Back to index of Nerve 24 - Summer 2014

Spaces for Sound Waves to Sparkle

By Chumki Banerjee

I'm a snob when it comes to spaces for sound. As with food, a purist, I like essence to shine, unimpeded, untainted; my obsession for well nurtured sound waves bordering on psychotic.

Forever seeking Holy Grail, sound waves of gold, quality of raw material from which they are woven; ethereal fabric of vaporous vacuum, rippled by rarefactions and compressions, rollercoaster ride of sinuous Sine and spiky Sawtooth transmuting space, translating silence to luminous soundscape; is very important to me.

Whether inner space of amplifying device, space between expectant ears, or freer outer space, I crave unadulterated delight, without taint of additive coloration; from first excitation of electron, first quiver of quaver, throbbing vibration pulsating to tidal wave, permeating pressure palpitating tympanic membranes, pervading sanctum of brain with purest pleasure; I like my sound straight.

However, also as with food, I am greedy, passionate about sharing titillating tantalisation and cannot bear a void; unsatisfied stomach and absence of sound, anathemas to my very soul. So, with stoic fortitude, I would rather have any space than no sound, and distorted mutated music, rather than disordered dissonance. Visiting Calcutta [Kolkata], even caterwauling blare, from tinny homemade speakers on every street corner, competing with hooting cabs, lowing cattle and incessant chatter, was blessed relief from chaotic cacophony, which permeated every space.

Liverpool has similar generosity when it comes to music, though thankfully not such a tinnitus inducing approach. Like Calcutta’s crush of humanity, Liverpool is very good at making use of every inch of its city, particularly adept at squeezing sound into surprising and unexpected spaces, finding innovatively inventive ways to take music to unsuspecting masses, without preconception or prejudice. Like indefatigable ivy, tendrils of tunes creep from every crevice, wildflower bloom on barren ground, Buddleia breeze, fragrant strains of melodious refrains sublimating malodour, suffusing tainted city air.

From tangled maze of regular events, to labyrinthine festivals, from Philharmonic prodigious virtuosity to ECHO Arena’s pretentious profanities, from workplace and shopping mall showcases, to improvised streetwise, Liverpool’s ether is infused with euphonious harmony, motes of mellifluous melody its molecular makeup, part of its genetic identity; music oozing from every brick, mortar and mortal pore; its heliocentric core.

Just how true this is became clear to me when I started reviewing local gigs and musical events, especially those like Sound City, which assimilates every nook and cranny into its city wide venue, even commandeering car parks, complete with fallen petroleum rainbows, and disused warehouses wired up to their determined will. At first I wondered about this appropriation of inadequately accoutred accommodation, but then I realised; while Liverpool is a messianically musical metropolis; there is no smooth linear progression when it comes to spaces for sound.

From venues, like the ‘small’ Grapes on Knight Street, that hold no more than compressed hardcore handful, struggling to steer clear of Latin infused jazz trumpet spit, to more spaciously capacious, capriciously crowded places, up to 400 or so capacity we are spoiled for choice. After which there is sharp discontinuity, apart from occasional 1000 to 2000 spike, such as the O2 Academy, Camp and Furnace, The Philharmonic Hall, Nation and Garlands, soaring on blow hole spume to whale’s belly, black hole anomaly, Arena; cavernous, echoing maul capable of consuming 35% of bodily population of Liverpool City Centre in one ravenous trawl, sieving out their souls.

For those like me, who enjoy their music intimately personal, close proximity brings greater potency; Blondie and The Cult at the O2 Academy let me literally touch the feet of musical heroine and heroes, feel their breath on my neck, bathe in spray of their sweat. But of course, there are those to whom size does matter, whose effusive emissions crave adulation of accentuated audiences, well endowed, ‘wham bam’ deities who do not deign to share bodily fluids in erotic arousal of musical foreplay. Let such cold fish swim in larger seas, while Liverpool makes ardent musical love wherever it may.

For such fervent musical gymnastics, every space, small or large, is exploited for its potential, squeezed into attics, falling off makeshift stages, spilling out on streets; from regular nights at pubs and cafes, such as The Ship and Mitre, The Baltic Fleet, The Pilgrim, origami Tardis of Tavern On The Green and weekly open mike night at Sound Food and Drink; to theatres such as The Unity with its regular acoustic events.

Then there are the clubby bars/pubs, such as Shipping Forecast with its bijou basement and illustrious DJ roster, the refurbished Attic taking up where 3345 left off and a tad more space, Hannah’s renowned jazz night featuring many of Liverpool’s feted musicians, Mojo’s rock nights, and Chameleon which like its name sake, keeps metamorphosing, opening and closing.

Of course The Cabin stands alone on its ever sticky floor, riding its basement wooden horse to skipping sound system, dispensing lethal shots and lollipops, surviving trends and time; damp and dripping icon to age old tradition.

Even shops get in on the act, with Top Shop and Harvey Nicks, Beauty Bazaar, regularly belting out tunes with guest DJs; though for free dance music, nothing matches progressively trancey beats of Superdry’s soundtrack.

Whilst London’s streets are paved with gold, ours are lined with an even more valuable commodity, soul: every day in this city is filled with musical sound; from the guy who incessantly batters discarded boxes and tins into rhythmic submission, to virtuoso electric violin sweetly weeping classics, and the man by one corner of Marks and Spencer, playing two pianos simultaneously. Until recently, air used to ring with assorted accordion hits, in incessant clamorous competition, resonate with swinging sway of trumpet trio, irresistible call to the little bearded dancing man, who always draws admiring crowd; the dapper, determinedly out of tune violinist, in suit several sizes too large, also seems to be missing from Bold Street; hopefully to return when weather takes a warmer turn.

But biggest, street blocking crowds are always drawn by two stalwarts of Church Street, the blind man with his wailing steel guitar and ever patient doe eyed dog and ‘Bolshy’ band, captains of youthful enterprise; a raggle taggle bunch of high spirited, musically gifted youngsters who brighten every day they are not in class, gathering awe struck acolytes come rain or shine, with their bare foot double bass gymnastics, saxophone and brass fuelled rhythmic, jazzy Ska and funky punk spirit; charmingly anarchic; an inspiring example of how, we in Liverpool make use of every space, for every sound.

Leaving aside the obvious, here are a few other, possibly less well known and certainly far from exhaustive, city centre spaces which bring me particular aural pleasure, either because of their acoustics, sound systems, musical treats, atmosphere or sheer charm:

The View Two

Not as feted as its neighbours; The (reconstituted) Cavern and revived Eric’s; The View Two is a favourite for Liverpool Acoustic and Probe Plus events, floating above Mathew Street’s emphatically intrusive excesses, camouflaged as art gallery, entry phone buzzer admits favoured to winding flights of polished wood, stunning artwork illuminating steep climb to eyrie of unexpected calm. An intimate space, reflective enough to enhance both unamplified and minimally interfered with sound; cocooned in its bubble, here, local acoustic and semi acoustic acts, like TJ and Murphy and Sonnenberg shine; decidedly a top favourite.

St Luke’s ‘Bombed Out’ Church

Urban Strawberry Lunch’s evocative roost, sky its surreal ceiling; here music swirls between ancient walls, soaring stratospheric spires, straight to heaven. My most magical musical moments were forged at St Luke’s; Golden Fable, heavenly vocal and iridescent electronica, phosphorescence floating, showering silver; Neil Campbell’s ‘Ghosts’, night time performance at eye of fierce storm, whistling wind wreathing its own eerie harmonies round operatic score, moonlight fragmented through raindrop prisms, dancing apparitions over sodden, yet mesmerised audience; of such moments are memories made.

The CapstoneTheatre

Part of Liverpool Hope University’s fractured campus, slightly off beaten track, in shadow of imposing Collegiate, watched over by glass angel, mounted on high, reflecting on exquisite Renaissance garden, ruminative hub linking buildings which radiate from its spokes.

Programmed by musical maestro, Neil Campbell, The Capstone attracts an extraordinary array of diverse, prodigious artistes, precociously virtuosic talent, both local and further flung. For class, as well as pure sound quality, this is the perfect place. Its tiered seating and hushed atmosphere might seem slightly serious; the Philharmonic’s After Eight concert series, in the shortly to be closed for refurbishment Rodewald Suite, is probably its casual equivalent; but there’s a twinkle in the Capstone’s eye, a spring in its step and a Steinway piano at its disposal; if musical exploration and immersion in sound is your thing, this is indubitably your space.

The Bluecoat

I greatly miss the original hidden garden, central courtyard at heart of this magnificent building, for its seductively wanton fecundity and its histories; this was where disfigured soldiers could shelter in arms of loved ones, away from prying eyes; this was the artlessly artful, rampant fairy tale glen, lovingly tended and hand planted with rare cuttings from stately gardens by an inspired lady, sadly passed away, just as her life’s work was repossessed; the fig tree sheltering snug against warm wall was grown from no more than a twig; this is the place where ashes were secretly scattered, discretely secreted in planters potted by local artists, whimsically adorned with ducks and rabbits; where people sat and mourned on faded wooden benches, holding whispered conversations with ghosts while eating their lunchtime sandwich.

Even though more formal plantings have now filled out, they still cannot recapture charm of the original, but walls of the raised beds offer more backside respite for bottoms, in the throng of summer musical events, in what remains an inspirational setting.

Indoors, rabbit warren continues to confuse but behind many doors music lurks, with unusual events scattered throughout; a particular, and some might say peculiar one sticks in my mind, a tour of the gallery spaces in company of singing duo, improvising weird and wonderful wordless sounds , inspired by the artworks, inadvertently gathering bemused tourists, wrapped up in its wake.

Except in the womb like theatre, sound systems often seem just as improvised and prone to malfunction, but frown of feedback flaws is dispelled by smile of charm.

The Kazimier

From sticky theatre floor to ruined Circle ceiling, revelling in shabby shreds of Vampiric Victorian chic, the Kazimier's usual dank atmosphere resolutely clings, accentuated by sour scent of wafting carbon dioxide gas, from incalcitrant, idiosyncratic dry ice machine. Similarly, its sound desk seems to have a ghost in the machine. However, all of this adds to its Gothic allure, especially when hosting darker, more intense bands like Owls* or Wolf People, emerging intermittently from red haze, as smoke refuses to dissipate, to howl at the moon.

The added attraction of this venue is its picturesque, enclosed garden, with its bell tower and hanging bar, almost oriental in feel, an enigmatic setting for musical events when weather permits.

St George’s small Concert Hall

Stunningly ornate, opulent confection, its natural acoustic; superimposed sound waves resonating in the round; rather too booming for excessive amplification but perfectly attuned to more contemplative affairs, such as Indian tabla and meditative sitar, at a mesmeric MILAP event, complete with curry stall in the entrance hall.

The Brink

This venue on Parr Street is, in more ways than one, phoenix from ashes, rebuilt from burnt out remains, staffed by recovering addicts, it illustrates resilience of human spirit, even on brink of destruction, and hope, which illuminates this pretty little room, flooded with light and humour, lime and blackcurrant velvet armchairs, alcoholic temptation replaced with fruity delectation, feel good embodied, brimming with supportive love and a refreshingly clear sound system.

Mello Mello

Mello Mello, on Slater Street, rises from Cream’s demise, which saw it forlorn and neglected for many years; shedding its synthetic skin, reverted to as nature intended, with grass roots food, beverages and music, gurn turned to smile which welcomes warmly, without prejudice. Its stage squashed at one end of narrow funnel is perhaps not ideally placed, sound waves superimposed to sonic boom; retiring to quieter rear requiring concerted toothpaste squeeze.

Heebie Jeebies Courtyard

Though Heebie Jeebies itself is perhaps not a favourite music venue, its courtyard stage, where Three Graces disgracefully cavort, in mural pastiche of Old Master, has been the scene for many a happily heaving crowd and abandoned dancing in the rain, in less than clement summers.

Leaf

Relocated from warehouse wastes of The Baltic Triangle to thronging Bold Street, Leaf has turned new leaf in its tea time story. Now occupying historic Art Deco building, which has variously been Bijou Opera House, a car dealer and in the 1890's, feted Yemen Cafe; downstairs is completely renovated, according to current trends, iron girders, distressed wood and artfully applied bric-a-brac. Here there is a small stage, where sounds battle with hubbub of cafe chatter.

While behind velvet curtain, shrouded entrance to upstairs, history unfolds, style comes full circle in a room used for irregular events. Still retaining remnants of airy grand salon, remembrance of Yemen Cafe, overlooked by backdrop of theatrical interior bowed windows, evoking indoor plaza; hinting at haughty and austere, upstairs at Leaf has a slightly school hall feel, with associated reverberating sound, but there is an undeniable charm.

Studio Two

Home to host of regular events, including monthly ParrJazz, like its well worn leather seats, Studio Two, part of renowned Parr Street Recording Studios, embraces like old friend, perfect place to rest weary feet and ears, last post of the night for many, invariably worn out and weary; in 'village' Liverpool this is where old acquaintances are bound to surface, if you sit still long enough. Slightly curtailed in size over the past year or so, it is not as welcoming as it was, yet still retains its plush sitting room feel, and a slightly better than average sound system, which doesn’t overwhelm.

The Zanzibar

An old school stalwart, show case for many of Liverpool’s home gown band events; sticky tables, peeling black walls, stocking snagging torn leatherette, breaking out in bulging pustules of foamy pus, impregnated with pervading dampness of mildew and mould, overhead, sagging camouflage netting shedding shower of dust, irradiated to glitter by UV lighting, stinking, paperless toilet cubicles effusively adorned with scribbled, saucy graffiti, hand numbingly cold trickle of hand wash water, fluorescent Alcopops, randomly stocked astringent wine from toy town bottles, towering speaker stacks ready to tumble, shaking bass subs booming, ruthlessly snatching and synchronising unwilling heart beat, state of the art, space craft sound deck, with wandering, whining mind of its own. In short, a down to earth delight, extremely low level lighting disguising lack of decorative skills, but requiring utmost care when circumlocuting in heels.

Camp and Furnace

Previously the A-Foundation, this is, in the main, a spectacular conversion of what was once barely lit, dingy, draughty unheated warehouse masquerading as art space; an encounter was its A-Foundation alter ego, found me shivering in draughty chills of its unheated hangar, scantily clad, holding a card aloft for three hours, as part of living art installation, commentating on communist control.

Thankfully, now warmed up by heat pumped through industrial pipe work, muted light filtered through weather worn, plastic corrugated tiles, in main ‘Furnace’ room; reborn as indoor facsimile of airy piazza complete with silver birch, olive trees and more than the odd caravan; suffuses the venue with surreal glow.

Converted to epitome of anti establishment, controlled by the people, for the people performance and eating space, radically radiating warmth, in form of ecologically ethical wood fired heat, Camp and Furnace has definitively dispelled previous Gulag grim, though its concrete floor is still ruinous to feet during long events, such as Liverpool’s Festival of Psychedelia.

With its statuesque proportions dwarfing mere mortals to Alice, after she had popped her pills, there is a tendency for sound unbounded to follow its own path upwards and out, or randomly bounce from wall to wall, but that is the nature of festivals, booming hubbub and poor sanitation.

Sadly, camp site toilets, retained from A-Foundation days, remain, so the latter inconvenience, is also replicated in Camp and Furnace’s conveniences; none the less an entirely enchanting space.

Brooklyn Mixer

Hidden away, in an old Georgian terrace on Seel Street, a fairly new venue, which I stumbled upon when covering Sound City 2013; intrigued by huge blue 78 painted on newly sanded wooden door, ushered in by owners setting up for their inauguration, small gem of a place, with whimsical artworks, quirky decor and minute courtyard. No more than a large sitting room and under stairs cellar, but rammed venue for exquisite Hip Hop, which seems to be capturing hearts at the moment.

Williamson Tunnels

Maze of subterranean tunnels, carved randomly under Liverpool streets at behest of eccentric philanthropist Williamson, as crazed job creation scheme, now tourist attraction and part time party venue. This strangely appointed yet strangely appropriate venue is where I corrected a blip in my musical education, catching up with phenomena that are Vic Godard and Subway Sect, many years after they first exploded onto the punk scene, still as vibrantly effervescent despite passing decades.

Frolicking in velvet darkness, barely illuminated by purple glow and fire fly flicker from single rotating, electric glitter ball, more railway arch/ visitors centre than dank underground cavern, none the less an atmospheric space for potential debauchery, especially of the electronic dance variety, as darkness casts its cloak, under disapproving eyes of distantly glowering cathedrals.

East Village Arts Club

I am not too sure about this one yet; sadly demised Masque metamorphosed to East Village Arts Club. I had woefully watched as white vans came and went, carting off dank innards of this Liverpool institution which fought hard but hit the dust, having briefly staggered back to its feet, in Chibuku butterfly dance, before fatally wounded, falling in final death throes.

Resurrected in New York Loft style, the ex Masque has dipped its brush in lake of faux Heritage eau de nil, which together with felled forest of stripped pine, seems to be increasingly ubiquitous design theme sweeping Liverpool clean, together with proliferating predilection for pulling pork.

Previously, navigation round the Masque was purely by feel; even after extended periods eyes couldn’t capture enough photons to pierce all pervading gloom; where a companion sitting inches away could only be identified by phone light, and trip to bar required a piece of string for guidance back. In enveloping darkness, bat like intuition was required to traverse its convolutions from room to room, and managing to emerge in the theatre, from the ‘DJ Room’, or vice versa, was always a welcome surprise.

So, to see it unmasked, illuminated by standard wattage light, is a shock. In the dark, health and safety bowed shameful head and exited, shuffling from building; but now exposed, the place is bewildering welter of snappy fire doors, manned by snappier bouncers, where responsible adults are required to decant from glass to plastic, in order to mount a few steps.

Thus far, the space has not impressed when it comes to sound, with acts consigned to a stage shoved in nicely painted cupboard corner. This area has always felt tucked away, even as the Masque’s ‘theatre’, but now with amphitheatre levelled and a ‘proper’ bar installed, it has lost its cocooned, down at heel frisson, where pinned screaming to disintegrating barriers, I once thrilled to likes of Roni Size. The magic seem to have dissipated as daylight dawns, within a building which has always wallowed in dangerous dusk, but maybe one to watch.

The Epstein

Recently brought back to life, the ex Neptune Theatre still somnambulates, wipes its rheumy eyes, ancient atmosphere musty, heavy with breath of manifestations, leaking from other dimensions, whisperings of nebulous apparitions rippling its air. Echoes of many famous presences palpably linger, wraiths of memory entwined in everlasting dance.

Over one hundred years of tangled histories, layer upon layer of emotions, impart a surreal, spine tingling aura to The Epstein, which when I visited, for a John Smith concert, was entirely appropriate to luminous landscapes of the mind, about to be woven from its very air.

Preened for pleasure in dusky heritage green, piped with cornicing, bleached bone white, the theatre is subtly yet beautifully renovated, illuminated by spectral lamps, enticing visitations. Though such theatricality suited John Smith’s storytelling style, I can imagine other musical acts might not fare so well, but there are some for which this would be the perfect auditorium, so worth keeping an eye on the line ups.

Other Spaces for Acoustic Events

Having regaled or bored you with a selection of my favourite spaces for music, I am well aware of my many omissions, especially when it comes to acoustic music, so should you wish to seek out more, a good place to start is Liverpool Acoustic’s website: liverpoolacoustic.co.uk

Here’s to loving our Liverpool musical spaces. Happy listening.

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