsticks click together and your world changes.
January 29th marks the beginning of Independent Venue Week, a celebration of the spirit of independence and the culture of live music. It’s a chance for those who love live music to re-engage with the thing they’re obsessed with and those who have yet to experience their first gig to do so. It’s never been easy to run an independent venue, but the past couple of years have been some of the hardest that venue owners have ever experienced. Support is needed from the government, artists, larger venues and us punters.
You’re a part of something bigger than yourself when you go to these kinds of gigs. You’re egging on a stranger to follow their dreams, you are witness to inspiration, and you become a building block in the entire foundation of the UK music scene. While strings are plucked and drums are hit, that band, those wannabe rockstars, spark electricity, while you, the crowd, the staff, and the drinks are blood, and the venue is the beating heart.
Do you remember the first time? That night when you realised that this is who you’ve always been? It’s a feeling that follows you around for the rest of your life, as regardless of where you go from there, that draw of music, the live experience, continues to pull you back. No, no matter how many other gigs you go to, where you end up and what you do, there really is nothing quite like your first. May there never be a last…
A 1,000 first times
Mark Davyd (CEO of the Music Venue Trust: “I have never done anything else. This is what I’ve done. I’ve done live music since I was a kid, and I’ve ended up with a slightly odd career; even calling it a career sounds like a weird statement. I was in bands, then I tour managed bands, then I was a sound engineer for a bit, started promoting some shows, fell in with another bunch of people who also promoted shows, ended up opening a venue in Tunbridge Wells called Tunbridge Wells Forum, which is 30 years old two days ago. I went off, did some more band management, ran a record label, opened up a publishing house, but all of it started, really, from wandering into the 100 Club at the age of 16 to go and see a band called The Sound.
“I’ve never really wanted to be anywhere else. I go to festivals, and I go to big gigs, but they just don’t have the same thing. I like that feeling that the singer might attack you at any moment and the sort of element of when a room kicks off. In a small venue, it can properly kick off; you get 300 people watching a band, and the band plays a song, and the whole room goes up; even the bar staff are on the bar. That can happen at a small venue. The whole thing has just got that raw community spirit”.
James Acaster (Temps Conductor / Comedian): “I saw Cay at the Bedford Esquires when I was 15. They were supported by My Vitriol, who became the first band I got into through seeing them live. My friend Jake got swallowed up into the moshpit at one point, and it was one of the most glorious things I’d ever seen. His voice trailed off as he said, ‘This is the greatest night of my liiiiiiife’.”
Paul Sarel (General Manager of The Adelphi, Hull): “I first came to The Adelphi in 1991, so over 30 years ago. I came to see a band whose name escapes me, but they were a local band and what I remember the most about that is the singer kept getting a little electric shock off the microphone every time he sang into it. It amused everyone apart from him. Me and me, mate Mark, just got addicted to coming to gigs then.
“Also, Norman Cooke, Fatboy Slim, was in The Housemartins, who weren’t born in the city but they were established in the city in the ‘80s. The Housemartins signed their first recording deal on the Adelphi stage in 1985 with Go Discs. So, long story short, fast forward 34 – 35 years, a friend of the club called Sybil, who works for something called Independent Venue Week, bumped into Norman Cooke in London, which is where he’s knocking about now. They got talking, and Sybil is a massive fan of the Adelphi, and she tells Norman it’s still here. He’s like, ‘What? After all this time?’ She’s like, ‘Yeah yeah yeah, and it’s still run by Paul Jackson, Jacko,’ and he’s like, ‘What? I can’t believe it!’ So she’s like, ‘Right, the 35th birthday is coming up, what we gunna do about it?’
“So, a few strings are pulled, and he comes back and plays the 35th birthday party for next to nothing. We filled the place out, made a load of money, then we put that on the front of the building, ‘You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby’. It’s a slogan from one of his songs, and it meant a lot to him as well, so he’d come full circle.
“There were 180 people here for that gig. The rule from Norman was he’ll do it, no cameras though; nobody takes any photographs. The only person to break the rule was Norman because the PA went down because there was so much sweat in the room, and the safety device kicked in. It took about five minutes to fix, but during that time, the audience started to sing ‘Caravan Of Love’, which is this acapella song by The Housemartins. He goes, ‘Ahhh, oh my god, I’m sorry I’m breaking all my own rules,’ and he started filming it”.
Sybil Bell (Independent Venue Week, Founder): “It’s hard not to fall in love with Hebden Bridge when you visit Calderdale, most recently made famous by Happy Valley. Stepping through the doors of The Trades Club is an equally special experience, a venue completely entrenched in the local community. The atmosphere is so welcoming.
“As a huge fan of Richard Hawley, I’d always hoped to get an IVW show there with him. It took about four years to happen but when it did, it was an incredible moment. A gorgeous setting, and Richard did a stripped-back show, his beautiful voice gently filling the room – you could have heard a pin drop. I cried for most of the gig because it epitomised everything that live music at an independent venue can do for the soul. You can’t capture that on a phone or watching on a screen; you have to be there. And I was so glad I was”.
Kingsley Hall (Benefits): “Touring bands never really stopped in Stockton when I was growing up, so I used to watch local acts in the back room of the Sun Inn pub every Friday night, and to me, despite not being anywhere near old enough to drink, it was the greatest thing in the world. They’d put a curtain over the dartboard and set up on the floor with a vocal PA at the end of the room. The DNA Cowboys, Spooky Octopus, Spit The Pips, all massively special bands to me.
“Occasionally, the bands would graduate to the bigger ‘proper’ venues in the town like the Georgian Theatre and going there felt like a whole new world opening up – stage, lights, monitors, dressing rooms… so exotic! It didn’t matter that it was a weird, tatty council-owned ex-sweet factory that also was a pop-in centre for old folk on Sunday mornings; as far as I was concerned, it was Wembley”.
Lee Brackstone (White Rabbit Books, Publisher): “I was 11 years old when my dad and his mate, the local hippy Pete Bell, drove us across the Moors from Pickering to Newcastle City Hall to see Chicago Blues Legends, Buddy Guy and Junior Wells. The blues was my first love… and who knows, it may well end up being my last.
“The night is seared in my memory because somehow my dad managed to blag us backstage after the gig to meet them both, have a chat, and get signatures in the dressing room. Junior Wells is resplendent and remote in a Sharkskin suit; Buddy Guy all smiles and conviviality. I had little idea at the time how lucky I was. Magic, indeed”.
Matthew Burr (Black Delta Movement / Former Event Manager at Tower, Hull): “Radiohead played here in ’91 supporting Kingmaker – a band from Hull – Ocean Colour Scene have played here, Cast, Joe Strummer, Depeche Mode, yeah, and the old manager at the time, Rob Mays, he nearly had a fight with the lead singer of Depeche Mode because he threw a dessert on him and it went on his nice new shirt.
“My dad knows it better than I do, the bands that came through, but they’ve been a hell of a lot. The Style Council played here back in the day, as did Ronnie Radiation and The Tearjerkers. He still remembers it as the coldest gig he’s ever done. My dad spoke to him not long ago because we’ve got him on Facebook, and he said, ‘My son has started working at Tower now,’ and he said, ‘fucking hell, yeah, that’s the coldest gig I’ve ever done’. 40 years on, you know?”
Sophie Redmond (Independent Venue Week, Live Coordinator): “The first gig I went to on my own that I remember was in my home town of Cardiff at an always memorable venue which sadly closed down a few years ago. It was called Gwdihw, and they used to always showcase local Welsh talent. These moments were great, growing up and watching live music. This is also where I put on my first-ever show”.
Fran Doran (Red Rum Club): “Friendly Fires, O2 Academy in Liverpool. Amazing gig, my friend wore a terrible trilby trying to look, in his words, ‘indie’. It was the night before my maths GCSE exam. I’m a musician, not a mathematician, which says it all, really. Failed maths GCSE but pursuing a music career”.
Sam Heffer (Independent Venue Week, Digital Marketing Manager): “The first gig that sticks in my mind is the first time I went to Brudenell Social Club in Leeds, one of my most frequently visited venues during my years in the city. It was a spontaneous night to see a local band called Cattle in the Round, the then Games Room, with some people I had only recently met. It was and continues to be one of the loudest and most intense gigs I’ve ever been to – it blew us all away, which we really bonded over, and have all been best mates ever since. That’s the kind of experience that independent venues create all the time, and I love them all for that”.
Jeffrey Lewis: “[I saw] Flat Snake the Dog, a band that included some high school friends of mine, and The Electric Company, a band from my high school that I liked, but they were a year older and too cool for me to know personally. I don’t remember if there was another act on the bill. [At] The Underground, a long-gone tiny basement venue that I think was on the corner of Bleecker Street and Broadway in Manhattan. It was a bar, but we were all teenagers, including the bands, so there must have been some kind of all-ages policy; I don’t remember having to sneak in or anything like that.
“It was just exciting at the time to think that anybody in my school or in my age group could actually have a band of any kind; it all seemed very advanced and mature and professional, although in retrospect, it was probably none of these things! I guess it created a sense that those people on stage were way more mature and cool than us kids in the audience (all twenty of us); maybe it made me feel a bit of a divide like they were on the other side of a coolness-line that I was very far away from”.
Mark Davyd (CEO of Music Venue Trust): “Small venues have a personal human connection to them that you can’t replicate. You can go and see The 1975 at the O2 Arena, and if you’re the lucky one, maybe Matt Healy kisses you, and that’s your human connection. But you won’t form part of a 300-population gang that will be your social circle for the next 40 years, and that’s what I’ve done. I’m still friends with people, real strong friends, with people that I’ve known for 35, 40 years through live music. I’m married to somebody where the first date we went on was a live gig, and I met that person at a live gig. I have children, and their hobby is to go to gigs…
“…It’s everything. The elation you get from when you see your favourite band, playing your favourite song, and they’re standing five feet away from you… that’s irreplaceable”.
