Foals, Arlo Parks and More Remember Their Most Pivotal Small Venue Show

Fund Our Fun is a series celebrating the UK’s music and nightlife industries, and a rallying call to protect them. Read more here, and check out our interactive map of at-risk venues here, to find ways to help your local spaces.

It’s these warm little hovels across the country which help to stop the live music industry from becoming an amalgamation of legacy artists, TV contest winners and the latest substance-less vapour to be farted out by the major label machine. Pretty much every well-adored act began their career by playing the same small venue again, and again. These spots are the piss-stained, sticker-covered bedrocks of the music community.

But enough from me, the faceless voice from behind the laptop screen. Why not hear it from the artists themselves. Illustrating the depth of formative artistic experiences provided by small venues, here are 16 top-of-the-range acts from across UK music on their most pivotal show in a small venue.

Anton Newcombe from Brian Jonestown Massacre got in touch on Twitter that night. It was incredible, really. Is the Chameleon a classic venue? In the sense of an independent one, yes. In the sense of one where we learned our trade? Definitely. We did about five or six gigs there [prior to this show], and selling the venue out was an accumulation of all of that. I always view that place as Nottingham’s CBGB’s. It’s a place where stars are born [laughs].

We met each other at the right time. I’d been a backing vocalist and a teacher, and I was ready to start singing and creating my own music, so when I met Sam [Stubbings, Artist Manager] it was at the very beginning stages of me making my own music.

The small venues are the places where you’re going to be able to meet and rub shoulders with managers, booking agents, A&Rs – which you just can’t do at big venues. It’s very unlikely you can walk into a record label’s office, like, “Hi, I’m Nao, sign me [laughs].” These small beginning gigs are when people are out and about, when you can put a face to a name. That doesn’t get to happen so naturally anywhere else in this day and age.

It’s a really old venue, with period features, a little bar – it’s a hole in the wall. They give you a home cooked meal – they were making us Malaysian cuisine or something like that. In some places you get a trendy burger served on a cardboard plate or something, but this was homely. Everybody was glad about the whole business. It’s a real jewel in the middle of the north – it’s one of those places where the love is reciprocated. Lots of established artists will stick that on their route. It’s a place you savour. 

The atmosphere was wild. People were climbing the walls. It was so hot that when the show finished I had to throw my T-shirt away. One guy over-enthusiastically spilt an entire beer over one CD-J and blew it, so me and Twitch went back-to-back on one CD-J and a computer, which created an extra energy in the room.

I don’t play anywhere else in Edinburgh now – my last gig was my tenth time playing there. The energy [in that place] can’t be topped, and that comes down to the grassroots level of the people who run it. Nick, [the boss], couldn’t care more about the scene and community. I have a hundred incredible memories from that place. I’d recommend it to strangers in the street.

If I didn’t choose the Liberal Arts Club, I’d choose a Steez event in Lewisham, which is where I played my first ever gig. That was a place where every jazz musician you know about now met, collaborated and found their sound. It’s where Moses Boyd played his first solo show; Archy [King Krule] played there; Nubya [Garcia]; Yusuf Dayes; Sasha Keable; James Massiah used to do his poetry.

Anyone from the south east [London] scene was working out their sound there. It was a really really important time. This place is where I learned about music, what I wanted to sound like, what I liked and didn’t like. It was a space for community. There was art, music, live drawing – you would go every two weeks to see your friends and experiment with what you love.

My first project had just come out [at the time] – I was gassed. It was a new journey for me. Will Poulter was there. He was in The Revenant with Leonardo DiCaprio. He’s very well established, and he came to watch me in Birthdays in Dalston. That venue was that vibe – it gave a space for people to come together that wasn’t Instagram Lives, or sponsored by Nando’s, do you get what I mean? It was just pure love for underground music and it attracted loads of different people. With small venues shutting down, you’re not getting that – it’s just the VIPs in one corner. In Birthdays, there was no VIP, you get me? Everyone is there in the crowd together. Little things like this help you become a musician. 

When we started out, we were playing, Arab Strap were playing, The Yummy Fur – all those kind of bands would play or hang out there. It’s a central place for people to watch and listen to music. It holds about 150 people. Back then, we’d play a gig in Glasgow every six weeks or something. It’s such an important time, because you find out what’s good about your band and get a sense of identity. It also helps people find your music, either through word of mouth or booking shows through like-minded people.

These venues are the lifeblood of that. The average person who goes to two or three gigs a year in Academy venues might not be aware that, bubbling beneath every band who plays to 1,000 people, [there’s a venue like this]. Bands don’t just play to 1,000 people. They have a whole other existence before that point.

[Back then], there was a club night in Sheffield called Scuba. It was Saturday nights, it played tech house, and it was one of the only places to go. At the time, Sheffield on a Saturday night was either pop and R&B, tech house or bassline at Niche. That’s all people could listen to. Then Scuba set up a sub division called Tonic at the Fez Club, which was a bit more alternative.

One night, the main DJ [Chris Duckenfield] couldn’t play and they asked me to stand in. I’d played a few small parties, but not a club. I was like, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” but I was bricccccking it for weeks. Not only was I playing a proper club, but it was traditionally a tech house night, where people were expecting to hear 4x4, stripped back tech house. I remember being so anxious about the whole thing for weeks. I walked to the studio and thought, ‘If I can’t play the music I want at that night, I don’t know if I can do this DJ thing anymore.’

Anyway, it was one of the best nights of me life. The music clicked, the ravers clicked and it was one of those perfect set-ups in terms of things aligning. If that show hadn’t gone well, I don’t think I would have quit, but I would have definitely gone, ‘Fuuuuck this DJ thing.’ That little club in Sheffield, cap of 300, was pivotal to that moment. Places like that are the breeding ground for new music.

The day of the show there was an online uproar and it got back to the thief that everyone was looking for my guitar. And he actually sent it in a cab to the Sebright Arms, where I picked it up and walked straight on stage. It was in Drop D, the strap was too long – that’s how little time I had. But it’s a special memory for me. It was such a stressful day, but there was a release of getting the guitar back and playing the show. The crowd were amazing. It felt like I was at the start of my career. Also, do they still do those burgers upstairs? Because those were fantastic, if I recall. 

When we used to play there it was 150 capacity – 200, max. Those types of spaces are so important – there was something about being able to play a show there and it turning into a nightclub at 2AM. The venue was underground as well, which added a bunker-esque [vibe]. It was like entering a portal into a filmed idea of what your youth should be like. We played there in our bands before Foals – I remember playing there once, and I arrived to soundcheck in my school uniform – and with Foals too. There was one show shortly after the hype train picked up around the band, where we returned from SXSW, and the queue was around the block.

The venue had a low ceiling too, which is really important. The importance of a low ceiling shouldn’t be overstated for having a fucking great night. You want to be punching the roof and stuff.

We messaged him and was like, “What’s good, bro, what are you on and that?” He was doing the BRITs later with Rihanna, and they were like “link him at the after-party”. But we said we had a show, so we couldn’t go. He was like, “Where’s the show?” We sent him the address and whatever, then he must have sent his number and we gave that to our manager. After that, we didn’t know what was happening – nothing. All we know is we were on the stage, we turned around and Drake popped up behind us. It was crazy. It was a good feeling to see the reaction we brought to everyone. That’s a night that everyone in that building will remember.

Big Piig played there, Mac Wetha, Labaan, Bone Slim, Nayana, Nige. We decorated the venue with our logos and had our own screen printing machine where you could print your own merch. In the daytime we had a stage where we did a panel talk live-streamed through Red Bull Radio, and then in the evening it turned into a full event with a moshpit and everything. Having spaces like that in west is so rare these days. There used to be so many, and there isn’t really anything like that now.  

All those small venues were full of bands. They were grubby and unpretentious. You chucked your boxes and cases on the stage, set up, and then off you went. It was about a camaraderie – you bumped into bands at your gigs that you played with the other day. There was always a network. After that, it gets a little bit official. You're onstage or offstage, you go to dressing rooms, you don't talk to anybody, you sit bored in your dressing room rather than mixing with anybody. 

These were the places where you could just sort of take a risk, and people would look at you like you were mad, but it wasn't the end of the world. It was funny – you’re a little bit tipsy anyway, and it kind of didn't really matter. There wasn’t the pressure. [Playing those early shows] was a playground. 

I remember performing there and feeling at home on stage, learning how to command an audience, learning how to get the songs from my little bedroom and onto a stage and learning what to do in those silences. It cemented in me that I wasn’t just a musician, but performance is a big part of who I am. I remember walking out of there and thinking that music was something I wanted to pursue seriously. 

The venue is run by volunteers and they do work experience for people who want to become sound engineers and all of that. When you’re young, you’re not sure how you get on the bill for a gig, but Kevin, the guy who runs it, is very open and excited. There was something very organic about playing there – everyone who is part of the venue has a genuine love for music. 

@ryanbassil