Metal on Merseyside: Music Scenes, Community and Locality (Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music) 3030776808, 9783030776800

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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN THE HISTORY OF SUBCULTURES AND POPULAR MUSIC

Nedim Hassan

PALGRAVE STU HISTORY O DIES IN THE F SUBCULT URES AND POPU LAR MUSIC

Metal on Merseys ide

Music S cenes, C omm

unity an

d Localit

y

Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music

Series Editors Keith Gildart University of Wolverhampton Wolverhampton, UK Anna Gough-Yates University of Roehampton London, UK Sian Lincoln Liverpool John Moores University Liverpool, UK Bill Osgerby London Metropolitan University London, UK Lucy Robinson University of Sussex Brighton, UK John Street University of East Anglia Norwich, UK Peter Webb University of the West of England Bristol, UK Matthew Worley University of Reading Reading, UK

From 1940s zoot-suiters and hepcats through 1950s rock ‘n’ rollers, beatniks and Teddy boys; 1960s surfers, rude boys, mods, hippies and bikers; 1970s skinheads, soul boys, rastas, glam rockers, funksters and punks; on to the heavy metal, hip-hop, casual, goth, rave and clubber styles of the 1980s, 90s, noughties and beyond, distinctive blends of fashion and music have become a defining feature of the cultural landscape. The Subcultures Network series is international in scope and designed to explore the social and political implications of subcultural forms. Youth and subcultures will be located in their historical, socio-economic and cultural context; the motivations and meanings applied to the aesthetics, actions and manifestations of youth and subculture will be assessed. The objective is to facilitate a genuinely cross-disciplinary and transnational outlet for a burgeoning area of academic study. More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14579

Nedim Hassan

Metal on Merseyside Music Scenes, Community and Locality

Nedim Hassan Liverpool John Moores University Liverpool, UK

ISSN 2730-9517     ISSN 2730-9525 (electronic) Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music ISBN 978-3-030-77680-0    ISBN 978-3-030-77681-7 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-77681-7 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: getty images/Simone Bergamaschi/EyeEm This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

To my mam and dad

Foreword

In order to truly understand something, you have to immerse yourself in it. This is never more true than when applied to a musical movement, a genre, and its scene. Often misunderstood and much maligned, metal to the uninitiated can seem a closed world with its own dress code, language, and eccentricities. I am the host of a podcast about metal and heavy music, The Spoken Metal Show, devoted to supporting Merseyside metal. This remit has allowed me to speak on behalf of, compere and work with many artists, promoters, and venues within the scene. Unsupported, underfunded, and very much underappreciated, the Merseyside metal scene requires awareness of its existence and importance both artistically and sociologically. There is no better guide to this scene than Nedim Hassan, foremost because he has a deep appreciation for rock and metal fostered from a life with it as a consistent accompanying soundtrack, but also because of his devotion to gaining an insider’s perspective on that scene. Being able to absorb the Merseyside metal and rock scene in a “Hunter and the Hell’s Angels” sense of total immersion, attending shows at all levels, underground and mainstream, and engaging with figures within to understand the minutiae and subtleties in a style of music mistakenly painted with broad strokes is the key part of this work. To then dissect it from a critical point of view is where this book shows its true worth, applying insights and direction to where the scene may go vii

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and how to help local artists, promoters, and fans discover, curate, and ultimately support a scene rich in creativity, originality, and longevity. Host of The Spoken Metal Show Mark Cooper

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, this project would have never been completed if it were not for the love and support of my family. Clare and Alex, you have been incredibly patient and a constant source of strength during the last few years, thank you. My parents have always been an inspiration to me, and this book is dedicated to them. Thanks must also go to Ayshea (and the kids), Adam and Linda for being there for me. This book would not have been written without the support and help of so many people associated with Merseyside rock and metal scenes. I am very grateful to all those who kindly gave up their time to talk to me. These include, in no particular order, Joe Mortimer; Andy Hughes; Sal Turner; Tom Ghannad; Kabir D’Silva; Chris Furlong, Ste Moses and the guys in Exhumation; Andrew Carr; Jay Lashbrooke; Charlie and Roger McLean; Mike Hollows; Gordon Logan and David Cooke from Robespierre; Jamie Hughes, Alistair Blackhall, Thomas Simm and the guys in Deified; Jeff Walker and Bill Steer from Carcass; Jon Davis and Chris Fielding from Conan; Malcolm Dome; Mike Brocken; Paul Evangelista; Rick Owen and the guys in Video Nasties; Paul Armitstead from Ninkharsag; and Daniel Moran from Reaper UK. Thanks must also go to Mark Cooper from the Spoken Metal Show for his interest in and support for this project. I am also very grateful to Peter Guy and the editorial team at Getintothis for providing me with consistent opportunities to attend events and write about Merseyside rock and metal. Several colleagues and friends provided invaluable feedback on my writing for this book. I would like to thank Holly Tessler, Mike Brocken, Mike ix

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Jones, Niall Scott, Siân Lincoln and Nelson Varas-Díaz for their thoughtful comments, support and advice. Over the years I have been fortunate to encounter inspirational colleagues who have been guides and mentors. Without them I would not have been able to carry out this project. The late Nickianne Moody believed in this research from day one, and I wish she were here to see it come to fruition. Likewise, Gillian Howie gave me the confidence to believe in my abilities as an academic. I am also indebted to Sara Cohen, Marion Leonard, Rob Strachan, Haekyung Um and everyone at the Institute of Popular Music at the University of Liverpool. Finally, I would like to thank my colleagues at Liverpool John Moores University (LJMU), especially my fellow team members in Media, Culture, Communication. Steve Spittle, Jo Knowles, Rachel Broady, Anthony Killick, Clare Horrocks and Bee Hughes have been tremendously supportive, and I salute you all. Parts of this research were funded by LJMU Faculty of Arts QR funding, and this aided my ability to complete the project. I also should not forget my students at LJMU, who have had to put up with me integrating examples from this research at every available opportunity. I’ll try not to play too much Carcass during future induction week lectures.

Contents

1 Introduction: In the Shadow of Beat City? Metal on Merseyside  1 Metal in Liverpool   5 Liverpool in Metal  12 Approaching Metal on Merseyside: Reflections on Methodology  15 References  20 2 From Troggs to Headbangers: The Historical Development of Metal on Merseyside 23 Early Years: 1969–1976  27 Liverpool and the Emergence of Heavy Rock: A Minority Interest?  27 Heavy Rock and Subcultural Tensions  28 O’Connor’s Tavern  33 The Liverpool Stadium  34 The Moonstone and Liverpool’s Pub Rock Scene  36 Stable Foundations for a Live Heavy Rock and Metal Scene: 1977–Early 2000s  38 The Liverpool Empire  38 The Liverpool Royal Court  39 From the Moonstone to Milo’s  40 Sloanes/the Krazyhouse  41 The Swan, Wilsons and the Importance of Wood Street  42 The Gallery/Stairways  44 xi

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Planet X  45 Shops and Spaces for “Hanging Out”  47 Conclusion: Community, Stability and the Nurturing of Scenes  48 References  50 3 Shaken Foundations? Venues and a Changing Live Music Scene 55 An Ecological Perspective on Live Music  56 Metal on Merseyside in the Post-millennium Era: A Shifting Scene  58 Whiplash Promotions 2001–2013  60 The Post-Whiplash Era and the Rise of New DIY Venues  65 The Loss of Venues  81 Regeneration and Gentrification  83 The COVID-19 Pandemic and Its Impact on Live Music Venues  89 Placing Changes into a Broader Context: Changing Economics of Live Music and the Success of Manchester’s Arenas  90 The Limits of Ecology  93 References  96 4 “Support your Scene”: Metal Scenes, Solidarity and the Threat of Decline101 Subcultures and Scenes 103 Scene Beginnings: Beyond the Public 110 The Extreme Metal Scene in Liverpool: Community, Inclusivity and Resilience 112 A Lack of Unity? Divisions and Separate Metal Scenes 115 Liverpool’s Rock Club Scene, Decline and the Loss of Identity 119 Not Feeling Part of a Liverpool Scene: The Limits of a Local Emphasis 124 Conclusion 128 References 130 5 Promoting Metal on Merseyside135 Passionate Work: Doing What You Love? 138 Promotion Work and Audiences 141 Promotion Work and Artists: Backstage at Maguire’s Pizza Bar 146 “They wanted a litre of pig’s blood”: Managing the Personal Risks  150

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“Go and get a proper job”: Coping with Financial Losses and Justifying the Risks 154 Metal Music Promotion and Passionate Work 160 References 162 6 Mediating Metal on Merseyside165 The Role of the Music Press and the Continued Importance of Metal Magazines 169 Promoters and Print Media 172 “A Death Metal T-Shirt?” Have a Flyer 173 Flyers as Paratexts 176 “It’s Not a Post Unless My Nan Posted It”: Facebook and the Sharing of Events 179 Doing It Ourselves? Social Media Use, Entrepreneurship and Co-creative Labour 182 Cultures of Collaboration and the Co-curation of Impression Management 192 Conclusion 193 References 195 7 Conclusion: Standing in the Shadows of Beat City199 References 202 Index203

List of Figures

Fig. 1.1

Carcass in 2018. (Reproduced with the kind permission of Nuclear Blast Records, photo credit: Gene Smirnov) 9 Fig. 2.1 Major venues for hard rock and heavy metal during the 1980s and 1990s (map image by Milos Simpraga) 49 Fig. 3.1 Key music venues that have hosted rock and metal events in Liverpool city centre since 2000. Venue names shaded white are either closed or no longer hosting live metal music. (Map image by Milos Simpraga) 59 Fig. 3.2 Neuroma at Maguire’s Pizza Bar in 2018. (Photo credit: Chris Everett, website and Instagram @chrisevophoto) 68 Fig. 3.3 Iron Witch performing in Sound Basement in 2018. (Photo credit: Chris Everett, website and Instagram @chrisevophoto) 71 Fig. 3.4 Video Nasties performing in Drop the Dumbulls. (Photo credit: Lu Lowe) 73 Fig. 3.5 Exterior of Tank Bar, St Helens in 2018. (Photo: Nedim Hassan) 76 Fig. 3.6 Deified at Tank Bar, St Helens in 2018. (Photo: Nedim Hassan) 77 Fig. 6.1 Flyer for Neuroma’s final Liverpool gig in 2018. (Image courtesy of Mutilated Poster Designs) 177 Fig. 6.2 Video Nasties promotional photo. (Photo credit: Lu Lowe) 185 Fig. 6.3 Video Nasties artwork for debut single “Transvoltum”. (Photo credit: Lu Lowe, artwork by Rick Owen) 187

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CHAPTER 1

Introduction: In the Shadow of Beat City? Metal on Merseyside

In December 2015 it was announced that Liverpool, a city in the north of England, was awarded the status of UNESCO City of Music. The announcement was the culmination of work that had started prior to Liverpool’s year as European Capital of Culture in 2008. Notions of musical heritage were central to the re-branding of Liverpool as a city of culture at this time. Various writers have illustrated how this re-branding portrayed Liverpool as a particular kind of music city (Krüger 2013; Lashua et al. 2009; Lashua 2011; Brocken 2010). For instance, Lashua et  al. (2009) note that just as imagery of Liverpool Pier Head and its iconic “Three Graces” (the Liver Building, the Cunard Building and the Port of Liverpool Building) became a central signifier of “Liverpoolness”, 2008 served to entrench a similar kind of “three graces” in “Liverpool’s popular music landscapes and heritages” (Lashua et al. 2009, 128). The central focus was, unsurprisingly, on the Cavern Club from the Merseybeat era, which Spencer Leigh has dubbed the “most famous club in the world” due to its role in helping to foster the phenomenal success of the Beatles and “the Merseybeat explosion” in the 1960s (Leigh 2008, 9). In addition, Eric’s, a club synonymous with 1970s’ and 1980s’ punk and post-­ punk scenes, and Cream, a club that became internationally associated with British dance music in the 1990s, all became “landmarks” that came to “represent significant moments in Liverpool’s musical heritage” (Lashua et al. 2009, 128). © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 N. Hassan, Metal on Merseyside, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-77681-7_1

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During 2008 there were a host of events that showcased the diversity of music in Liverpool, illustrating the branding of Liverpool as The World in One City. However, the staging of global “mega-events” during the Capital of Culture year, such as the opening concert and the Paul McCartney/Liverpool Sound concert, reinforced the notion that the city’s musical heritage revolved around these “three graces”, particularly the Beatles and Merseybeat (Krüger 2013, 150). Thus, amidst the optimism and the attempts to re-brand the area in this period, in relation to rock music there was a striking contradiction. The promotion of Liverpool’s new cultural identity in the build up to 2008 paradoxically involved the privileging of a familiar rock music heritage for Liverpool and Merseyside.1 Once again it was primarily the Beatles and long-established “popular music scenes and clubs that had commercial visibility and international prestige and reputation” that were showcased in high-profile events (Cohen 2013, 587). Liverpool’s year as Capital of Culture reinforced familiar narratives about the area’s rock music culture and heritage, with the Beatles’ history especially constituting a powerful “dominant discourse” (Brocken 2010, 6). Lashua et al. argue that “a select set of stories dominate histories of Liverpool’s popular music. These dominant stories create a kind of ‘master narrative’ or ‘master map’ of popular music heritage in the city” (2009, 128). Such narratives have effectively excluded or marginalized other histories of music in Liverpool. For instance, Lashua et  al. (2009) and Brocken (2010) identify the 1970s pub rock scene as a “hidden history— hidden between Liverpool’s Merseybeat and post-punk scenes” (Lashua et al. 2009, 133). This book examines another largely hidden Liverpool music scene—the hard rock and metal scene that has its roots in the late 1960s. This is a scene that has thus far appeared largely invisible in historical and academic writing on the city’s music. Indeed, in his historical account journalist Paul 1  Merseyside is the name given to the Metropolitan county that comprises the areas of Liverpool, Wirral, Knowsley, Sefton and St Helens (Thorp 2020, para 11). Although the “Liverpool City Region” is a phrase that has been more recently used to denote “an economic and political conurbation that came into being in 2014, with the creation of a new combined authority”, which also included the Halton area, this book will maintain references to Merseyside (Thorp 2020, para 6). This is because this is a term that still has more familiarity for people within the areas that my research has focused on. Indeed, Liverpool metal band, The Ominous, even had a series of showcase gigs labelled under the banner of Metal on Merseyside during 2017 and 2018.

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Du Noyer goes as far as to claim that “Liverpool has never produced a heavy metal band of any consequence” (2004, 191). In 2007 when Du Noyer repeated this claim in a new edition of his book to coincide with Liverpool’s imminent year as European Capital of Culture, Carcass, the influential British metal band who are considered one of the pioneers of the grindcore and death metal sub-genres were announcing their reformation after a ten-year absence. The band would go on to play major international metal music festivals and released their critically acclaimed comeback album, Surgical Steel, in 2013. The fact that various members of Carcass had grown up in Merseyside and started life playing gigs in venues like Planet X in Liverpool city centre seemed to be entirely lost on Du Noyer. Likewise, he did not appear to follow the career of Anathema, a band who also started out playing in Planet X in the early 1990s and were quickly signed to Peaceville records, where their acclaimed early albums helped to develop the death-doom and gothic doom metal sub-genres. One of the aims of this book, therefore, is to reveal partially hidden histories of hard rock and heavy metal music in Liverpool and Merseyside. Consulting oral testimonies from artists, fans and promoters, together with journalistic and academic accounts, the pages that follow will shed light on places and people hitherto marginal or absent from many local music history narratives. However, the main motivation behind this book is not to somehow “rescue” metal and hard rock from its relative exclusion within existing historiography of popular music in Liverpool. Nor is the research for this book an attempt to fashion a place for hard rock and metal within Liverpool’s “authorized” music heritage, which would be a process akin to writing graffiti onto a static “wall of fame” (Roberts and Cohen 2014). On the contrary, by moving beyond the “usual suspects” of Liverpool’s music histories, the project seeks to examine the continuing implications of metal’s hidden histories for different people involved with its music and its cultures (Roberts and Cohen 2014, 256). Consequently, the book recognizes in accordance with Roberts and Cohen’s critical approach to popular music heritage that “music heritage is less about the past than on the ways in which the past informs what is happening now” (2014, 257). Therefore, interviews with Merseyside’s metal musicians, promoters, fans and other scene members, in which they were asked to share their individual and collective memories of their involvement with metal scenes past and present, are central to the account that follows. These oral and written testimonies partly reveal the legacy of

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hard rock and metal’s historical marginalization within the region. Some who are actively engaged with producing metal music culture within Merseyside do so with an awareness that the individuals and sites associated with their “scene” (a term that we will see can have multiple meanings) have been largely omitted from authorized heritage narratives, whether these are “official” declarations of sites or individuals worth commemorating by organizations like the National Trust, or the “unofficial” declarations of music journalists, historians and academics (Roberts and Cohen 2014). Yet metal and hard rock’s relatively marginal status within the city of Liverpool and the Merseyside region is down to far more than absences within heritage narratives. As will be illustrated, successive scenes have been shaped by a range of factors including an increasingly shifting circuit for live rock music, the impact of regeneration and gentrification and the subsequent loss of key scenic infrastructure such as live music venues, record shops and other places where fans and artists can congregate. Struggles to contend with the effects of redevelopment are not, of course, confined to those involved with hard rock and metal. “Culture-led” urban regeneration within different parts of Liverpool has ironically often led to the displacement (or threat of displacement) of specific music and creative businesses (Cohen 2007; Killick 2019). In addition, on both a national and international level, many popular music scenes within cities and regions have had to relocate to more peripheral locations due to city centre redevelopment and gentrification (Riches and Lashua 2014; Straw 2015). Scenes, then, as Will Straw (2015) suggests, can be at the forefront of struggles to arrest urban and cultural change. They may become celebrated for, as Straw puts it: “their decelerative properties, for their role as repositories of practices, meanings and feelings threatened by the processes of gentrification and commodification” (2015, 482). However, the potential for certain scenes to become meaningful is related to wider forces. The research for this book was conducted between the years 2015 and 2021. The post-2008 global economic recession had already severely affected Liverpool, with funding for some of the most seriously deprived areas of the city being removed (Meegan et al. 2014). Also, according to the Centre for Cities Outlook Report (2015), by 2015 the city continued to have some of the highest levels of unemployment in the UK. Bearing in mind this stark socio-economic context, the continued ability of Liverpool to generate music-led economic growth in this period was a considerable achievement. As Culture Liverpool’s 2018 report

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indicated, music became “increasingly economically important” to the city, with an estimated turnover of £100.5 million for its core music economy at that time (BOP Consulting 2018, 16). Such success, though, provides a slightly misleading picture. As will be argued, it belies the way that within a city like Liverpool some music scenes, such as those connected with metal, are not as equal as others. Partly influenced by ecological perspectives on the study of live music industry, this book will reveal how to some extent changes to the built environment in parts of Liverpool and Merseyside have restricted opportunities for engagement with heavy rock and metal music scenes. Scenes, therefore, as Keith Kahn-Harris asserted in his early work on extreme metal can limit or open “possibilities to follow particular trajectories” (Harris 2000, 18). Nonetheless, as he goes on to write: “These possibilities are not simply drawn on by individuals or groups, but are continually being reformulated, negotiated and contested” (Harris 2000, 18). This book focuses on individuals and groups based in the Merseyside area who are actively involved with hard rock and metal music scenes in various ways. It reveals how their understandings of scenes were contested, shifting and connected with translocal and global relationships (many of which were increasingly virtual) (Bennett and Peterson 2004). Yet, it will also make clear that, for many, notions of locality mattered. As will be revealed, many of the people interviewed for this book were invested in and passionate about the idea of sustaining a local scene, even if in some cases they bemoaned its deterioration.

Metal in Liverpool Prior to an examination of peoples’ perceptions of Merseyside metal and hard rock scenes (both past and present), it is useful at this point to briefly discuss the ways that participants in such scenes narrated the overall relationship between metal music and the city of Liverpool. This discussion will serve to reveal how understandings of this relationship were informed by Liverpool’s status as a “city of music”, a city that as has already been suggested has been overdetermined by historical and heritage-related grand narratives that have privileged other genres, locations and moments. In a similar way to Andy Bennett’s research on the music scene in Canterbury, UK, the city of Liverpool constituted a kind of “urban mythscape” for research participants (2002, 89). However, while to an extent mediated information about the city of Liverpool was “recontextualized

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[…] into new ways of thinking about and imagining places”, this was not usually to celebrate the distinctiveness of a decontextualized “Liverpool sound” as such (Bennett 2002, 89). Rather, because their understandings were embedded in their lived experiences of dwelling in the city and observing changes to the “popular musicscape”, Liverpool was sometimes constructed in a far more critical manner (Lashua 2011, 148). Firstly, there was acknowledgement that the Beatles constituted a dominant feature of heritage narratives which in turn fed into discussions about metal music in the city. For instance, extreme metal fan Andrew Carr asserted in an interview that: I suppose The Beatles would be very influential [on the metal scene], not in a direct musical sense but in the way that they influenced Liverpool’s culture in general. Liverpool is one of those cities which always has an us against the world attitude. It’s always had the “we’re proud of our sons and daughters” type thing. As much as metal heads tend to try and see ourselves as different from the wider society and stuff like that, it rubs off on you. My dad loves The Beatles, my mum loves The Beatles and … they were from Liverpool and they made it. They were from a shit hole of a city and they made it big and they changed music forever. That sort of attitude of being proud of those people, stick behind them and have their back because they’re one of us, they came from the local area. That sort of attitude seeped through. (Carr 2016)

In this instance, although they are celebrated, the Beatles are constructed as significant because they overcame conditions in a city that was characterized by deprivation (a “shit hole”) to become icons that people in Liverpool could be proud of. In other circumstances, the Beatles were considered as something that artists from the hard rock and metal scene wanted to distinguish themselves from. Jay Lashbrooke, a bassist who played with several hard rock bands, discussed how he and his bandmates felt the need to “break away from the metaphorical shackles that the Beatles were to us” (Lashbrooke 2015). This did not mean that he did not feel influenced by existing notions of Liverpool’s music heritage, as he explained: In Crash rehearsal studios, there’s a plaque against the wall and it’s showcasing every single band that have ever practiced there, as in every band that made it. You’ve got the likes of, off the top of my head, Atomic Kitten, Lou Reed practiced there, and using the rehearsal space from before, I think that

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was a way that really did give that impression that we were, perhaps, contributing to what had previously been, whilst, at the same time, trying to break away from that […] Except the Beatles, I think, the Beatles were always the kind of, “No, no, we’re not part of that. But Echo and the Bunnymen rehearsed here”. (Lashbrooke 2015)

Thus, when it came to the Beatles, Jay was unequivocal, he did not want to be associated with them. This was perhaps partly because of their enormous success and global significance that was perhaps perceived as incomparable, but Jay also conveyed a sense that their substantial presence in historical representations of Liverpool’s music had almost become a “metanarrative” that rock artists did not want to engage with (Brocken 2010, 9). Other artists were less troubled by the Beatles, at least in the sense that they did not feel the need to express their desire to move away from them. However, the powerful hierarchical status of the group and the notion that they would always be emblematic of Liverpool’s overarching music scene was still affirmed. For instance, death metal musician and promoter, Joe Mortimer stated that: “when we have been interviewed and reviewed and stuff … everybody always brings up the Beatles. It always happens and that is obviously what Liverpool will probably always be famous for” (Mortimer 2015). The inevitability of the Beatles’ continued dominance within Liverpool’s music heritage was clearly articulated in this type of testimony. Yet, interestingly, several interviewees sought to place Liverpool metal bands within established canons. For instance, Joe went on to say that: “If you spoke to any average Joe on the street, bands from Liverpool are the Beatles, Gerry and the Pacemakers—bands who have reached a pinnacle, kind of bands like Echo and the Bunnymen and stuff like that. You can’t get away from stuff like that, but then as you go down the list, you will eventually reach the likes of Anathema and Carcass and you start digging up some other names and stuff” (Mortimer 2015). Others portrayed Liverpool as having a rich extreme metal heritage and went as far as asserting that one of the city’s characteristic sounds was certain sub-genres of metal. Andy Hughes, who owns metal music promotions company, Deathwave Entertainment, described this most fully when discussing the differences between the Liverpool and Manchester metal scenes:

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The bands from Liverpool and the bands from Manchester, historically Liverpool is heavier. Liverpool is heavier in what it wants from bands, it’s heavier in what’s expected. If you’re a death metal band in Liverpool, you pretty much automatically do quite well […] You look at the history of Liverpool in the ‘80s. We had all those problems, where Margaret Thatcher has been recorded as actually saying, I think it was released last year or something, she’d love to wipe Liverpool off the map if she could. She was that harsh. […] Then Napalm Death, even though they’re from Birmingham, they’ve got links to Liverpool. Carcass, probably our biggest musical export for metal, when did they start? Was it 84? I think the first album was 88 and then 89, they started in either 84 or 86 […] Anathema being part of … who are essentially responsible for a lot of the doom/death in the world, which there are doom/death bands all over the world now. Carcass helped found grindcore and, arguably more, death metal. So, there’s three genres there [that] might not exist […] without the influence of Liverpool music. I personally think a lot of that stems from the plight and the hardship of the late ‘80s in this city. (Hughes 2017)

The impact of Liverpool’s adverse socio-economic conditions in the 1980s, which were partly exacerbated by the Thatcher Government’s policy of managed decline, have become a central aspect of how Andy understands the historical significance of the city’s metal bands. For him, contrary to the historical account of Du Noyer (2004) mentioned earlier, metal is not only part of Liverpool’s music history, it is characteristic of the city. Extreme metal, in particular, is constructed as strongly tied to Liverpool. Such discourse, therefore, sets out an alternative heritage narrative for Liverpool’s music. It reveals that, beyond the authorized versions of the city’s music history, there are competing ideas about the canons of artists that are worth celebrating and remembering. However, while such narratives are interesting, they should not be taken at face value. Firstly, we need to be careful when isolating musical styles to specific regions because music scenes have porous boundaries and are difficult to confine to local areas (Bennett and Peterson 2004). Secondly as Cope points out in his work on pioneering British heavy metal band Black Sabbath and their relationship to the UK city of Birmingham, it is difficult to empirically “substantiate the relationship between music and environment” (Cope 2010, 27). Thus, although extreme metal bands like Carcass (see Fig. 1.1) and Anathema emerged from the Merseyside area when it was enduring a period of socio-economic decline, specifying the extent to which this had

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Fig. 1.1  Carcass in 2018. (Reproduced with the kind permission of Nuclear Blast Records, photo credit: Gene Smirnov)

any bearing on the music is a challenging task. Indeed, responding to the notion that Liverpool was considered by some to have an extreme metal heritage because of bands like Carcass, Jeff Walker the bassist and vocalist for the band stated that: “it’s that Scouse pride, isn’t it? We never considered ourselves a local band, but I am happy if I get lumped in with bands from Liverpool, I don’t have a problem with that even though I wasn’t born here. I feel that we give the city something to be happy about in the metal scene […] [guitarist and vocalist] Bill [Steer] was born in the North East anyway and [original drummer] Ken [Owen] was born in Billinge which is near Wigan” (Walker 2018). Walker himself grew up in St Helens, a town that has its roots in Lancashire. Even though it has been part of the county of Merseyside since 1974, people in St Helens often downplay cultural connections to Liverpool (Boland 2010, 9). Whereas people from parts of Liverpool are identified (and often self-identify) as “Scousers” due to their distinctive accent, this has not historically been the case for people from St Helens (Boland 2010, 6). Instead, locals from Liverpool tend to refer to people

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from St Helens as “woolybacks” to indicate the fact that they often do not sound Scouse but have more Lancastrian or Mancunian vocal inflections (Boland 2010, 9). Furthermore, many people from St Helens actively resist being associated with Liverpool and resent being called Scousers. This is evident to anyone who has ever been to a rugby league “derby” match between St Helens and their fierce local neighbours Wigan. Wigan fans use the term “Scousers” to mock and irritate St Helens fans. Such nuances of local identity and difference, then, make the idea of Carcass being part of a Liverpool music heritage problematic. Reflecting upon the relationship between song-writing and place, Walker also downplayed the notion that his writing was influenced by his surroundings: I don’t think that they have at all. […] We’re not The Kinks, name dropping landmarks every two minutes or The Beatles. We were a product of our environment but not in the way that we’re name dropping. It’s hard to explain. We’re products of our upbringing but not necessarily the towns we’re from. It’s hard to explain. I mean I guess St Helens was my little world when I was a kid and it was the world. I mean it seemed like a massive place. You go there now [and] it’s like a frigging ghost town. The whole industry has gone, it’s derelict. But I guess, in a way, I suppose it’s that romantic idea that we maybe wanted to break out from there. We didn’t really realise it. (Walker 2018)

Such testimony, therefore, serves as a reminder that drawing comparisons between artists’ music or songs and their places of “origin” can be a flawed exercise from a historical or empirical perspective. Nonetheless, these challenges do not invalidate the narratives from Liverpool scene members mentioned above. As Cohen found with her interviews with rock musicians during the 1980s and 1990s, peoples’ narratives about the relationship between a city and its “sound” do not merely operate at the level of individual discourse. People who feel part of a scene and dwell within a particular locality are: “embedded in webs of kinship and collective memory, located within a cognitive map defined by factors such as ethnicity and religion, within a city marginalized and ostracised in terms of power and resources on a national level” (Cohen 1994, 133). Although she was writing in 1994, the point that music and peoples’ understanding of it are inflected by these factors remains an important one. The collective memory of difficult periods in the city’s history that affected many families

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still resonates with many individuals when they are re-contextualizing their experiences in the present. Significantly, Andy Hughes’ narration of Liverpool’s historical “heaviness” and extreme metal “sound” presaged a critical discussion of a contemporary theme that strongly emerged during the research for this book. Namely, the closure, demolition or shifting of key live music venues in the city. Like his earlier assertions about the connections between Liverpool and metal music, his discourse in relation to this subject was grounded in his understanding and experiences of the material conditions within the locality. Commenting on the loss of smaller venues that had been prominent in the hosting of metal gigs, Andy remarked: “What’s left of our venues is slowly being handed over to larger corporate entities who, a bit like Bumper [a student venue that hosted metal gigs but has since been taken over and re-branded], it’s just a transaction, there’s no interest”. Andy saw this situation as something completely at odds with the way in which Liverpool has been marketed as a “city of music”, as he put it: “if you go on the Liverpool tourism website, this, that and the other, you find all sorts of stuff about the Beatles there. Liverpool has got a reputation … Liverpool markets itself, it has a reputation as the city of music but does absolutely fuck all to support that stance, other than advertising” (Hughes 2017). Andy’s discussion then continued into a more specific critique of regeneration strategies that moved beyond a consideration of metal venues: “The authorities are dismantling our entertainment industry and potentially dismantling part of our own heritage without even realising. Cream is definitely part of Liverpool’s musical heritage. It’s one of the largest dance promotions names in the world. Knocking down Cream was tantamount to knocking down The Cavern, within that genre” (Hughes 2017). This critique, therefore, indicates that even venues that were previously celebrated as part of narratives about Liverpool’s music heritage were not immune to regeneration. The Nation nightclub that had housed the internationally successful dance music club Cream was closed in 2015 to make way for the redevelopment of the Wolstenholme Square area of the city centre. Furthermore, it is important to note that the original Cavern club had been allowed to be demolished in 1973 before being rebuilt in 1984. Such examples illustrate the contradictions between heritage narratives about Liverpool and the pressures of regeneration within the city. Hughes’ concerns as a metal music promoter about the vulnerability of venues he had worked with was predicated on the knowledge that far more

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legendary venues had still not been spared from such pressures. In Chap. 3 these issues will be examined more closely. For now, however, it is important to note how Hughes’ experiences as a key intermediary on the Liverpool metal scene (his promotions company had just celebrated its tenth anniversary at the time of writing) were also shaped by his broader sense of the city’s music heritage. Despite the difficulties with empirically identifying the connections between music and place, notions of Liverpool and its musical legacy still loomed large.

Liverpool in Metal The above-mentioned characterization of the city of Liverpool in terms of hardship is also interesting to consider in connection to some artists’ lyrical content. Certain metal bands from Merseyside draw upon themes of urban deprivation that explicitly refer to people, events and parts of Liverpool and its surrounding area. For instance, Joe Mortimer, bassist for the former brutal death metal band Neuroma, has described how their “lyrical themes are a satirical, social commentary” influenced by growing up in parts of Liverpool (Mortimer 2015). He went on to state that: We are all from relatively working-class backgrounds and have all grown up hanging out at Quiggins and just hanging out as mates and skateboarding and doing stupid stuff, replicating Jackass and all that when we were teenagers. We have all had relatively Liverpool-esque up-bringing styles with families and that. Neuroma has started writing songs about stuff we see, but almost Dire Straits in a way. Dire Straits always writes about what they see and actually write a story about what they see, we do the same thing […] We had a sense of humour, which I think is very unique to Liverpool. That certainly bled into our themes, the front cover of Northern Discomfort was like an alleyway with somebody being stabbed and […] robbing stuff from them and it was called Northern Discomfort, as opposed to Southern Comfort like the drink. It was down an alleyway, it was all grotty and stuff like that. Liverpool definitely bled into us; musically I wouldn’t say so but lyrically and thematically, certainly. We have a story about “Purple Aki”, who is a famous person from the Merseyside area, which in the early days became our anthem for want of a better phrase, but we wrote about stuff which we see and heard and knew about and joked about ourselves. (Mortimer 2015)2 2  “Purple Aki” is the nickname given to Akinwale Arobieke, a man who has become something of an urban legend in Liverpool due to the fact that he had completed several jail sentences for harassing young men and “touching their muscles” (BBC News online April 2009).

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Despite frontman Jeff Walker’s indication that his song-writing was not directly influenced by his surroundings, one of the most striking allusions to deprivation within Liverpool comes within a song by death metal band Carcass. Their track “Child’s Play” from the 1995 album Swan Song re-­ imagines the Beatles’ “Strawberry Fields Forever”, which has been considered as a song that evokes idyllic images from John Lennon’s childhood. In place of the literary allusions and references to children’s literature that are throughout the Beatles’ song, “Child’s Play” promises to take the listener “down”, not to the “Strawberry Fields” of John Lennon’s middle-­ class childhood in Liverpool, but to an urban Liverpool that breeds deprivation, decay and violence. Thus, in the Carcass song children are raised amidst “corrosion” and nurtured within a “concrete crib” (Carcass 1995). In place of the nostalgic “pastoral sensibility” (Daniels 2006, 29) evident in “Strawberry Fields Forever”, “Child’s Play” alludes to the notion that the urban settings of childhood in some parts of Liverpool in the mid-­1990s were characterized by hopelessness. As Walker confirmed in an interview: “That’s possibly one of the only [Carcass] songs that really is about Liverpool, to be honest. […] It’s about how shitty it was at the time. I mean when I first started coming into Liverpool there were still buildings in the city centre that had been bombed in the war or they were derelict, y’ know. It’s just insane. If you look at Liverpool now it’s changed. [In the past] It was like […] the docks before they did them up, it was just derelict” (Walker 2018). Consequently, the Liverpool of this song is distinctly anti-pastoral and consistently emphasizes the role of urban conditions in facilitating degeneration and degradation, as illustrated in references to redevelopments lying “in ruins”, “squalor” and “dereliction” (Carcass 1995). As this Introduction has elucidated, the articulation of Liverpool with heavy metal music can lay bare anxieties about urban change. It can also foster critical reflections upon the “hidden” status of metal music within the city’s heritage narratives as well as critical scrutiny of those narratives in general. The chapters that follow build on and develop these themes. Chapter 2 traces the historical development of hard rock and metal music in Liverpool and Merseyside. Paying particular attention to the role of music venues, it argues that for significant periods of the late twentieth century such venues fostered emerging rock and metal scenes. It will also demonstrate that these venues became important for enabling many

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people involved with these scenes to feel safe and to develop a sense of community and belonging. In contrast with Chap. 2, Chap. 3 reveals how, especially since the turn of the new millennium, there has been a more-or-less constant turnover of music venues for rock and metal music within Liverpool. It argues that an array of factors, including urban regeneration and gentrification, the loss of key venues and gathering spaces, and the success of neighbouring Manchester’s early investment in arenas, have precipitated a perception that Liverpool’s metal scenes lack stability. Chapter 4 then focuses more fully on the concept of a Liverpool metal scene or scenes. It critically scrutinizes peoples’ different perceptions of contemporary metal scenes in the city and reveals that, despite often competing evaluations of such scenes, the overall notion of the “scene” remains a powerful one that is often conceived of in ideal terms. Devotion to metal music was a significant part of the everyday lives of several people interviewed for this book. Chapters 5 and 6 focus on the ways in which promoters, musicians, DJs and fans had “scenic careers” in that they balanced the demands of investment in metal scenes with the demands of other areas of their daily lives (Kahn-Harris 2007, 60). Chapter 5 focuses especially on the work of promoters and demonstrates how involvement with the cultural production of metal music events made many demands on everyday personal relationships with families, friends and partners. Such work will be revealed as involving types of “emotional labour” in that the feelings connected with fandom, such as passion for artists or sub-genres, became integral to working practice (Hochschild 2003, 7). Musicians, promoters and fans (sometimes individuals had identities as all three) often saw their labour as an extension of their fandom. Yet, as with other areas of cultural production, working on something they loved did not make the risks and demands involved with this labour any less challenging (Sandoval 2018). As with much “creative labour” in neoliberal capitalist economies, the work that several of the people featured in this book had undertaken for significant periods of their lives was characterized by precariousness (McRobbie 2016; Baym 2018; Arditi 2020). Financial losses, long, unsocial hours outside of a regular “day job” and associated strains on personal relationships were commonplace. Equally as commonplace was a strong sense of entrepreneurship, pride in a DIY attitude and a sense of camaraderie and community. Chapter 6 illuminates some of these points via a consideration of the ways in which those on the Merseyside metal scene utilize a diversity of communications media. It

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examines cultures of collaboration between musicians, promoters, fans and a range of other intermediaries, as well as focuses on how the use of social media platforms like Facebook and Twitter by these groups and individuals is indicative of an increasingly entrepreneurial tendency (Netherton 2017; Tessler and Flynn 2016). Several chapters that follow, then, also take on McRobbie’s (often unheeded) call to examine the “hidden economy” of subcultural production (1993, 19). The latter part of this book in particular contributes to existing research into cultural production and live music industries by explicating how labour is experienced and how it involves a range of skills and qualities. Teamwork, problem-solving, interpersonal skills and even crisis management are often essential for this kind of work.

Approaching Metal on Merseyside: Reflections on Methodology To gain insight into the above-mentioned practices, this book makes extensive use of ethnographic data. Discussing the use of ethnography by anthropologists, Sara Cohen writes that: “The anthropologist aims to learn the culture or subculture they are studying and come to interpret or experience it in the same way that those involved in that culture do, that is, to discover the way in which their social world or reality is constructed, and how particular events acquire meaning for them in particular situations” (Cohen 1993, 124). Thus, ethnographers generally aim to achieve what might be simplistically termed an insider’s perspective. Through methods such as participant observation and in-depth ethnographic interviews, ethnographers aim to become intimately familiar with their field. Between 2015 and 2021, this is the methodological approach that I utilized. I drew on contacts with existing participants who were already known to me and through these key informants I was then able to engage in “snowball sampling”, whereby they introduced me to other potential interviewees (Hansen and Machin 2019, 211). The research for this book sought to be people-centred, in that it located scene members as important “sites of knowledge” (Maxwell 2002, 111). Thus, the ethnographic interviews that form the primary foundation of this account pay explicit attention to discourse within the Merseyside metal scene. In other words, I attempted to scrutinize the ways people socially demonstrate their knowledge of the Liverpool and Merseyside metal scenes and how they

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conceptualize that scene (or indeed scenes). I also attended 35 metal concerts and festivals in the Merseyside area during this period, most of which took place in Liverpool city centre. At these events I conducted participant observation, which in this context means that I engaged in similar practices to other metal fans in order to try and become “actively involved in the scene” (Riches et  al. 2013, 92). While not attempting to replicate what Riches et al. call “moshography” and fully immerse myself within the moshpit culture at these gigs, I was nonetheless engaging in other common forms of fan practice such as “headbanging” in time to the music (2013, 91). I also chatted with other fans, bought merchandise from the bands and talked to them in the process, as well as getting to know the promoters of the events. This fieldwork also involved the collection of relevant scenic niche media, such as flyers advertising events, and following bands and promoters across social media platforms. Furthermore, sections of this book are based on a more autoethnographic approach. This was necessitated by the fact that during the process of research for this book I became increasingly close to the field of study. Specifically, the Chief Editor of a Merseyside-based webzine, Getintothis, asked if I would be interested in writing a regular monthly column on metal music. This voluntary role involved writing about metal music in a journalistic style that fits the parameters of website writing. The monthly column focused on a range of topics—from the importance of the Bloodstock Open Air festival for nurturing new artists, to the representation of gender in brutal death metal. Additionally, the format that I was asked to follow required short reviews of new albums and updates on events happening both locally in Merseyside but also on a national and international level. While a regular columnist for the webzine (March 2018 to June 2020), I wrote several gig previews, feature articles, reviews and news items. Initially, my motivation for accepting a role as a writer for the webzine connected with a desire to maintain and develop contacts within the Merseyside metal scene. Given that I was making connections with metal musicians, many of whom were balancing day jobs or studies with their commitments to bands; it seemed that if I could present myself as both a metal journalist and academic then that would be more appealing to them. Thus, in return for their time spent during interviews, I could also write about their music for the webzine. Indeed, during some research interviews it was necessary to switch between different personae. I would state that I was “putting my journalistic head on now” before asking questions

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that were more in line with what the webzine were interested in such as the details of forthcoming events and albums. Additional motivation for continuing the writing for the webzine stemmed from the fact that it compelled me to maintain regular fieldwork. Even during busy periods on the academic calendar when my job as a Senior Lecturer at Liverpool John Moores University required a substantial amount of teaching, marking and administration, the fact that I had a monthly column to write forced me to find time to think about the Merseyside metal scene. Furthermore, having committed to reviewing specific gigs, the imperatives of review deadlines compelled me to reflect upon my experiences at such gigs in a timely manner. However, as my commitments to the role of writer and columnist for the webzine grew, my experiences prompted me to reflect further upon my approach to ethnographic fieldwork and my status as a researcher. In particular, these reflections focused on two aspects—my fandom and my evolving role as an “insider” within the Merseyside metal scene. Despite having been a fan of hard rock and metal music for over 30 years when I embarked on ethnographic research within the Merseyside metal scene, I had no strong affiliation to that scene. Aside from attending a few high-profile rock and metal gigs in Liverpool city centre and occasionally going for a drink in the well-known rock/biker pub, The Swan Inn, I knew little about Merseyside-based musicians and any scenes that they were connected to. However, this began to change once I started to immerse myself in the scene through participant observation at events like small gigs featuring local bands or events organized by locally based promoters. Kirsten Hastrup usefully describes the kind of activity involved with participant observation as a process of becoming. She writes, “The kind of participation needed to identify events and write real cultures cannot be glossed as mere ‘being’ in the field. It implies a process of ‘becoming” (Hastrup 1995, 19). Hastrup goes on to write that “One is not completely absorbed in the other world, but one is also no longer the same. The change often is so fundamental that it is difficult to see how the fieldworker has any identity with her former self” (Hastrup 1995, 19). Dwelling in different music venues, interacting with scene members either in person or on social media had a profound impact on my sense of identity, both as a researcher and as a metal music fan. My participation in the field precipitated a process of becoming and my sense of identity shifted in several ways.

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Firstly, given the changes with live music venues that will be outlined in the chapters that follow and the challenges that promoters face when organizing gigs, as I frequented more concerts I began to feel a sense of loyalty to the scene. Therefore, I began to feel guilty if I could not go to certain events due to other work or family commitments. Moreover, as I began to write more for the webzine my affective attachment and a feeling that I was advocating for the Merseyside metal scene increased. This was because my writing about forthcoming events and news about bands was being read and shared among different groups and communities on social media. Secondly, while my initial intentions were to use the writing for the webzine as a means of enhancing my research, it soon became apparent that this journalistic writing was a source of personal pleasure. The freedom to write in a non-academic style for the entertainment of others was rather liberating. In a similar way to Catherine M.  Roach’s (2014) approach to participant observation in popular romance studies, I began to embrace the production of this writing on its own terms. I had shifted from primarily being a participant-observer of the metal scene, to somebody involved in its active construction and I became invested in this role. Finally, this increased affective investment was coupled with a greater awareness of my own fandom. I was writing for other fans about how it felt at gigs or how news of forthcoming events made me feel. At the same time, I was making time to listen to more music by metal artists than I had previously done, including music by local artists. Consequently, I developed a stronger appreciation for that music and this fed into my enthusiasm for the overall genre and for the Merseyside scene. Although she uses the term to refer to the writing of romance fiction, in many senses I was becoming what Roach terms the “aca-fan-writer” (Roach 2014, 39, emphasis in original). She uses this “triple hybrid term” in order to “capture the multiplicity of identity” that this position entails (Roach 2014, 39). I was simultaneously occupying the position of an academic studying the Merseyside scene; a fan who was listening to the music on a regular basis; and an “inside practitioner” writing about the scene from a journalistic perspective and keeping others informed about it (Roach 2014, 39). The importance of reflecting on the types of role an ethnographic researcher adopts during participant observation and the merits of writing in a manner that acknowledges the researcher’s personal experiences have

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been well documented (see for instance, Burgess 1984; Clifford 1986; Van Maanen 1995). Yet, despite the risks involved with adopting the “insider emic perspective of emotional and subjective investment in the culture” in too full a manner, Roach makes clear that the aca-fan can engage in what she terms “observant participation” (Roach 2014, 40, emphasis in original). This concept is used to signify the shift that takes place when the researcher as an “outsider” comes to “participate more deeply and more fully as insiders and then reflexively observe themselves as participants, as well as their own process of observation, along with the native cultural participants” (Roach 2014, 41). The value of this approach is that this fuller participation provides the researcher with stronger insights into the affective dimensions of the cultures under scrutiny—it facilitates an understanding of how it feels to be involved with the types of labour involved with making metal music on Merseyside. This is something that the anthropologist Victor Turner advocated in his work on performance ethnography. Turner has argued that the processes involved with ethnographic research on cultural practices are often predominantly cognitive—that is, they involve mental processes of perceiving and reasoning on the part of the ethnographer. Such ethnographies may then prioritize what research subjects think about certain activities, and so on, rather than what they feel or experience. However, as Turner asserts: “feeling and will, as well as thought, constitute the structures of culture” (Turner 1987, 139–140). Consequently, during his teaching on the anthropology of performance Turner (1987) encouraged students to enact the actions and interactions they had described in their ethnographic field notes. This, he proposed, would help to expose the gaps in field notes and monographs because social actions may feel different to how they are thought about, observed and described. Thus, as my research on the Merseyside metal scene was informed by my perspective as an “aca-fan-writer” actively mediating aspects of the scene, it facilitated an appreciation of the affective elements involved with producing this music scene. Ultimately, however, the pages that follow are heavily reliant on oral testimony. Scene members’ accounts of their experiences are vital if we are to move beyond dominant discourses and appreciate histories and practices that have been largely hidden. From the travails of promoters balancing the preparation for extreme metal gigs with the demands of their family lives, to musicians drawing on social media to publicize their music,

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this book explores the minutiae of scenic activity. The examination of this activity also lays bare several contradictions at the heart of one of the world’s most mythologized music cities.

References Arditi, David. 2020. The Voice: Non-disclosure Agreements and the Hidden Political Economy of Reality TV. Popular Communication 18 (2): 138–151. Baym, Nancy K. 2018. Playing to the Crowd: Musicians, Audiences, and the Intimate Work of Connection. New York: New York University Press. BBC News Online. 2009. Man Jailed for Muscle-Squeezing. Accessed 2 March 2021. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/merseyside/8027540.stm. Bennett, Andy. 2002. Music, Media and Urban Mythscapes: A Study of the ‘Canterbury Sound’. Media, Culture & Society 24 (1): 87–100. Bennett, Andy, and Richard A.  Peterson. 2004. Introducing Music Scenes. In Music Scenes: Local, Translocal and Virtual, ed. Andy Bennett and Richard A. Peterson, 1–16. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. BOP Consulting. 2018. Culture Liverpool: Developing a Liverpool City of Music Strategy. Accessed 10 May 2019. https://www.cultureliverpool.co.uk/wp-­ content/uploads/2018/02/Developing-­L iverpool-­M usic-­s trategy-­ February-­2018-­1.pdf. Boland, Philip. 2010. Sonic Geography, Place and Race in the Formation of Local Identity: Liverpool and Scousers. Geografiska Annaler: Series B, Human Geography 92 (1): 1–22. Brocken, Michael. 2010. Other Voices: Hidden Histories of Liverpool’s Popular Music Scenes, 1930s–1970s. Farnham: Ashgate. Burgess, Robert G. 1984. In the Field: An Introduction to Field Research. London: George Allen & Unwin. Carr, Andrew. 2016. Unpublished Interview with Andrew Carr. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 31 May 2016. Centre for Cities. 2015. Cities Outlook 2015. Accessed 25 November 2018. https://www.centreforcities.org/wp-­content/uploads/2015/01/Cities_ Outlook_2015.pdf. Clifford, James. 1986. Introduction: Partial Truths. In Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, ed. James Clifford and George E. Marcus, 1–26. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Cohen, Sara. 1993. Ethnography and Popular Music Studies. Popular Music 12 (2): 123–138. ———. 1994. Identity, Place and the ‘Liverpool Sound’. In Ethnicity, Identity and Music, ed. Martin Stokes. Oxford: Berg. ———. 2007. Decline, Renewal and the City in Popular Music Culture: Beyond the Beatles. Aldershot: Ashgate.

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———. 2013. Musical Memory, Heritage and Local Identity: Remembering the Popular Music Past in a European Capital of Culture. International Journal of Cultural Policy 19 (5): 576–594. Cope, Andrew L. 2010. Black Sabbath and the Rise of Heavy Metal Music. Farnham: Ashgate. Daniels, Stephen. 2006. Suburban Pastoral: Strawberry Fields Forever and Sixties Memory. Cultural Geographies 13 (1): 28–54. Du Noyer, Paul. 2004. Liverpool Wondrous Place: Music from the Cavern to the Coral. London: Virgin Books. Hansen, Anders, and David Machin. 2019. Media and Communication Research Methods. London: Red Globe Press. Harris, Keith. 2000. Roots?: The Relationship between the Global and the Local within the Extreme Metal Scene. Popular Music 19 (1): 13–30. Hastrup, Kirsten. 1995. A Passage to Anthropology: Between Experience and Theory. London: Routledge. Hochschild, Arlie Russell. 2003. The Managed Heart: Commercialization of Human Feeling. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Hughes, Andy. 2017. Unpublished Interview with Andy Hughes. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 14 February 2017. Kahn-Harris, Keith. 2007. Extreme Metal: Music and Culture on the Edge. Oxford: Berg. Killick, Anthony. 2019. Resisting the Creative Economy on Liverpool’s North Shore: Art-Based Political Communication in Practice. Westminster Papers in Communication and Culture 14 (1): 1–17. Krüger, Simone. 2013. Branding the City. In The Globalization of Musics in Transit: Music Migration and Tourism, ed. Simone Krüger and Ruxandra Trandafoiu, 135–159. New York: Routledge. Lashbrooke, Jay. 2015. Unpublished Interview with Jay Lashbrooke. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 19 August 2015. Lashua, Brett D. 2011. An Atlas of Musical Memories: Popular Music, Leisure and Urban Change in Liverpool. Leisure/Loisir 35 (2): 133–152. Lashua, Brett, Sara Cohen, and John Schofield. 2009. Popular Music, Mapping, and the Characterization of Liverpool. Popular Music History 4 (2): 126–144. Leigh, Spencer. 2008. The Cavern: The Story of the Cavern Club. London: SAF Publishing. Maxwell, Ian. 2002. The Curse of Fandom: Insiders, Outsiders and Ethnography. In Popular Music Studies, ed. David Hesmondhalgh and Keith Negus, 103–116. London: Arnold. McRobbie, Angela. 1993. Shut Up and Dance: Youth Culture and Changing Modes of Femininity. Young 1 (2): 13–31. ———. 2016. Be Creative: Making a Living in the New Culture Industries. Cambridge: Polity.

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Meegan, Richard, Patricia Kennett, Gerwyn Jones, and Jacqui Croft. 2014. Global Economic Crisis, Austerity and Neoliberal Urban Governance in England. Cambridge Journal of Regions, Economy and Society 7 (1): 137–153. Mortimer, Joe. 2015. Unpublished Interview with Joe Mortimer. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 17 July 2015. Netherton, Jason. 2017. The Entrepreneurial Imperative: Recording Artists in Extreme Metal Music Proto-markets. Metal Music Studies 3 (3): 369–386. Riches, Gabby, and Brett Lashua. 2014. Mapping the Underground: An Ethnographic Cartography of the Leeds Extreme Metal Scene. International Journal of Community Music 7 (2): 223–241. Riches, Gabrielle, Brett Lashua, and Karl Spracklen. 2013. Female, Mosher, Transgressor: A ‘Moshography’ of Transgressive Practices within the Leeds Extreme Metal Scene. IASPM Journal 4 (1): 87–100. Roach, Catherine M. 2014. ‘Going Native’: Aca-Fandom and Deep Participant Observation in Popular Romance Studies. Mosaic: A Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature 47 (2): 33–49. Roberts, Les, and Sara Cohen. 2014. Unauthorizing Popular Music Heritage: Outline of a Critical Framework. International Journal of Heritage Studies 20 (3): 241–261. Sandoval, Marisol. 2018. From Passionate Labour to Compassionate Work: Cultural Co-ops, Do What You Love and Social Change. European Journal of Cultural Studies 21 (2): 113–129. Straw, Will. 2015. Some Things a Scene Might Be: Postface. Cultural Studies 29 (3): 476–485. Tessler, Holly, and Matt Flynn. 2016. From DIY to D2F: Contextualizing Entrepreneurship for the Artist/Musician. In Allan Dumbreck and Gayle McPherson, ed. Music Entrepreneurship, 47–74. London: Bloomsbury. Thorp, Liam. 2020. Liverpool City Region Explained and How It’s Different to Merseyside. Liverpool Echo [Online]. Accessed 25 February 2021. https:// www.liverpoolecho.co.uk/news/liverpool-news/liverpool-city-regionexplained-how-19427821. Turner, Victor. 1987. The Anthropology of Performance. New  York: PAJ Publications. Van Maanen, John. 1995. Representation in Ethnography. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Walker, Jeff. 2018. Unpublished Interview with Jeff Walker. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 5 July 2018.

Discography Carcass. 1995. Child’s Play. Track 5 on Swan Song. Earache Records, 2006, Compact Disc.

CHAPTER 2

From Troggs to Headbangers: The Historical Development of Metal on Merseyside

The very first concert I saw was Iron Maiden on the Killers tour with Paul DiAnno that was at the Liverpool Royal Court Theatre, which, I have no idea what that venue is like now, but at the time it was brilliant. It was tatty, but it had such a vibe. The main thing I remember is the smell of the place actually, it was really unique, it was kind of this mixture of patchouli oil, stale beer and vomit. —Bill Steer from Carcass (2018)

Recollections of concerts, such the one above from Bill Steer, can powerfully evoke how heavy rock and metal music events were experienced within Liverpool at certain points in time. As historical testimony, these recollections also serve to reveal what have been until recently partially hidden histories. For example, the work of Sarah O’Hara (2022 forthcoming, 3) for the Liverpool Royal Court trust to bring to light information about what she calls the Royal Court theatre’s “music years” is hugely reliant upon the personal recollections and memorabilia of gig-goers during the 1980s, 1990s and early 2000s. These serve to fill in the gaps in what she admits is still a highly incomplete picture. However, as both this chapter and the one that follows will indicate, peoples’ accounts of gigs can also unveil important information about the material conditions in which concerts were experienced at a given time. Such accounts can also © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 N. Hassan, Metal on Merseyside, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-77681-7_2

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alert us to what Behr et al. refer to as the “complexities of relationships across time”, as well as help to raise our awareness of peoples’ relationships with buildings (Behr et al. 2016, 20). As we will see, cultural practices at heavy rock and metal concerts and their venues in Merseyside are shaped by the constraints of infrastructure and prejudice, but they are also influenced by the legacy of the past. This does not just refer to the dominant historical narratives that have inflected scene members’ understandings of Liverpool’s relationship with metal that were explored in the Introduction. Rather, of more significance here are the histories of the material circumstances that afford concerts and music making: the availability and types of venues; the presence of people willing and able to make events happen at given moments in time; circuits of live performance that were understood as able to foster scenes. Historical changes effecting the environment for live music (including broader factors that have little directly to do with live music industries in Liverpool) will be later revealed as having continuing repercussions for contemporary hard rock and metal music scenes. This chapter, then, is informed by a sensitivity to an ecological perspective on live music. In other words, it is influenced by scholarly work from the likes of Behr et al. (2016) and Webster et al. (2018), which pays attention to how the sustainability of live music cultures in a particular place is contingent upon a range of relationships, including those between physical spaces, key individuals, the stakeholders using such spaces, wider social networks and external constraints. The importance of examining the contemporary shifting live music environment in Liverpool and Merseyside is underlined more forcefully in the next chapter. However, the concern of this chapter is to presage a fuller consideration of these issues by examining the ways in which historical changes have played a role in its development. The consideration of historical circumstances and moments that follow will also serve to further make problematic the characterizations of a so-­ called Liverpool sound that were based on dominant historical narratives about the city region’s music. These heritage narratives we saw in the first chapter had largely worked to exclude a consideration of Liverpool as a city that has also featured hard rock and metal scenes as well as what Roberts and Cohen term the “usual suspects” (2014, 256). Romantic characterizations of the “sound” of the city persist within popular histories of Liverpool’s music. For instance, within Du Noyer’s essay on “Liverpool’s Radical Music”, familiar artists such as the Beatles, Deaf School, Echo and

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the Bunnymen and (albeit briefly) even non-white acts such as the Real Thing all play supporting roles in a narrative which contends that generally: “Liverpool’s popular music is most of all melodic [and] […] tends to dreaminess more often than to anger” (2011, 97). Such celebratory writing, which also makes use of “riverine” (Cohen 2007, 58) metaphors to articulate a sense of Liverpool’s exceptionalism—Liverpool’s radical musicians for Du Noyer are compared to the River Mersey in that they “reflect the heavens while they churn the dirt below” (2011, 97)—is powerful and evocative. It is perhaps best understood as indicative of a kind of post-2008 “structure of feeling” (Williams 1961, 63); Du Noyer’s way of understanding Liverpool’s music after its year as European Capital of Culture can be read now as a poignant synthesis of how people were almost “basking” in the afterglow of new narratives about their city’s fortunes in this period. Yet, while these accounts provide important contrasts to the way that Liverpool was demonized by British media during the 1980s and 1990s, as historiography they can be unhelpful. Leaving aside criticisms from the likes of Brocken (2010) about the way that its year as Capital of Culture did little to erode the city’s social inequalities, such historical documents present too homogeneous a picture of Liverpool’s music. They underplay the value of carefully attending to what Stuart Hall calls “chains of causation and conditions of existence” and “questions of periodization and conjuncture” (Hall 2006, 23). Furthermore, they obscure the fact that even apparent moments of conjuncture have “no simple unity” and can be the result of contradictory forces (Hall 2006, 3). For instance, as will be expanded upon in the next chapter, the “regenerative” measures adopted in preparation for Capital of Culture 2008 ironically involved the limiting of Liverpool’s so-called alternative cultures (including metal music culture) (Jones and Wilks-Heeg 2004). Thus, as we saw in Chap. 1, while one dominant version of Liverpool music culture was being revitalized, others were being confined to the margins. The main purpose of the sections that follow is to provide a historical account of the development of heavy rock and metal music scenes on Merseyside, paying particular attention to the role of live music venues. Consulting existing historiography, journalistic writing and oral testimony, these sections constitute a modest attempt to enrich historical knowledge in this area. The largely diachronic perspective adopted facilitates an attempt to establish some historical context for the significant changes to the live music circuit for heavy rock and metal music that will be

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considered in the next chapter. As Sewell Jr. suggests, a diachronic approach sees “history as transformation” in that it focuses on “changes over time” (1997, 41). However, while an emphasis on change is necessary when considering aspects such as the establishment of major venues for live rock and metal music, such diachronic elements cannot be separated from synchronic ones. In other words, when assessing the historical conditions that afforded the emergence and development of metal music events, it is instructive to consider the significance of particular moments, not just their antecedents. Taking inspiration from Carter’s synchronic approach to the history of dance music in early twentieth century London, this chapter examines events across time “in order to see the connections which comprise our knowledge of a particular culture in a particular period” (Carter 2005, 36). This is because, as will be seen shortly, specific venues and periods of time have been constructed as crucial for the formation and sustenance of rock and metal music scenes and communities. Consequently, they warrant closer inspection within the narrative that follows. However, at this juncture it is pertinent to point out the limitations with this historical narrative. As numerous writers have established, all historiography is inevitably partial and incomplete (Dale 2018; Negus 1996; Jenkins 1991). It is also necessary to acknowledge that the identification of specific periods in the passages below is a device for analysis. Their inclusion should not imply that the “history” of hard rock and metal in Merseyside is, as Foucault puts it, “a closed development” (1984, 87). On the contrary, as this is a subject that has been somewhat neglected in existing historical accounts, it is anticipated that there will be future revisions that will enhance our understanding of these periods, places, music-­ related practices and the individuals involved.1 Furthermore, although this chapter (and the one that follows it) examines connections between public venues for live (and recorded) music and metal and heavy rock scenes, that is not to imply that scene-related activity is only confined to such places. Indeed, several interviewees indicated that their first experiences of befriending other rock fans were in secondary school. Activity such as 1  Indeed, it should be stressed that this chapter is not an attempt to provide a “complete” historical account. There were several city centre venues from the 1970s and 1980s that were not able to be covered here, including Nightriders (which became Freewheelers) and the Warehouse, which hosted rock and metal artists. Furthermore, venues outside of the city such as Bootle Fire Station also hosted rock and metal acts during the 1980s.

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borrowing records from friends, which can take place as much in domestic spaces as in public ones, remains an under-researched aspect of music cultures. Thus, the sections below constitute a historical narrative that emphasizes the role of public venues at the expense of other more private spaces.

Early Years: 1969–1976 Liverpool and the Emergence of Heavy Rock: A Minority Interest? The nascent heavy rock scene in the UK emerged via British Rhythm & Blues (R&B) performers who had become fascinated with the electric guitar styles of US blues performers (Walser 1993). Jeff Beck Group, The Yardbirds, The Animals and the Rolling Stones were by the mid-1960s paying homage to American blues and rock ‘n’ roll songs but incorporating a more guitar dominated and electrified style. This style was popularized through songs that featured central guitar hooks or riffs, which were thematic guitar phrases that were prominent throughout the songs. However, this emerging rock aesthetic was largely being constructed by London-based acts. In Liverpool, Du Noyer (2004) suggests that there were not any bands contributing to this national scene because there was a lack of serious interest in the blues guitar styles favoured by Eric Clapton and others. Although it should be noted that he provides little evidence to substantiate his comment, Du Noyer also suggests that: “The Liverpool guitarists favoured rhythm and picking (learned from Eddie Cochran and Chet Atkins respectively) over the blues styles studied down South” (2004, 98). Yet, although they did not have much impact outside of the city, Brocken (2010) notes that there were post-Beatles R&B acts that were more blues oriented. These included the Cordes and the Hideaways. Also, while they were contemporaries of the Beatles, the Roadrunners were blues enthusiasts and they were “popular with the art school and university student audience” during the mid-1960s (Brocken 2010, 27). However, echoing Du Noyer (2004), Les Johnson of another Liverpool R&B group of this era recalled in an interview with Brocken that the “the blues never really made it in Liverpool as it did elsewhere” (Johnson cited in Brocken 2010, 27). This was attributed by Johnson to class issues; it seemed that the emerging electrified, blues-based sound that was to become heavy rock was perceived by some in Liverpool as too middle class.

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By the late 1960s, the Liverpool club scene largely catered for this interest in pop music and, as Brocken (2010) contends, the dominant sound shaping club goers’ expectations of what soul music should sound like was that of Motown. This conformity to certain pop sounds within the area facilitated the development of taste cultures that were, as Brocken puts it: “highly demarcated, even somewhat conventional, with distinct controlling principles of sound, dress, behaviour, length of hair and musical tastes” (2010, 32). Growing up in the 1960s, Brocken gained a sense of these dominant taste cultures first-hand and during an interview he characterized the city as follows: “Liverpool is a very conservative city, musically, in the 1960s if you didn’t like Motown, you were regarded as a dickhead” (Brocken 2019). This socio-cultural context proved problematic for young people in Merseyside interested in rock music as it necessitated defining their musical tastes in opposition to a perceived set of norms. Various oral and written accounts, including those from band members I have interviewed and Brocken’s interviewees, provide testimony indicating that an interest in rock music during the late 1960s and early 1970s had to be managed with care. Consequently, the next section considers how early rock scene members managed this somewhat challenging context. As part of this, it is pertinent to examine the role of subcultural conflict within this crucial period in the formation of what began to be referred to at this time as a “heavy” rock scene within Liverpool. Heavy Rock and Subcultural Tensions Accounts of the formative heavy rock scene in Liverpool during the late 1960s and early 1970s provide us with interesting discussions of subcultural tensions. Less high profile than their London equivalents, mods in Liverpool were by this period frequenting the Mardi Gras Club, the Top Rank and the Cavern Club and listening to Motown’s version of soul. Recounting his experiences during this period, a previous Mardi Gras regular, Jack Smith, recalled to author Phil Thompson that in 1969 he wanted to get away from the Mardi Gras soul scene as it had become “rather ‘thuggish’” (cited in Adams, 2003, 22). He, therefore, obtained a membership to the Cavern Club and ventured inside. He described the situation he was faced with in the Cavern as follows:

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As I walked into the club I was distraught when I saw that the place was full of Mods—the very people that had driven me out of the Mardi Gras! However, it was soon pointed out to me that the place to be was across the floor and down the stairs that led to the basement. Across the floor I stumbled, to glares from the Mods and descended into a Bohemian basement of wonderful strangeness. The D.J., Billy Butler was playing the terrific sounds of the Doors, the Stones, Procol Harem and the Velvet Underground. There were also incredibly sensual women and two live bands, from London—no less! One look around and I was hooked. (Smith cited in Adams 2003, 22)2

This type of evocative oral testimony illustrates Thompson’s (cited in Adams, 2003) contention that by the late 1960s, even though the Merseybeat years had only recently passed, the Cavern had a new audience. It had partly become an important venue for fostering the emerging rock scene in Liverpool, but its accommodation of opposing subcultural groups was fraught with tension. Although the Cavern was only licensed for 400 people, former owner Roy Adams indicated in his autobiography that, when he took over in 1969, they would regularly get 1600 people in. To accommodate this demand Adams employed 12 doormen and “kept a row of chairs in the entrance to sit girls on when they passed out” (Adams 2003, 7). However, this crowded venue clearly housed two different subcultures with opposing tastes and values. Several accounts from this period indicate that there were marked oppositions between the youths listening to pop music on the upper floor and “the troggs—the longhaired brigade” who Adams recalls “danced to heavy rock almost exclusively” in the Cavern’s basement (Adams 2003, 7). As will be illustrated below, such oppositions had the potential to culminate in violence. Tensions between Motown-loving mods and young people interested in album-oriented rock (AOR) in the late 1960s had, by the early 1970s, been succeeded by altercations between skinheads and young people interested in the first wave of heavy rock acts from the late 1960s. The Cavern club was home to such conflicts. In an interview with Rolling Stone magazine in 1972, the manager of the Cavern, Freda Adams, the sister of owner Roy Adams, explained the cultural climate as follows: 2  Smith’s testimony may have been slightly confused because, as Brocken notes below, Billy Butler was a DJ more associated with the upper floor of the Cavern club, rather than its basement.

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Upstairs is a discotheque for the older crowd, the skinhead type who like the bluebeat and reggae. They’re a tougher crowd and do a lot of fighting, and sometimes we have trouble between them and the younger, ‘heavy’ crowd down here, kids we call troggs. They don’t mix, which is why we serve up all our drinks in paper cups. Down here we always have live music, and the kids seem to like this ‘heavy’ music these days. (cited in Adams 2003, 14)

Adams’ description of skinheads in this period coheres with Hebdige’s (1979) account of the subculture. Tellingly, Hebdige notes that skinheads evolved from “hard mods” who had turned away from R&B and acid rock “to champion ska, rocksteady and reggae” (Hebdige 1979, 55). According to Hebdige, skinheads were “Aggressively proletarian, puritanical and chauvinist”, their style largely mimicked the working-class factory worker: “cropped hair, braces, short, wide levi jeans or functional sta-prest trousers, plain or striped button-down Ben Sherman shirts and highly polished Doctor Marten boots” (Hebdige 1979, 55). While their “clean-cut, neatly pressed delinquent look” owed as much to Jamaican rude boys as it did to stereotypes of working-class hard masculinity (Hebdige 1979, 56), in the summer of 1972 the skinheads’ affinity with certain black communities did not prevent them from joining other white residents to attack second-­ generation immigrants in the Toxteth area of Liverpool (Hebdige 1979, 59). Thus, it becomes apparent that the Cavern was a venue that likely endured a transition from mod to skinhead in its main upper floor dwelling clientele. What these two subcultures had in common was a disdain for the troggs or greasers frequenting the basement underneath them during this period. For the mods in the city, this disdain may have been partly a hangover from the mid-1960s clashes between mods and rockers. The long-haired bohemian types described above not only liked the “wrong” type of music, like motorbike riding rockers they were also a visual affront to the mods’ penchant for sartorial neatness (Green 1999). The skinheads’ emphasis on a kind of proletarian tidiness, epitomized by the cropped haircuts, also made them the visual antithesis of the long-haired heavy rockers. Brocken recalls how the situation was exacerbated by the antics of the door staff at the Cavern who would exploit the tensions between the subcultures for their own amusement:

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One of the problems with the Cavern was, you would have a separate way in by 1970; as I remember, [the Cavern] was a split-level club actually. You’d go in and down the steps which is where the Beatles used to play and that kind of thing, and that was our club, it was full of hippies, people with no money, all that kind of thing. But upstairs usually Billy Butler would have a Motown disco upstairs, which was great, we were separate from the skins and the mods, but the doormen used to take great pleasure in letting us all out at the same time. […] I think [door man] Paddy Delaney really enjoyed trying to get us peace-loving hippies to come out at exactly the same time as the lads upstairs. (Brocken 2019)

The risks involved with attending the Cavern led Brocken and others attending basement gigs to ensure that they left a bit early (usually after the final act had finished their set) so as not to encounter any skinheads on their way out. The skinheads’ hostility towards the types of youth dwelling in the basement of the Cavern during the early 1970s was perhaps rooted in perceptions of class difference. Gordon Logan and David Cooke, founding members of Robespierre, a Merseyside-based New Wave of British Heavy Metal act, were actively involved with the nascent heavy rock scene during this period and they recalled that many within that scene were middle class. Cooke explained in an interview that: “I always looked at the majority of rock people, most of them probably were middle class, they seriously were, or slightly above the Neanderthal which hated us” (Logan and Cooke 2018). Given some of the skinheads’ efforts to assert a proletarian hard masculinity, it is unsurprising that heavy rockers who were perhaps perceived as more middle class became a target. This could on occasion lead to brutal violence being dished out by gangs of skinheads. For instance, Logan recalled how his cousin had received a savage beating at the hands of skinheads: My cousin got basically virtually beaten to death at one point in West Derby by a skin head group. He was hospitalized […] We used to wear cut off denim jackets and things. His hair was quite long at that point. We didn’t have motorbikes, we used to go round on push bikes. The skinheads used to call us the push bike greasers. He got virtually kicked to death, yes. It was terrible, awful. (Logan and Cooke 2018)

Therefore, an appreciation of this socio-cultural context and of the vulnerability experienced by members of the emerging rock music scene in

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Liverpool during the late 1960s and early 1970s is important. This is because such experiences affected these scene members’ understandings of and feelings towards music venues within Merseyside. Despite the subcultural tensions contained within it, during the early to mid-1970s the Cavern became increasingly known as a heavy rock venue. Indeed, under the tenure of owner Roy Adams, it was even beginning to be described as a venue for heavy metal music. Spencer Leigh indicates that in an article in June 1972 on Roy Adams’ visit to Australia, The Liverpool Echo represented the club as “a leading heavy metal venue” (although this was an uncommon term at the time) and that Adams had “plans to extend the capacity to 2,000” (Leigh 2008, 176). A quick browse at the gig listings outlined by Leigh (2008) between 1970 and 1976 provides some justification for this portrayal of the Cavern. During this period, the Cavern hosted (soon to be seminal British metal act) Judas Priest twice, once on 20 May 1971 and again on 13 October 1972 (Leigh 2008). Thin Lizzy played at the Cavern on 24 August 1972 and Welsh heavy rock trio, Budgie, played on 29 June 1972. However, in the case of Judas Priest and Thin Lizzy, it should be noted that both bands were in the embryonic phases of their career. Priest were far from a heavy metal act at this point and even their first album release, Rocka Rolla (1974), might be categorized as “hard psychedelic music”, rather than as the “quintessential heavy metal” act they would epitomize from Sad Wings of Destiny (1976) onwards (Weinstein 2000, 17). Thin Lizzy were some distance away from the heavy rock anthem producing act they would become. Both Lizzy’s 1970 self-titled debut album and 1972’s Shades of a Blue Orphanage have been considered to have art rock pretensions. Bob Geldof described their style on the first album as follows: “It was kind of hippieish, groping towards hard rock” (cited in Thomson 2016, 135). Nonetheless, throughout Roy Adams’ time owning the Cavern it is apparent that the venue helped to nurture a Merseyside heavy rock scene. They continued to book acts classed as heavy or hard rock, mainly from across parts of the UK. Crucially, the Cavern also supported local talent. Strife, a band that Leigh describes as a “heavy metal trio” (2008, 175), were managed by the Cavern. They became something of a house band at the club during the early 1970s and were actually the opening act on the bill of the final ever gig at the original Cavern on Sunday 27 May 1973 (Leigh 2008, 181). Strife were eventually signed to Chrysalis records, although despite a few mid-1970s album releases they maintained a

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reputation as a “perennial support act”, rather than a band worthy of “headline status” (Larkin 1995, 347). When the original Cavern was closed and scheduled for demolition by landowners British Rail (to make way for a proposed extraction duct for the underground rail loop, which was ultimately never built on the site), Roy Adams moved the club across the road to 7 to 15 Mathew Street in 1973. The New Cavern consisted of two floors and could hold up to 2000 people. Once again, according to Leigh, “Mostly the New Cavern was a heavy metal venue” (2008, 181). Although, as Brocken recalls this characterization is a little misleading because it was once again a split-level club with a rock venue upstairs and a downstairs floor that featured a disco (Brocken personal communication 2020). During 1973 and 1974 the New Cavern hosted the likes of the Runaways and Wizzard. However, by the middle of 1974 attendances were not good enough to sustain the business and Adams split the Cavern into two separate premises—Gatsby’s, a club on the ground floor, and the Revolution club, operating out of the basement. Promotion of gigs at Gatsby’s was taken on with Adams’ blessing by Roger Eagle (who was enjoying success promoting rock gigs at the Liverpool Stadium) and Ken Testi (road manager for Liverpool new wave act, Deaf School). After a hugely popular Runaways gig in Gatsby’s, Roy Adams sold part of the lease of the Revolution club to Eagle, Testi and Pete Fulwell who renamed the club Eric’s. Eagle then shifted his attention away from rock gigs at the Liverpool Stadium (see below) and concentrated his energies on promoting punk and new wave acts at Eric’s, which “became one of the key clubs of the punk era” and hard rock largely vanished from Mathew Street (Leigh 2008, 182). O’Connor’s Tavern Alongside the Cavern, Brocken (2010) also identifies O’Connor’s Tavern as another key venue for the emerging rock scene in Liverpool. After initially being an important venue for the Liverpool Scene poetry and music collective, by 1969 under the direction of fledgling promoter Doreen Allen, O’Connor’s began to book rock acts. Brocken notes that Liverpool rock acts such as Nutz and Marseille appeared on Thursday night residency slots at the venue (2010, 224). Indeed, Doreen Allen recalled in a recent interview that “At O’Connor’s I started putting on metal bands, I put on Judas Priest and UFO—they stayed at my Mum’s house

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afterwards. So that was 1969/70” (Allen, 2018).3 While the term “metal” would not necessarily have been used in this period to refer to such bands, it is notable that Allen was one of the earliest promoters championing heavy rock music within Liverpool. The Liverpool Stadium Prior to their time working at Eric’s, Doreen Allen moved from O’Connor’s Tavern to work with promoter Roger Eagle at another crucial venue for the development of the Merseyside heavy rock scene—the Liverpool Boxing Stadium (usually simply referred to as the Liverpool Stadium). Eagle was a central figure in establishing the stadium’s reputation amongst the rock community during the early 1970s. His company, Triad Promotions and their promotion of a bill featuring Free and Mott the Hoople in September 1970 led to a gig attended by over 2000 fans from Merseyside and North Wales (Brocken 2010, 224). Subsequent concerts from the likes of Led Zeppelin (in November 1971), Deep Purple (February 1973), Black Sabbath (January 1972 and March 1973) and AC/DC (November 1976) that took place at the Liverpool Stadium were crucial for galvanizing the emerging heavy rock and metal music scene in Merseyside. Roger Eagle’s role as a promoter continues to be celebrated by enthusiasts of the Liverpool Stadium era, and it is telling that these are remembered as “Rock Years” in a blog constructed by members of this scene (Liverpool Stadium Rock Years 2019). Contributors to this blog articulate how visiting the stadium to attend rock gigs became a “way of life” (Liverpool Stadium Rock Years 2019). The rituals of arriving early to “hang out” outside the venue in the queue and to socialize, as well as the adoption of styles (long hair, leather and denim) described by blog contributors, indicate that by the mid-1970s there was a growing heavy rock scene within Merseyside. When he recalled his experiences in the queue and entering the stadium, Brocken, who attended the Free and Mott the Hoople gig, articulated how exciting the period was: The thing that really excited me, I always remember the first gig […] when going into the entrance of a boxing stadium, I’m seeing the underground 3  According to Larkin, Judas Priest played their first gig in 1971 (1995, 185). Consequently, it is likely that this event took place at a later date.

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press, and seeing banks of import albums that Geoff Davis had, and Norman Killon was with him and Norman became the DJ at Eric’s selling all of this stuff, and the smell of patchouli, which I still love to this day. It was a tribal gathering. (Brocken 2019)

Thus, the sensation of queueing up and then entering the physical space of Liverpool Stadium, even before the aural impact of the bands themselves, was certainly part of what made these rock concerts so affective for many who attended them. These venues, then, were as much hubs for the local heavy rock community as they were sites for viewing live bands. Indeed, for some, stepping into venues like the Liverpool Stadium was powerfully affective because it felt as if they were leaving the city behind. As self-described “trogg” Les Parry recalled to Brocken: “Going into the Stadium was like entering another world. It was a place ‘beyond’ Liverpool and all of its musical hang ups; it was like moving to London for a couple of hours and feeling like you were getting in touch with what was really going on” (cited in Brocken 2010, 31). The Liverpool Stadium “rock years” did not have a particularly long life. By October 1976 Roger Eagle had opened Eric’s, a club that catered to the emerging punk scene and is celebrated as providing the breeding ground for acclaimed Liverpool post-punk acts such as The Teardrop Explodes and Echo and the Bunnymen (Du Noyer 2004). The Liverpool Stadium stopped hosting rock concerts in the same year. Aside from Eagle’s move away from the Stadium to focus upon Eric’s, there were other factors that contributed to the decline of rock gigs in this venue. In its final year, the reputation of the Liverpool Stadium was damaged by an infamous crime that took place both on and outside its premises. A brutal gang rape took place during a Thin Lizzy concert on Saturday 20 March 1976. The victim was a 19-year-old woman who had been seized and dragged outside by a gang of ten youths after leaving her husband and going to the toilet in an isolated part of the Stadium. The gang also stole the woman’s gold wedding ring, watch and coat. The Daily Mirror reported on the incident and quoted Lizzy frontman Phil Lynott, who said that they were “sickened” by the attack and appealed to anyone from within the crowd of 1400 people to “shop these people straight away” (Corless, The Daily Mirror, 1976, 11). Four youths were eventually charged with unlawful sexual intercourse, robbery and indecent assault in Liverpool Magistrates Court (The Guardian August 26, 1976). Several

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respondents remember this moment and connect it with the downfall of the Liverpool Stadium rock era. Gordon Logan from early 1980s’ Merseyside metal band, Robespierre, put it succinctly: “It [the Stadium scene] died because a girl got raped” (Logan and Cooke 2018). The nature of the crime and the fact that it garnered national and local media publicity would have certainly tarnished the Stadium’s reputation. Nonetheless, there were other localized factors that contributed to the demise of the Stadium as a rock venue in 1976. Notably, it appears that on several occasions the venue was damaged by overenthusiastic crowds and possibly people intent on committing vandalism. David Cooke recalls how during a Dr. Feelgood (January 1976) gig “the place got trashed” (Logan and Cooke 2018) and fellow band member Logan reflects that there had begun to be a “scally element [who] suddenly started to go there” (Logan and Cooke 2018). Indeed, in a review of the above-mentioned Thin Lizzy gig for Melody Maker, Harry Doherty claimed that, as a result of an exuberant crowd, ten rows of seating had been reduced to “mashed wood strewn around the floor” (Doherty 1976). The rock gigs at the Liverpool Stadium did not stop immediately after the infamous Thin Lizzy gig. Indeed, both Ted Nugent and AC/DC played at the venue later in 1976. However, after a Sex Pistols concert that was cancelled owing in large part to the media controversy surrounding the band, the last actual gig that was played at the Stadium was an Eddie and the Hot Rods/Ultravox bill on 18 December 1976. The Moonstone and Liverpool’s Pub Rock Scene The rock scene within the area also began to cluster around other smaller venues during the early-to-mid 1970s. In Liverpool city centre, the Moonstone pub, which was in St Johns Precinct shopping centre, became another key concert venue. Local heavy rock acts such as Nutz and Marseille played regularly and built up a loyal following. Nutz also played several times at the Liverpool Stadium, supporting fellow Liverpudlians Supercharge in March 1975 and Black Sabbath in March 1973, but also headlining the venue in May 1975. Commenting on the significance of the Moonstone in this period, Robespierre’s Gordon Logan asserted that: Everything came from the Moonstone, every single rock band from Liverpool. That was the nucleus of it. That’s where it all originally sprung

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from. Everyone knew each other. It was so incestuous. Every band that formed in Liverpool would have gone to the Moonstone. (Logan and Cooke 2018)

However, as he went on to recount, even during the mid-1970s, the Moonstone rarely featured bands that he understood as having a heavy metal sound, rather many of the acts favoured progressive rock or AOR, which was something that Logan wanted to rebel against: I mean when I played the Moonstone, we’re talking ‘75/'76 it was like progressive rock bands that were playing then. It was myself and my cousin, he’s dead now, unfortunately, and this guy Dave, I think he lives abroad somewhere now. But we were called S Hawk, which was short for Shite Hawk. We just did a rebellious thing because we hated all these bands. They were so over-rehearsed and so progressive rock and so into themselves. We were undoubtedly the first punk band in Liverpool, but we called it perv rock. We didn’t know what we were doing. (Logan and Cooke 2018)

Logan’s testimony contrasts with those of Cohen and Lashua’s interviewees, who remembered the Moonstone as a “more of a heavy rock venue” rather than one associated with progressive rock (2010, 68). Tony Bolland (2009), on the other hand, suggests in volume two of his book Plug Inn that the significance of the wider pub rock circuit in St Johns Precinct and the wider city centre should not be underestimated. For him, bands such as Marseille, Nutz and Export were “heroes on the stages” in the “triangle of pubs” in the Precinct—The Moonstone, The Sportsman and The Star and Garter (Bolland 2009, 171). Indeed, in stark contrast to Logan, he laments how punk rock “arrived to break up the scene”, preventing some of the bands he admired from becoming more successful (Bolland 2009, 171). Furthermore, Bolland asserts how Oscar’s on Hanover Street became “the venue to play” by the late 1970s because “though not a pub it had the same atmosphere as the Moonstone and the Star [and Garter] and many musicians would go there after gigs to watch other bands” (2009, 172). Despite these differing perspectives on the Liverpool heavy rock scene of the 1970s, what was clear was that this decade had seen the establishment of a circuit of pubs willing to host different rock bands. These venues nurtured several bands, notably the likes of Nutz, Marseille and Export, that would go on to have (albeit short-lived) international success

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and play larger venues within and outside of the city. At the same time, during an era when some members of the emerging Liverpool rock scene felt vulnerable due to socio-cultural tensions, the venues constituted spaces for the formation of communities of like-minded individuals. As we will see in the next section, this environment for rock venues would largely continue into the next couple of decades.

Stable Foundations for a Live Heavy Rock and Metal Scene: 1977–Early 2000s The Liverpool Empire Established theatres within Liverpool city centre were able to partly offset the loss of Liverpool Stadium and cater for the growing demand for rock and metal concerts during the latter part of the 1970s and into the 1980s. Influential rock journalist Malcolm Dome points out that the Liverpool Empire Theatre became a regular venue for heavy rock gigs during the late 1960s and 1970s: Liverpool Empire was the one. That was the one that everyone remembers. Of course, let’s not forget that’s where Deep Purple Mark 4 played their last ever show in 1976. So that of itself added a certain layer of myth and legend to the venue. I went to Liverpool Empire quite a few times. It was always a really strong venue. The whole set up was such that the audience really got into the music. I know bands used to love playing there. That became one of the staple theatrical venues on the UK circuit for a lot of bands. (Dome 2018)

Ironically, although the above-mentioned Deep Purple gig became mythologized, it did so for quite infamous reasons. While the event was a sell-out, it received “disastrous reviews” due to the band’s poor performance (especially from outgoing guitarist Tommy Bolin) (Cohen and Kronenburg 2018, 125). Nonetheless, Cohen and Kronenburg also indicate that the Empire was an important venue for heavy rock during the late 1960s and 1970s and write that: “the rise of progressive and heavy rock was reflected in Empire performances by bands such as Genesis (1973), Led Zeppelin (1973) and Queen (1977)” (2018, 125). By the end of the 1970s, some have suggested that the Empire’s importance as a site for heavy rock performance was starting to wane. For

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instance, Simon Robinson’s recollections on the Deep Purple Appreciation Society website about a 1977 concert by Rainbow at the Empire are interesting because of the way they suggest that the venue’s hospitality towards rock performance was changing. The concert especially became infamous for the actions of guitarist Ritchie Blackmore and their impact on the very architecture of the venue. Robinson notes that Blackmore had disappeared from the main stage to reappear in one of the first-floor boxes and proceeded to destroy his Stratocaster guitar. However, as Robinson writes: “He also did considerable damage to the ornate plasterwork too and got a life ban from the place!” Robinson went on to suggest that this also: “led to a reduction in the number of rock bands allowed to play there, and the Royal Court Theatre just across the road eventually took over as Liverpool’s premier live music venue” (Deep Purple Appreciation Society 2004). In contrast, musician and writer Paul Evangelista, an avid attendee at rock gigs in the late 1970s and early 1980s, contends that at least in the short term the Royal Court “didn’t really take over because it was for bands that weren’t big enough for the Empire. So, say if [for] Iron Maiden and Def Leppard it was the early days, [they would play at the Royal Court] then, when they were bigger, they’d graduate to the Empire” (Evangelista 2020). The Liverpool Royal Court It was certainly the case that by the 1980s a multitude of rock and metal concerts took place at Liverpool Royal Court Theatre. As Fitzgerald (2016) suggests, in 1980 bookings at the Royal Court shifted entirely to accommodate rock and pop music, whereas historically the venue (which dates back to the early nineteenth century) had attracted some of the top theatre productions and attractions, as well as being a popular venue for pantomimes. O’Hara (2022 forthcoming) makes clear in the Royal Court’s history of its concerts that between 1980 and 2005 some of the most successful names in heavy rock and metal graced the Royal Court stage. These included Whitesnake (1981, 1984), Bon Jovi (1986), Def Leppard (1981, 1983), Ozzy Osbourne (1981, 1982), Gary Moore (1982, 2000, 2002), Thin Lizzy (1983), Twisted Sister (1983), Motörhead (1983, 1991), and Dio (1983). In addition to hosting some of the most commercially successful acts of this era, the Royal Court also booked some of the most cutting edge and critically acclaimed alternative rock and extreme metal

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bands from this period. For instance, they hosted Testament and Anthrax in 1987 during the rise of the thrash metal movement, influential black metal act Emperor in 1992 and rap metal crossover acts such as Faith No More in 1988 and Rage Against the Machine in 1993. In addition to the main stage, the Royal Court theatre’s crypt was used for a number of heavy rock, metal and punk gigs. The crypt venue was entitled “The World Downstairs” and O’Hara 2022 forthcoming cites stories which indicate how people associated this venue with frequent metal gigs during the 1990s. During this period Sal Turner recalls how one of her favourite gigs at this venue was death metal band, Cannibal Corpse: My third gig was with my friend—and she hated it—but it is down as one of my all-time favourite gigs. It was Cannibal Corpse. I stood at the front—it had a little step stage, so I had my hands on the stage and I was head banging away. [Vocalist] Chris Barnes was still in it then and he stood on my hand twice. So, I was like, ‘I’m never washing this hand again.’ (Turner 2016)

With the venue falling into disrepair and needing saving from permanent closure, from 2005 onwards rock and pop gigs at the Royal Court ceased and the venue was given over to stand-up comedy and once again became an established home for theatrical productions. It has since been extensively refurbished and is now very much purpose built for theatrical productions, rather than concerts. From the Moonstone to Milo’s Cohen and Lashua note that the Moonstone pub was a space for the formation of a rock community and their respondents indicate that it was an important site for those who felt “different” (2010, 69). The pub is characterized by Cohen and Lashua as a space of solidarity within the rock community. This was epitomized by the fact that it was renamed Milo’s in 1984 out of respect for John Mylett, the drummer from Nutz (and later Rage) who died in a traffic accident (Cohen and Lashua 2010, p.  74). Describing the Moonstone, one of Cohen and Lashua’s interviewees reflected that: “The Moonstone was a watering hole for people who would otherwise be persecuted. Liverpool could be a hateful fucking place for anyone who was a bit different” (cited in Cohen and Lashua 2010, 69). Discussing the overall sense of community that existed within the 1970s and 1980s rock venues in the city, Gordon Logan affirmed that:

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I mean you could go there [the Liverpool Stadium] on your own and know every single person in there, the same again with Milo’s or Wilsons. I mean we’d go out to town. I never went to meet anyone. I’d never go with anyone into Liverpool, even though [in] them days Liverpool was a very dangerous place. […] But if you kept yourself to where you knew and where was going to be just metal heads and whatever, it was the safest place in the world. You could just go anywhere and you would know every single person. It was like a social club. It was just superb. You really could just go anywhere in the town, those venues, and just know that you could just walk in and know every single person in there. (Logan and Cooke 2018)

Milo’s continued to host small heavy rock and metal gigs throughout the 1980s until 1989. According to RAW magazine gig listings, as late as January 1989 Milo’s hosted metal bands. For instance, British metal act Excalibur played at the venue on 26 January 1989. However, by the middle of 1989 according to the same listings, it appears that heavy rock and metal gigs at the venue had ceased. Sloanes/the Krazyhouse The gap for small metal and heavy rock gigs in the city was quickly filled, however, by a new venue that began to feature in the listings. Sloanes, a nightclub on Wood Street, began to be regularly listed in RAW magazine, and the first gigs advertised included Slammer (who played at Sloanes on July 27, 1989) and Horse (London)/The Almighty (who played on 17 August 1989). Sloanes, which would soon be renamed the Krazyhouse, hosted metal and heavy rock gigs throughout the 1990s and into the 2000s. It became established as a major night club in the North-West and expanded its remit to include not just a rock audience, but an “indie”/alternative crowd, as well as catering for the rising student population in Liverpool. Yet, even during its period of growth, the Krazyhouse continued to host various rock and metal gigs. International heavy rock and metal artists that performed at the venue during this period included Badlands, Love/Hate, Paradise Lost, Great White, Korn, Fear Factory, Placebo, Bush, Cathedral, Anathema and Biohazard (Haggar 2018). Influential American metal act Korn played at the Krazyhouse in 1996 and was supported by Liverpool’s Bullyrag. Described by Strong as a crossover act that blended “bass-heavy rap/rock and reggae/hardcore, techno/soul”, the band were formed in

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Toxteth and developed a strong local reputation during the mid-1990s (2001, 95). As their first guitarist Paul Ryan recounts, the band’s live performances created “massive interest from record companies” and Bullyrag eventually became the first act signed to the rejuvenated Vertigo record label (Ryan 2018). The band released a trio of singles, as well as a solitary album for the label in 1998 (Strong 2001). The second decade of the millennium saw the Krazyhouse’s reputation as a thriving rock/alternative music venue decline and long-time DJ at the venue JJ Haggar reflected recently that the venue had carried on well past its prime (Haggar 2018). In July 2018 the Krazyhouse closed its doors and was renovated and rebranded as Electrik Warehouse, reopening as a club on 15 September 2018 that still maintains a focus on Saturday nights as a night devoted to rock and metal music (Kirwin 2018). The Swan, Wilsons and the Importance of Wood Street During the 1970s and 1980s in particular, it seems that Wood Street in Liverpool city centre was something of a hub for those interested in heavy rock and metal. In addition to the emergence of the above-mentioned Sloanes in 1989, there were already venues on the street that were known for hosting rock bands. Wilsons (or “the Wilsons” as it was commonly described) was a bar at the bottom end of Wood street (near to where Sloanes would open). Contributors to an online public forum discussion group hosted by the Yo Liverpool! (n.d.) website mention that this bar hosted rock gigs from the likes of Sliced Bread, which was a pub rock group featuring former members of Liverpool hard rock band Nutz. Gordon Logan from Robespierre provided some insights into the venue and how it acquired its name: The reason it was called Wilsons, it was called something else but it was Wilsons Brewery and they had a sign up for Wilsons Brewery. The thing said Wilsons, I mean the brewery. No one ever knew what the place was called. It was just some crappy old man’s pub, all wood panel slats inside. It was a horrible place inside but it just had the Wilsons Brewery sign outside so we just said Wilsons. We didn’t know what the hell the place was called.

Although, as we have seen, Logan understood Wilsons in a similar way to Milos as a kind of safe space for the rock community, this venue is remembered by Paul Evangelista as somewhat intolerant of different

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subcultures. Evangelista described the reaction of the crowd in the venue when his Goth punk band, Playtime, performed there in the early 1980s: Wilsons was another memorable one because that was a rock club and they didn’t take particularly kindly to non-rock music and non-rock people coming in. I remember our guitarist who had quite long hair that used to tend to crimp, he went on with his uncrimped hair and a rock t-shirt, I can’t remember which t-shirt he had on but he tried to sort of rock himself up for the night so he wouldn’t get booed off or bottled off or something along those lines. We didn’t, but we didn’t go down great. It wasn’t their scene at all and we never went back. In those days, and particularly earlier in the 80s, there was a definite dividing line between being a punk fan and being a rock fan and it was quite a risky occasion going in Wilsons. We didn’t tend to go in there very often because by that time I had a blonde Mohican and you stood out in places like that. They didn’t take too kindly to it. We didn’t get chased out that time but we started getting a few comments and we thought we’d probably better make our way out of here and we’d probably go up to the Swan where again it was very much a rock crowd but they seemed to be more accepting there. It’s not as if there was more punks there than there was in Wilsons it just seemed to be more open to it and I can only put that down to them being an older crowd who remember when having long hair was seen as something shocking and they could sort of remember being that shocking person, whereas the Wilsons was people our age but who were just into rock music. (Evangelista 2020)

Thus, it seems that Wilsons, in this period at least, was home to a younger and slightly more purist heavy rock crowd. Such testimony also reveals that, while rock venues were interpreted as safe havens for some, they still had the potential to house subcultural tensions. Similar to the tensions between mods, skinheads and troggs mentioned earlier, during the above moment described by Evangelista, the intolerance of the heavy rock fans once again related to a clash of subcultural styles. As Evangelista also mentioned, another crucial place for those interested in rock music was the Swan Inn, which has remained a focal point for the heavy rock and metal community on Merseyside for several decades. Although not usually a venue for live music like other pub venues such as The Moonstone/Milo’s, the Swan is an established gathering space for scene members. As Chapple (2008) suggests, one of the main reasons for this is the popularity of the pub’s “legendary rock juke box”, which he

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notes has been part of The Swan’s unique environment “for well over 30 years” (Chapple 2008, 66). The Swan’s position at the top end of Wood Street also meant that it has long acted as a starting point for clubbers or gig-goers who planned go on to Sloanes/the Krazyhouse, as well as a retreat from such venues. The Gallery/Stairways In the meantime, in Birkenhead on the Wirral another rock music club venue had predated the likes of Sloanes. It was opened at the end of the 1970s by John Reid from Liverpool band Strife. The Gallery, as it was initially called, opened during 1979. Reid told the Get Ready to Rock website that: “I left Strife in 1979 when my son was born and opened ‘The Gallery’ club in Birkenhead and put all the rock bands on I used to work with, like Iron Maiden, Saxon, Alex Harvey and lots of others” (Reid to Randall, 2006). Reid went on to state that he sold the club under the name of Stairways around 1983. In addition to securing gigs by emerging British metal bands, Reid indicated in another interview with Tony Bolland for the book Plug Inn that, when he ran the venue, he staged a number of local rock bands “including Thunderboots, Liverpool Express and 29th & Dearborn” (Bolland 2006, 195). Stairways survived as a rock club and venue for heavy metal gigs well into the 2000s. It has an interesting history as far as alternative rock and heavy metal music is concerned because of its managers’ and owners’ openness to taking chances on emerging promoters. Marc Jones, who was a pivotal figure as a DJ and promoter in the metal and hard rock scene throughout the 1980s and 1990s, explained in a recent interview with the website Link2Wales how he got started in promotion work at Stairways: After Uni, the club Stairways in Birkenhead had an alternative night on a Thursday and one night I just said to John Weaver, the promoter (and of Skeleton Records) I think I can do a better job than the regular DJ. I also suggested that if he gave me a chance and by working together, we could do something really different for Birkenhead; and so it proved. We put some great bands on including The Godfathers, Icicle Works, Shamen, Half Man Half Biscuit and The Proclaimers. (Jones 2020)

When Jones brought the first incarnation of influential alternative rock act Faith No More to Stairways, he indicated that this brought him to the

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attention of the owners of Stairways and later the Tivoli in Buckley (Jones 2020). Jones went on to work as DJ and promoter at Planet X where he was involved with putting on goth, hardcore punk and extreme metal acts such as Carcass (see next section). Stairways continued to support rock and metal club nights, gigs and new promoters. Indeed, a major promoter of small and medium independent metal music events within Merseyside during the first two decades of the new millennium, Sal Turner from Whiplash Promotions, started off in 2001 as a DJ at Stairways running an extreme metal night there. Turner’s stint as a DJ started, as she put it during an interview, on a “purely accidental” basis (Turner 2016). While out with friends at a club night she was stood at the bar criticizing the DJ’s choices of song sequences, as she explained: Because we’d got to know a few people and I was stood next to the manager, I was like, “Oh, you can’t do that! You can’t put this next to that and…” And he [the manager] turned around and said, “You reckon you could do better?” And I said, “Oh definitely—with my eyes shut.” He said, “Well, what would you do?” I said, “We’d have an extreme metal night. We’d have metal that isn’t played anywhere.” He went, “Second Saturday of every month suit you?” (Turner 2016)

It was from this position as a DJ that Turner was then offered the opportunity to promote her first gig at Stairways, which was by Liverpool death metal band, Diamanthian. However, by 2007 Stairways had closed. It has since reopened several times under different guises, yet its days as a venue and major rock club would seem to be behind it. Stairways continues to be fondly remembered among the regulars and wider community of rock fans from Wirral and Merseyside. The Facebook community group, Stairways & Angel Memories, at the time of writing had 854 members and the group has become a virtual space for the sharing of photographs and recollections of the club. Planet X Another small club venue in Liverpool city centre that helped to nurture a national extreme metal scene was Planet X, which was situated at various locations including Temple Street and then Hardman Street. Although

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principally a Goth club, according to Digby from Earache Records, Planet X hosted “nearly all the early UK hardcore and grindcore bands’ early shows” (Pearson 2009). This was largely thanks to the policies of the club owner Doreen Allen who was open to allowing other promoters to host a night at the venue. As Evangelista recounts, “There was a huge [extreme] metal community, thanks I think largely to this guy called Pek, who sadly passed away I think sometime in the 90s. […] Without him, I don’t think Liverpool would have had that scene at all because he really knew his stuff. He was enthusiastic, he was committed to it and put a lot of effort into promoting his nights” (Evangelista 2020). For instance, according to the information on posters and gig listings gathered by Hector’s Pages (2019) (metallipromo.com), between 1987 and 1990 grindcore and death metal pioneers Carcass played at Planet X on 14 separate occasions. The Merseyside-based band opened for grindcore acts such as Extreme Noise Terror (18 September 1987) and death metal acts such as Bolt Thrower (14 May 1987, 19 March 1988). Carcass also supported doom metal acts St Vitus (9 April 1989) and death/doom pioneers Paradise Lost (2 May 1990) at Planet X. The venue also acted as a breeding ground for Merseyside death-doom act, Anathema, who regularly played at Planet X during the early 1990s. However, as journalist Malcolm Dome argued during an interview, the fact that these bands started out playing gigs in Liverpool did not necessarily equate with a scene. As Dome put it: I was certainly aware of Carcass, absolutely. Aware of the scene in Liverpool? No. Was there really a scene? I have to say, when it comes to UK thrash and extreme metal and during that period, I think the reason it got overlooked a lot is because we didn’t have the quality the rest of the world was coming up with. I think we suffered a hangover from the new wave of British heavy metal. But was there really a Liverpool extreme metal scene, really? With the exception of Carcass and, in their very early days, Anathema, those are the only two I can think of. (Dome 2018)

These issues regarding how to define scenes will be focused on in more depth during Chap. 4. For now, it is pertinent to note that in relation to the notion that Planet X housed an extreme metal music scene consisting of various artists, Jeff Walker, Carcass’ frontman and bassist concurred with Dome’s assessment. Walker (2018) stated that: “it wasn’t really a

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scene, as far as we were concerned. I mean we were the scene, us and old friends”. Nonetheless, Walker went on to indicate that “We had a bit of a local following” and that their gigs at Planet X “started to get packed out” (Walker 2018). As well as the hardcore punk events that were organized by Pek, Walker also cited how Marc Jones was booking some metal gigs at Planet X as well as the Liverpool Royal Court during this period.4 However, owner Doreen Allen acknowledged that “Planet X had had its day by around ‘93, I think we’d run out of steam by then” (Allen 2018). Thus, by the early 1990s a key venue that had supported emerging underground talent was lost. Shops and Spaces for “Hanging Out” In conjunction with the above-mentioned music venues, the Merseyside heavy rock and metal scene was also sustained by various retail spaces, pubs and city centre spaces that became zones in which scene members would congregate. During the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s, city centre record shops such as Probe and Penny Lane Records catered for customers interested in alternative, rock and metal music. Moreover, the alternative shopping centre, Quiggins, which first opened on School Lane in 1988 (see Houghton 2017), became an important space for young people interested in rock music-related subcultures such as Goth, punk and heavy metal. Scene members have discussed how they used to meet fellow band members and socialize with people who had shared interests by “hanging around Quiggins” (Mortimer 2015). In addition to Quiggins, the other major hang out space for youths interested in the rock and metal music scene during the early part of the new millennium was the area outside the Liverpool Law Courts in the city centre. Tom Ghannad recalls that: “I’d get the train into Liverpool and we’d meet at the courts and everyone congregated. And then you’d go to gigs on the night” (Ghannad 2016). Ghannad estimates that there were approximately 300 people congregating outside the law courts every Saturday during the early 2000s. However, as will be elucidated in the 4  In addition, Walker mentioned how Jones was also involved with booking occasional metal gigs at the Bierkeller, a cellar-based venue which was at the bottom of Mount Pleasant, close to the city centre.

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next chapter, the city’s approaches to culture-led regeneration which gathered momentum during the mid-2000s had the counter-productive impact of restricting and relocating such subcultural activity.

Conclusion: Community, Stability and the Nurturing of Scenes We have seen that the overall environment for a heavy rock and metal live music scene within Merseyside was one that for a substantial period of time fostered the development of community and nurtured new artists. For the majority of the period between the early 1970s up until the early 2000s, larger venues able to accommodate internationally acclaimed rock acts existed alongside small venues which were hospitable to niche acts and upcoming bands (both local and national). For instance, during the Liverpool Stadium (1970–1976) rock era, the Moonstone and, to an extent, the Cavern, provided opportunities for new bands to perform. The Moonstone, in particular, was also a place where those who were part of this emerging rock scene could meet, socialize and reflect on their shared interests. Likewise, when the Liverpool Royal Court (1980–2005) was the prominent Merseyside venue to see major heavy rock and metal artists live, Milo’s (formerly the Moonstone), Planet X, Wilsons and Sloanes/ Krazyhouse were venues that afforded opportunities for new bands and emerging scenes (notably Planet X for grindcore/extreme metal). Such venues hosted club nights and gigs on a regular enough basis to sustain a vibrant heavy rock and metal scene that was concentrated within familiar places and spaces. In addition, as can be seen below in Fig. 2.1, another key factor was accessibility. City centre venues like Milo’s, the Royal Court and Wilsons were in short walking distance from each other, as was the Swan Inn. These venues were also close to public transport links such as Liverpool Lime Street train station. However, as we will see in the next chapter, from the early years of the new millennium onwards, the live circuit for heavy rock and metal gigs has been increasingly subject to more-or-less consistent change. On the surface, change has seemed to equate to growth. A proliferation of venues that have hosted metal gigs in recent decades reflects the fact that across the city the live music sector has grown. Yet, what will become apparent is

Fig. 2.1  Major venues for hard rock and heavy metal during the 1980s and 1990s (map image by Milos Simpraga)

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that a shifting environment for live rock and metal music, even in the context of a booming overall live music sector in Liverpool, has paradoxically threatened the sustenance of the above-mentioned communities.

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Kirwin, Ellen. 2018. This Is What It’s Like in New Nightclub Electrik in the Former Krazyhouse on Wood Street. Liverpool Echo.Accessed 21 June 2019. https://www.liverpoolecho.co.uk/whats-­o n/music-­n ightlife-­n ews/ what-­its-­like-­new-­nightclub-­15213735. Larkin, Colin. 1995. The Guinness Who’s Who of Heavy Metal. Enfield, Middlesex: Guinness Publishing Ltd. Leigh, Spencer. 2008. The Cavern: The Story of the Cavern Club. London: SAF Publishing. Liverpool Stadium Rock Years: Your Memories. 2019. Accessed 10 May 2019. https://liverpoolstadium.blogspot.com/p/your-­memories.html. Logan, Gordon, and Cooke, David. 2018. Unpublished Interview with Gordon Logan and David Cooke. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 7 July 2018. Mortimer, Joe. 2015. Unpublished Interview with Joe Mortimer. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 17 July 2015. Negus, Keith. 1996. Popular Music in Theory. Cambridge: Polity. O’Hara, Sarah. 2022 forthcoming. Play It Again: A History of Royal Court Theatre Concerts: 1980–2005. Liverpool: Liverpool Royal Court. Pearson, Digby. 2009. Memories of Planet X Club, Liverpool. Ask Earache. 23 September. Accessed 10 May 2019. http://askearache.blogspot. com/2009/09/memories-­of-­planet-­x-­club-­liverpool.html. Reid, John. 2006. 10 Questions with John Reid (Strife). Interviewed by David Randall. Get Ready to Rock. Accessed 18 December 2020. http://www.getreadytorock.com/10questions/john_reid.htm. Roberts, Les, and Sara Cohen. 2014. Unauthorizing Popular Music Heritage: Outline of a Critical Framework. International Journal of Heritage Studies 20 (3): 241–261. Ryan, Paul. 2018. Paul Ryan (Ex-Damascus): Tales of a Rock and Roll Mercenary. Interview with Axe Crazy: The NWOBHM Blog. Accessed 21 January 2021. http://axe-­crazy.blogspot.com/p/paul-­r yan-­ex-­damascus.html. Sewell, William H., Jr. 1997. Geertz, Cultural Systems, and History: From Synchrony to Transformation. Representations 59: 35–55. Steer, Bill. 2018. Unpublished Interview with Bill Steer. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 8 August 2018. Strong, M.C. 2001. The Great Metal Discography. Edinburgh: MOJO Books. The Guardian. 1976. For Trial on Rape Charges. August 26. Thomson, Graeme. 2016. Cowboy Song: The Authorised Biography of Philip Lynott. London: Constable. Turner, Sal. 2016. Unpublished Interview with Sal Turner. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 13 July 2016. Walker, Jeff. 2018. Unpublished Interview with Jeff Walker. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 5 July 2018.

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Walser, Robert. 1993. Running with the Devil: Power, Gender, and Madness in Heavy Metal Music. Hanover, NH: Wesleyan University Press. Webster, Emma, Matt Brennan, Adam Behr, Martin Cloonan with Jake Ansell. 2018. Valuing Live Music: The UK Live Music Census 2017 Report. Accessed 10 May 2019. http://uklivemusiccensus.org/wp-­content/uploads/2018/03/ UK-­Live-­Music-­Census-­2017-­executive-­summary.pdf. Weinstein, Deena. 2000. Heavy Metal: The Music and Its Culture. Boston, MA: DaCapo. Williams, Raymond. 1961. The Long Revolution. Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Pelican Books. YO! Liverpool. n.d. Architecture in Liverpool Discussion: Wilsons Bar, Wood Street. Accessed 18 December 2020. https://www.yoliverpool.com/forum/ showthread.php?6013-Wilsons-Bar-Wood-Street&s=8aab64d4fe8a7995a3bbc 5be879e4e8d.

CHAPTER 3

Shaken Foundations? Venues and a Changing Live Music Scene

The scene needs a stable foundation and I don’t think Liverpool’s ever had that, mainly because, as I said, venues close down quite quickly. Properties are redeveloped very quickly. You had Wolstenholme Creative Space, which was a great venue space. I met a couple of my closest friends there. But it was redeveloped. As soon as the gigs get traction, they’re redeveloped and moved on. —Ghannad (2016)

Above is an extract from an interview with Tom Ghannad, an active member of (and passionate advocate for) the metal scene in Liverpool since the early 2000s. Out of all the interviews I conducted for the Metal on Merseyside project, Tom’s testimony was perhaps the most forceful. He depicted a “damaged” scene that was in a constant state of flux and at risk of decline (Ghannad 2016). The cause of this was attributed to a loss of venues for gigs and the loss of spaces for metal fans to gather and meet each other. However, as we saw in the previous chapter, during the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s there was evidence to indicate that there were, to use Ghannad’s terms, stable foundations. The environment for live heavy rock and metal music in these periods, which consisted of a circuit of smaller venues such as The Moonstone/Milo’s, Sloanes/Krazyhouse, Wilsons and Planet X © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 N. Hassan, Metal on Merseyside, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-77681-7_3

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coexisting alongside large venues such as the Liverpool Empire and the Royal Court, afforded the growth of new local artists and fan communities. Thus, the perception of a lack of stability and an existential crisis in the post-millennium Merseyside metal scene is an intriguing one. It elicits a central question—what changes have occurred that give rise to the impression that this scene is characterized by instability and is in a weakened state? This chapter will examine this question by drawing on and critically engaging with ecological approaches to live music.

An Ecological Perspective on Live Music The concept of ecology is used in much of the literature on live music industries to emphasize how the production of live music within locations is dependent upon different connections. In the Executive Summary of The UK Live Music Census 2017 Report, a live music ecology is defined as consisting of “the physical spaces in a locale and the social networks between the key stakeholders—musicians, promoters, etc.—who use such spaces. The ecology is also shaped by external constraints such as policy, regulation and access to funding and hence the dynamic human structures that create and implement these constraints also shape the local ecology” (Webster et  al. 2018, 12). Although the term “ecology” has crept into policy discourse at the local and national level as a buzzword, Behr et al. (2016) maintain its value as an analytical concept for studying relationships between live music and environment. While the notion of “scene” (explored more fully in the next chapter) stresses that “music meaning-­ making” is not limited by the confines of place, Behr et al. advocate an ecological approach that pays explicit attention to the constraints of place and the materiality of lived culture (2016, 6). This sort of ecological perspective has also been adopted within the literature on music and well-being from fields like sociology and music therapy. Community music therapist Gary Ansdell provides a useful broad definition of ecology as a “balance of interlinking forms and processes in a context that sustains them and guarantees diversity” (Ansdell 2004, 74). Although they focus on different aspects of musical and social practice, what unites scholars of live music industry and those proposing an ecological perspective on well-being is their emphasis on critically considering the environments in which music may be accessed and on issues of diversity and sustainability. Ansdell and Tia DeNora emphasize that it is important to think critically and holistically about “how an environment serves

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an individual or group of individuals” because this is “a question about resource allocation and thus an ethical question” (DeNora 2015, 29). Consequently, such an ecological perspective stresses that because environments serve people, changes to resources must be carefully assessed. To return to Ansdell’s definition, it implies that changes can shift “the balance” in such a way that can threaten diversity and the sustenance of cultures. For instance, as Behr, Brennan and Cloonan make clear in their examination of the Queen’s Hall music venue in Edinburgh, the “ecological nature” of live music means that even the introduction of new venues in a city would have to be balanced against the “impact on existing provision” (2014, 415). As will be discussed towards the end of this chapter, although this way of thinking can encourage awareness of the impact of things like the loss or shifting of music venues, we need to be cautious with the notion of “a balance” because it can lead to the sense that there is a kind of pre-existing “unity” within a given area. Indeed, this chapter will reveal that, when it comes to the venues used by those on the heavy rock and metal scenes in Merseyside, this is far from the case. Although there is an abundance of scholarly work on music scenes, Riches and Lashua suggest that a sensitivity to an ecological perspective is often lacking when they argue that there: “has been a lack of attention to the ways in which people interact within particular musical spaces, how spatial repositionings affect scenes and scene members, and how subcultural spaces are part of and vulnerable to broader social, economic, political and cultural processes” (2014, 227). Part of the aim of this chapter is to build on this type of work and connect an ecological perspective on live music with consideration of metal music scenes. Consequently, it will examine what happens when places for live metal music are lost or relocated, but also contextualize such developments by considering how they connect with broader changes within Liverpool and surrounding areas. Yet, it will also stress that such places need to be understood in relation to how people appropriate them and how their environmental features influence the ways that this can be done. In other words, following Brocken’s recent work in this area, we will see that when it comes to live music scenes for heavy rock and metal in Liverpool, “buildings matter” (Brocken 2019, 92). The passages of description drawn from field notes, as well as the interview data that follows, reveal the ways that several venues central to a live music circuit for rock and metal have been subject to “re-­articulations” which enabled them to become sites of music performance (Brocken

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2019, 76). At the same time, extracts from field notes and interviews will emphasize how such sites were experienced. Furthermore, the notion that it was important to sustain Merseyside’s heavy rock and metal scenes, which was often implicit within scene members’ discussions of venues, will continue to be a significant theme both here and in the chapter that follows. This study has already revealed historical tensions between subcultures and a perceived intolerance towards those invested in heavy rock and its associated subcultural styles. In this context, venues were revealed as not merely places to perform music or to sustain or nurture upcoming musicians. They were, for some, nothing less than refuges; places to dwell in and feel that they can be accepted.1 Thus, given that the fostering of heavy metal music culture that venues afford relates to the sustaining of peoples’ welfare, an examination of changes to the places people associate with rock and metal music remains vital. Indeed, as we will see, the emphasis on sustainability prioritized by an ecological perspective on live music is thrown into sharper focus when we assess the consequences for communities who understand their scene as under threat.

Metal on Merseyside in the Post-millennium Era: A Shifting Scene From the early years of the new millennium onwards, the live scene for heavy rock and metal gigs has been subject to consistent change. A proliferation of venues that have hosted metal gigs reflects the fact that across the city the live music sector has grown. According to a 2018 report developed on behalf of Culture Liverpool, in comparison to many other cities in the UK, live music output is more substantial in Liverpool, accounting for 44% of all music output (BOP Consulting 2018). On the surface then, such data indicates that the city has a healthy live music industry that should benefit those on the metal scene. Yet on the contrary, as we will see, the picture has been a distinctly varied one for live metal gigs. Figure 3.1 below provides an indication of the locations of the main city 1  Although venues associated with other forms of musical cultures in the city of Liverpool have also been seen in this way, with, for instance, the punk/post-punk club Eric’s being heralded as a place where members of the LGBTQ community could feel safe (Cohen and Kronenburg 2018), locations for heavy rock and metal subcultural activity have rarely been considered in this sense.

Fig. 3.1  Key music venues that have hosted rock and metal events in Liverpool city centre since 2000. Venue names shaded white are either closed or no longer hosting live metal music. (Map image by Milos Simpraga)

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centre venues for metal music since the early 2000s. In contrast with the map in the previous chapter, it reveals that there was indeed a rise in venues hosting metal acts within this period. Established venues like the Krazyhouse (previously Sloanes) and regular gathering places like the Swan Inn were joined in the post-millennium era by the likes of Zanzibar, Bumper, the Masque and the Lomax. Each of these venues had periods where they played host to a range of metal acts. However, as was indicated in the previous chapter, the notion of growth is complicated by the fact that previous major venues for hard rock and metal, such as Liverpool Royal Court, stopped hosting gigs altogether. Furthermore, although there were periods of intense activity where frequent metal gigs occurred over several months, these periods were often followed by inactivity, a move away from hosting metal acts altogether, or closure. Indeed, gigs that were promoted within the first two decades of the millennium are indicative of the overall instability that characterizes the landscape for the live heavy rock and metal music scene in Merseyside. In order to explore this further, it is instructive to consider the activities of Whiplash Promotions, a promotions company that was highly active in bringing metal gigs to Liverpool and Merseyside for more than a decade.

Whiplash Promotions 2001–2013 Whiplash Promotions was a major promoter of metal gigs within Merseyside. The company was launched by Sal Turner during the early 2000s and actively promoted gigs until 2013. A consideration of Whiplash’s experiences of working with venues during their period of existence illustrates how the relative continuity that had characterized the heavy rock and metal live music scene within earlier decades had largely given way to a consistent process of change. As mentioned in the previous chapter, Turner started her initial forays into promotion during 2001 by hosting events at Stairways in Birkenhead, where she put on gigs by rising Merseyside-based acts such as death metal band Diamanthian. Turner’s approach to promoting was strongly influenced by her fandom and as will be examined in more depth in Chap. 5, she was highly passionate about a number of the extreme metal artists that she booked. Due to limited facilities for hosting gigs at Stairways, Turner quickly developed a relationship with Hannah’s Bar which is on Leece Street, close to the popular Ropewalks district in Liverpool city centre. She promoted regular small gigs on their first floor during 2002. In this early

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period, as well as promoting live music, Turner maintained her role as a DJ.  She explained the basic formula for the events at Hannah’s Bar as follows: I was charged at first £50 per time and that was to rent the room and a sound tech. I was there for a year and a half every second Saturday of every month and the [web] forum worked well. We had a couple of hundred people on there—we had 77 people [attend] on the day. I had bands coming up and down the country to play. […] They’d get on the forum or they’d send me an email and … I’d have [bands booked] two months in advance so I’d know who was coming. I used to have two or three bands a night and I’d DJ in between and then when the last band finished off at eleven, quarter to twelve, I’d then DJ through to 2 o’clock. Then, when the laws changed, it went to three o’clock which was knackering. I charged three quid to get in and that was £3 entry for everybody. […] It started at half seven. Bands came on from nine, I think. They did half an hour, [or] forty-five minutes and they were all unsigned bands. They were all bands from Liverpool or up around the country. (Turner 2016)

Clearly, then, even during her early years of promotion, Turner (and the venues she worked with) provided valuable opportunities for local artists as well as unsigned artists from the wider UK metal scene. However, due to difficulties with the relationship with the owner at Hannah’s Bar, Whiplash then had to shift to promoting gigs at Heaven and Hell bar, which was on Fleet street in Liverpool city centre. Gigs in this venue took place upstairs in Bar Hell between 2003 and 2004. Whiplash increasingly specialized in promoting extreme metal gigs and hosted more established acts such as Austria’s Pungent Stench or up and coming acts such as Poland’s Behemoth, who would go on to be internationally acclaimed and appear as headliners at major metal music festivals. At this point in the mid-2000s Whiplash also promoted a gig at the Zanzibar club by pioneering Polish technical death metal act, Decapitated, who were on their “Sensual Sickness” European tour. The tour was notable for being one of the rare times that audiences would see their line-up featuring their (then) new vocalist “Covan” and founding member, drummer Witold “Vitek” Kiełtyka. Tragically, the band was later involved in a horrific road accident in 2007 when their tour bus collided with a truck on the Russia/Belarus border (Blabbermouth.net 2008). Vitek died from his injuries, while Covan was left with life-changing injuries that forced him to retire from playing altogether. Consequently, the Liverpool Decapitated

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gig has gone on to have acquired a more legendary status and was retrospectively described as a “massive coup” for Whiplash in a 2011 article in Liverpool-based magazine Bido Lito! (Still 2011, para 4). In an interview, Turner (2016) described the audience at the gig as “heaving, it was huge, it was massive.” Interestingly, though, even with such a high-profile event, Turner’s informal policy of promoting local talent was still in evidence. The first band on the bill for the night was Southport death metal band, Dilacerate. They, as she puts it, became her “little house band” and would go on to feature on several Whiplash bills, even though they had originally contacted her to request a gig via email without ever actually playing a show before (Turner 2016). Between 2005 and 2009 Whiplash went on hiatus as Turner started a family. The company then relaunched in 2010 and promoted gigs again until 2013. During this period Heaven and Hell had shut down and Turner had to establish relationships with other venues. The Masque on Seel Street in Liverpool city centre then became a venue that Whiplash worked with for several large metal events, including gigs by internationally renowned extreme metal acts like Nile, Watain and Deicide. Between 2010 and 2012 Whiplash booked several extreme metal gigs at The Masque, which had a capacity of up to 1300. According to setlist.fm (2021) between 7 September 2011 and 11 December 2011 there were eight extreme metal gigs that took place, including shows from Napalm Death (3 December 2011) and Gorgoroth (10 November 2011). At the same time, Whiplash promoted events at Zanzibar (which was also on Seel Street) once again and started to establish a relationship with a new rock bar, Roadkill, which was located on Hope Street, a short walk away from the city centre near to Liverpool’s universities. However, this venue was burned down prior to any Whiplash gigs taking place and this enforced reliance upon (the more expensive) Zanzibar for some smaller gigs. While Whiplash’s larger gigs had been accommodated at the Masque venue, this changed when that venue closed in 2012 (although the venue reopened after refurbishment as the Arts Club in 2013). This forced Turner to shift her larger gigs to other city centre venues such as the Lomax and Krazyhouse. By 2013 due to ill health Turner was forced to suspend Whiplash Promotions. Aside from hosting the heats and the final for the “Bloodstock Metal 2 the Masses Merseyside competition” between May and July in 2013 at the Lomax, the final Whiplash promoted stand-­ alone concert took place on 31 July 2012 and was headlined by black metal band Wodensthrone. This gig also took place at the Liverpool Lomax.

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With Whiplash Promotions suspending their operations, several other promotions companies stepped in to fill the void from 2013 onwards and organized rock and metal gigs within Merseyside. These included the relatively short-lived Facemelting Promotions, as well as ongoing companies such as Peste Promotions and Deathwave Entertainment. Furthermore, Joe Mortimer from Liverpool death metal band Neuroma also started promoting events in the wake of Whiplash’s demise. The fact that one of those promoters (Kabir D’Silva from Peste Promotions) had previously worked with Whiplash Promotions illustrates the influential role that the company played in not only supporting local and national bands, but also nurturing a new generation of intermediaries willing to create metal music events in Liverpool and beyond. In exchange for a free ticket to Whiplash gigs, during 2010 and 2011 D’Silva used to act as “a runner” for Turner, helping with “lifting and carrying” and running errands for the artists (Turner 2016). Describing his role at Whiplash shows and how influential this period was for him, Kabir said the following: We were both [Kabir and his friend] asked to help the roadies and help carry the gear in and sometimes check up on the bands [to] make sure they had got everything they needed and in return she gave us free entry. The decent shows we couldn’t afford at the time, we were quite poor, so she actually looked after us and helped us out a lot for my understanding of how it works behind the scenes with gigs. She would obviously go all out accommodating and really looking after the bands, I guess from helping out in that way I got an insight into how it all works. (D’Silva 2019)

Joe Mortimer is another promoter with close connections with Whiplash Promotions. He had previously helped Turner to secure the O2 Academy Liverpool venue for a gig by US death metal band, Suffocation. When reflecting on how Turner’s approach to promotion had inspired his own promotion work, Mortimer explained that: “She has definitely been a big inspiration with regards to how a promoter should be with a band. It was never a business with her, it was always first and foremost about the bands enjoying themselves and the crowd having the best experience” (Mortimer 2020 personal communication). The role of promoters and the types of work they do will be examined more closely in Chap. 5. For now, however, it is pertinent to connect the above examination of Whiplash Promotions with a broader ecological perspective. We have seen that the company had to navigate several changes

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in that relationships with venues were often cut short due to factors beyond Turner’s control. For instance, the closure and subsequent refurbishment of the Masque venue (which later became Arts Club) deprived Turner of a venue that she had previously developed a good working relationship with. On the other hand, the sudden loss of Roadkill due to a fire curtailed any possibilities Turner may have had of developing a relationship with what was at the time a specialist heavy rock venue. In contrast with the relatively stable circuit of pubs, clubs and theatres where heavy rock and metal events could take place during the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s, in the first decade of the 2000s it seems that promoters had to be more adaptable when it came to securing venues to host events. Yet, the extent to which this rather shifting circuit of venues for rock and metal led to a lack of stability for metal music scenes within Merseyside needs to be assessed carefully. There is no immediate correlation between venue changes and the diminishing of such scenes. Indeed, especially during the Whiplash era, there is some evidence to suggest that the regularity of live metal music events was fostering significant scene-related activity. For instance, the death metal musician and promoter Joe Mortimer’s biography partly acts as testimony to this. Mortimer met one of the members of his short-lived first band, Sadistic Undertorture, while waiting in the queue for the previously mentioned Decapitated gig in September 2005. He also met members of the band Neuroma, which would go on to be highly regarded within the wider UK death metal scene, while hanging out outside the alternative shopping centre Quiggins during the mid-­2000s. A few years later in 2011, Neuroma performed at the Masque venue on a Whiplash promoted bill that also included high-profile British death metal artists such as Napalm Death and Desecration. Thus, despite a somewhat unstable circuit of live music venues, during the first decade of the new millennium, the continuity of promotional activities (if not venues) combined with spaces for “hanging out” such as Quiggins facilitated the nurturing of local metal talent. Furthermore, as in previous decades, there were some opportunities for such bands to “graduate” from playing small venues (such as Hannah’s Bar) to somewhat larger ones such as Zanzibar and the Masque.

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The Post-Whiplash Era and the Rise of New DIY Venues In 2015 Liverpool-based metal musician and promoter Joe Mortimer discussed how, after a period of decline following the loss of shows hosted by Whiplash promotions, he had noticed an upsurge in promoters and venues. As he said: “I am more aware there is a lot more promoters in Liverpool and there is a lot more venues and a lot more availability to put on more shows” (Mortimer 2015). Venues he cited at this time included the Lomax, which had reopened after being closed following a drugs raid and was starting to put on more metal events. Joe even described a kind of explosion of small gigs: “Now there are flyers everywhere and everybody all over Facebook, social media is just boom, boom, show today, show tomorrow” (Mortimer 2015). Part of the reason for Joe’s optimism at that time was also down to the recent development of new, small venues that had become common destinations for metal bands. He described how a fellow promoter, Kabir D’Silva of Peste Promotions, had needed a new venue “out of necessity” because he had double-booked a show at the Pilgrim, a pub on Pilgrim street close to the city centre which has a gig space available in its upstairs function room (Mortimer 2015). Joe and Kabir had enquired about the availability of the back storeroom at a local pizza bar near a shop that his father owned. They then volunteered to clear the room if they could turn it into a music venue. Joe described how they turned the room into a music venue as follows: They had not long opened, and we went along and there was a pool table and a fridge freezer and there was rubble everywhere and stuff and we just moved stuff out and made it so it was an area where a band could play. We looked around and we were like “there is one plug socket, what are we going to do?” We ended up buying a 20-metre extension cable and plugging it into the flat upstairs, bringing it through the window and around the doors and setting up the kit and the PA stuff and he [Kabir] was like “I haven’t got any mic stands.” We ended up using a step ladder for a mic stand, so the one band which had to do vocals while they were playing an instrument had to walk up a step ladder to do vocals and it was really awesome. It felt like we were at the beginning of something awesome, DIY really, something big and now it is like one of the most popular venues. (Mortimer 2015)

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Mortimer’s testimony indicates that Maguire’s Pizza Bar initially became a venue out of necessity. As Joe summed it up: “We need a venue to do this gig, otherwise we are going to have to cancel the show. We found a space, it will work, it is safe, and they sell pizza—awesome” (Mortimer 2015). In this sense, it has parallels with some of the British jazz clubs established in the 1940s and 1950s in that as Frith et al. point out they were set up “by musicians needing somewhere to play” (Frith et al. 2016, 105). However, once the potential for live music in Maguire’s had been realized, unlike such jazz clubs the venue was not just associated with one genre but booked for pop, dance, punk, metal and alternative rock events by different promoters. Nonetheless, over the next few years Maguire’s Pizza Bar became a regular small venue on the live metal music circuit, hosting a range of events that catered for fans of various sub-genres. Sharing some similarities with British coffee clubs of the 1950s, Maguire’s was a “do-it-yourself” (DIY) venue in that it was partly reliant upon local acts and promoters to attract audiences (Frith et al. 2016, 109). For instance, this was evident at a series of events promoted by Liverpool band, The Ominous.2 Their Metal on Merseyside events showcased a range of local hard rock and metal bands during 2017 and 2018. These monthly shows also provided the band with an opportunity to be a regular headliner as well as to provide performance opportunities to fellow metal bands. The Ominous valued the way that they were able to book the venue and bypass promoters and, as vocalist Kieron put it in an interview, “It feels good to organise things yourself” (cited in Hassan 2018a, para 2). Having considered the artist-led creation of the venue and its owners’ policies of enabling artists and promoters to book a range of events, it is also relevant to examine the significance of the venue’s location and physical characteristics. The following extensive extract from field notes taken after the first time I had visited Maguires Pizza Bar illustrates the partially hidden nature of the venue: The gig was located literally in the back room of a small pizza bar on Renshaw Street [a five-minute walk from Liverpool Lime Street train station]. Initially I walked past the venue because it was so nondescript; it looked like any old fast-food place. However, upon doubling back and walking through the doors I was struck by two things. Firstly, this was not a 2

 The Ominous changed their name to Disraeli’s Whip in 2020.

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takeaway, it seemed to be a hang-out place that had become a hub for small gigs and for popular cultural activities. The bar served alcoholic drinks, tea and coffee, soft drinks, and a range of pizzas (either by the slice or full pizzas to share) as well as other snacks such as “pizza dogs.” Secondly, as I had arrived shortly after the first band had started, I was struck by the sheer volume of the music that was emanating from the back of the bar. I asked the tattooed young man who was behind the counter where I got the tickets for the gig. He told me to go through the door at the back of the bar (which was, rather incongruously, painted with library books on it). Opening the door and entering the gig space was a somewhat startling experience. Even with my ear plugs in, the sound coming from the first act, Kryocell, was oppressive. As Kryocell played their brand of brutal death metal, with their diminutive, tattooed lead singer straining to growl and scream over their heavily distorted guitar sound and booming rhythm section, I looked around the room. What immediately struck me was the proximity of the crowd to the band. The room was only approximately ten metres in length and both crowd and performers were on the same level as there was no raised stage area. This meant that in some instances the performers were literally inches away from their fans. In contrast to the relatively bright pizza bar (with its green walls and murals of ‘lucha libre’ wrestlers), the gig space was entirely painted black, including its ceiling. The floor was also covered in a thin black carpet. In the entrance area there were two young men collecting payment. A short dark haired slim man with a black T-shirt on and jeans gestured with his hand that it was five pounds. I searched out a fiver from my wallet, straining to check that it was the right denomination of note in the relative darkness and handed it over. He then drew an “X” on my right hand in felt tip pen. To my left as I entered this space properly, I noticed a sound desk and a sound engineer. In front of him were several tables that were laid out with various types of merchandise (CD albums and EPs, T-shirts, posters, and stickers). The tables were arranged in an L-shape and behind them sat mainly muscular, tattooed and sometimes bearded men who I assumed were band members. The merchandise tables were extensively furnished with commodities and some T-shirts were also hung from the wall. (Field notes 21 May 2015)

As a hard rock and metal music fan who had previously attended gigs at venues like the Royal Court, Krazyhouse, the Masque and the Lomax, what was striking about stepping into Maguire’s was that it felt like a very different experience. The contrast between the brightly lit pizza bar and the dark, cramped gig space was magnified by the sheer auditory assault that lay in wait as I opened the door onto what previously had been the

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pizza bar’s storeroom. The initial sense of shock was also intensified by being so close to the artists and to the source of the oppressive volume. Indeed, the architectural characteristics of the venue afforded proximity to the artists and fellow audience members. As Joe Mortimer pointed out, there was “no backstage area as such”, consequently artists’ belongings were stored at the back of the gig space on the left side behind tables set up for merchandise sales and, when they were not performing or sat at the tables, bands largely mingled with the crowd or sat in the pizza bar (Mortimer 2020 personal communication). Furthermore, during performances the lack of any raised stage meant that there was no physical separation between the audience and the artists. Figure  3.2 below, which depicts brutal death metal band Neuroma performing at Maguire’s in 2018, provides an indication of how close artists and fans could get to each other. Musicians could get very near to the crowd and would sometimes physically interact with them by head banging alongside them or instigating mosh pits (where the crowd at the front would deliberately collide with each other). Artists could even take advantage of the lack of

Fig. 3.2  Neuroma at Maguire’s Pizza Bar in 2018. (Photo credit: Chris Everett, website and Instagram @chrisevophoto)

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the stage to display acts of affection. For example, when performing at Maguire’s, Chris Furlong, vocalist with death metal band Exhumation, once made use of a long microphone cord to walk out into the crowd and kiss his girlfriend. Thus, similar to Overell’s research on extreme metal scenes in Australia and Japan, the lack of a raised stage at Maguire’s enabled “integration between performer and fans” (2014, 60). The absence of the traditional separation of fans and artists in this venue, therefore, further added to the sense of intimacy that was created. The sense that Maguire’s was a type of DIY venue was, then, partly conveyed by the architectural limitations of this former storeroom, which was not originally designed to house audiences, bands and equipment. This sense was also created by the relatively minimal modifications in this gig space. Aside from the fixed strobe lighting, the painted black walls (with a painted white “Maguire’s” logo on the wall behind where bands played) and black carpet, any other equipment such as the backline (the electronic amplification equipment and speakers) was brought by individual bands, promoters or the sound engineer hired for specific events. As the venue became used on a more frequent basis, further renovations were made in more recent years. These included the installation of wooden flooring, a pedestal for the sound mixing desk, improved lighting and a permanent backline that can be hired by promoters (Mortimer 2020, personal communication). Although Maguire’s Pizza Bar closed in 2018, the venue was immediately bought by another owner and, though its name changed to Outpost, it has maintained a status as a key venue for metal gigs. Another venue that had a similar ambience to Maguire’s Pizza Bar was Sound basement. This was a venue located on Duke Street, in the popular Ropewalks district of Liverpool city centre, which hosted several metal music gigs between 2017 and 2020. The basement was part of the venue, Sound Food & Drink, which was established in August 2012. When it was about to launch, local music website, Getintothis reported that the venue was “set to offer a plethora of daytime light bites set to a delectable soundtrack before transforming into a rock and roll hangout in the evening showcasing a range of upcoming music talent with a daily roster of the city’s finest DJs” (Getintothis 2012, para 4). By 2017 the venue had opened its basement for gigs by a range of acts, including several rock and metal artists. As with Maguires, there was a strong contrast between the gig space of Sound basement and the upstairs area of Sound Food & Drink. For instance, when I reviewed a gig by former Liverpool doom metal band,

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Iron Witch, in June 2018 I noted that the main upstairs venue was “brightly lit” and the DJ was playing “upbeat funk and soul classics” whereas the basement seemed “dark” and “bleak” in comparison (Hassan 2018b Getintothis, para 2). The basement room itself was also quite small and cramped. In field notes taken during the first visit to the venue I wrote: The first thing that strikes me as I walk through the open doorway is the size of the venue. Sound seems small and intimate, especially as there are already approximately 40 people inside. The room is approximately ten metres in length. A bar is immediately to my right and set back from the wall. To my left is the stage. It is raised to approximately ten inches and approximately four metres in length and depth. (Fieldnotes 13 January 2018)

Unlike the brightly lit main floor above it, Sound basement had a basic physical appearance. The bare bricks on the walls were still apparent throughout the room and in places the ceiling beams were exposed due to missing tiles. Even though some renovations had taken place in that a raised stage was installed, together with lighting, and there was a small bar and sound mixing area, overall, the room had an unfinished feel. Figure 3.3, which shows Liverpool doom metal band Iron Witch performing in Sound basement, illustrates the venue’s basic appearance. In addition, although the stage was raised and afforded more separation between artist and audience during performances, as with Maguire’s there was no designated backstage area per se. Instead, bands would tend to congregate at merchandise tables, which were set up at the far-right hand side of the room, or else the artists freely mingled with the crowd. In a later interview in 2018 promoter Joe Mortimer described another venue, Drop the Dumbulls, as somewhere that had “started to flourish” (Mortimer 2018). This was an exhibition and venue space located in the building of The Bull, a pub originally built in the 1840s, on Dublin Street in the North Shore dock area of Liverpool. The blog site for the venue indicated that it was “the setting & logical 4th installment [sic] and sequel to the critically acclaimed original motion pictures and previous spaces of similar name and nature” (POSTMUSIC Show 2018). This refers to the fact that Drop the Dumbulls is a site that housed artists associated with POSTMUSIC, a collective who had previously worked in the abandoned Gaumont cinema in Toxteth (2009), Don’t Drop The Dumbells (2010–2011) which was based in a disused studio on Hardman street, and

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Fig. 3.3  Iron Witch performing in Sound Basement in 2018. (Photo credit: Chris Everett, website and Instagram @chrisevophoto)

Drop The Dumbells (2012–2013) which was based on Slater Street (POSTMUSIC Show 2018). The Drop The Dumbulls site had been established since September 2014. The site was far more than a live music venue because it also provided cheap studio space and hosted a range of political and arts events. During the latter years of the 2010s it was a prominent music venue for punk, metal and grindcore acts. As Joe Mortimer noted in 2018 “There’s a lot more going on in the underground especially with the punk and grindcore scene, especially down in the waterfront area. […] Drop the Dumbulls, it’s owned by some of my friends […] They put a lot of events on down there, and its mostly towards the kind of grindcore, hardcore punk, kind of experimental, almost electronica at times” (Mortimer 2018). The following extensive extract from field notes, taken from when I attended a bill headlined by Canadian rock duo Mare at Drop the Dumbulls on 31 January 2017, illustrates the way in which the venue was forged from a disused and run-down space:

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Although I knew that the venue had been developed within the confines of the dilapidated Bull pub, which is on the corner of Dublin Street and Great Howard Street, I did not realize that from looking at the front of the pub it would still appear run down and disused. Looking at the front of the Bull pub all that can be seen is boarded up windows and the old pub sign. Walking round the side and onto Dublin street reveals a different story. The rear of the pub, where there was possibly a bar or function room has been partially renovated, although on first impressions the renovations appeared to be minimal. I walked into what is the entrance area of the Drop the Dumbulls gallery. To my right there was a raised, make-shift wooden ticket booth and there stood Joe Mortimer wearing a black hoodie with his hood on over his head. Joe greeted me and I showed him my printed ticket receipt, although he waved me through as he knew that I had already paid online. He seemed a bit glum and this was because, so far, the turnout had been small. He complained that it was not a good night with the rainy weather and with being a Tuesday evening many people had stayed away. I looked around what was effectively a foyer area. What was immediately striking is that this was very much a partially renovated building. The wooden bare ceiling beams are fully exposed in this foyer area and, although something similar to tarpaulin had been used on the roof to provide shelter from the elements, the area was very much exposed to the weather. Consequently, because it was raining quite heavily outside, the ceiling was consistently dripping with water and there were pools of water on the floor. Nonetheless, in the far-left corner of the room there was a wood burner heater, which provided some welcome warmth on what was a cold and rainy night. Situated on the far wall of the room was a black and white mural and light was provided by a couple of makeshift plastic bottle lights. Set up alongside the far walls were makeshift wooden benches that were covered with blankets and a few cushions. These were satisfactory, if slightly uncomfortable seats for those who were congregated in this area, smoking and chatting, but as I found to my detriment later on, the wet weather meant that when you sat on the benches your clothes got wet too. At the top of the right and left walls of the room there were window frames but no actual glass panes, this accentuated the fact that the room was very exposed to the elements. (Field notes 31 January 2017)

The venue, then, was one that was very much testimony to the ability of the Drop the Dumbulls collective to renovate a building that had needed a substantial amount of work. While the foyer area still had a rather makeshift appearance, in contrast the main gig space was more extensively renovated. It featured a room which was approximately eight metres in

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length and seven metres wide and at the far end of the room was a small, raised stage. There was an in-house sound engineer on hand to support the bands and the room featured a range of lighting that was enhanced by art installations. A red and a green spotlight were set up on each side of the stage. Suspended from the ceiling were coloured lights encased in what appeared to be art installations that gave the impression of fluffy neon clouds with lightning symbols on them. Therefore, in comparison to Maguire’s Pizza Bar and Sound basement, which both featured gig spaces that betrayed more of their original uses as a storeroom or basement respectively, Drop the Dumbulls (at least on the night of the gig I attended) felt like more of a performance space. Figure 3.4, which features Liverpool metal band Video Nasties performing, provides a visual insight into this space. This sense was also aided by the presence of a visual collage of images that had been curated by Projectile Vomit, a projections and visuals collective that were based at the venue. Projected onto a wall behind the artists

Fig. 3.4  Video Nasties performing in Drop the Dumbulls. (Photo credit: Lu Lowe)

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as they were performing, these visuals, which included myriad pop cultural references, blended effectively with the artists’ performances. Joe Mortimer, the promoter for the Mare gig, indicated that the fee that Drop the Dumbulls charged for room hire was “small” and that he also paid one of the members of the collective to cook a pot of vegan stew, as part of a rider for the performers that featured “the usual bread and fillings, crisps, croissants, soft drinks and alcohol” (Mortimer 2020 personal communication). Mortimer went on to affirm that: “They had a bit of a collective going who handled everything from food and drink to sound and stage” (Mortimer 2020 personal communication). Killick also notes that, any profits made from events of this nature went “towards the upkeep of the building and other events costs”, thus emphasizing the collective way in which the venue was run at this time (Killick 2019, 3). The location of the Drop the Dumbulls venue was significant. The Bull was previously a pub for dock workers, and it resides in what once was Liverpool’s industrial heartland. However, the gradual loss of its status as a key port city, coupled with large-scale de-industrialization, meant that by the mid-to-late twentieth century Liverpool, and the North Shore area in particular, was characterized by industrial decay (Killick 2019). Unlike other areas of the city centre, Killick notes that the ward of Kirkdale in which the North Shore is located is one of the most deprived areas in Liverpool (2019, 5). Killick goes on to point out that in recent years: “Although many wholesale and smaller manufacturing businesses have remained or become operative in the ten streets area over the past thirty years, these have recently become mixed with creative businesses and residences (often the work and living spaces are one and the same), as artists and some small businesses began to occupy and renovate empty buildings, many of which suffer from post-industrial rot, but which nevertheless provide cheap accommodation/working space” (Killick 2019, 6). The Bull is in the “ten streets” area because it is in an area of the North Shore identified for regeneration by Liverpool City Council as part of their Ten Streets redevelopment project. As Killick puts it, this “length of ten streets running parallel to each other” has “been earmarked for the construction of a ‘creative quarter’, which refers specifically to the establishment of ‘creative’ businesses and organisations as revivers of economic growth” (Killick 2019, 2). Two of the members of the Drop the Dumbulls collective actually lived in the Bull, which was purchased and renovated during the mid-2010s. However, despite the building constituting a permanent residency and

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creative centre, it has also endured a somewhat perilous existence in recent years. This is because, as Killick documents, the building was initially “marked for demolition (along with a number of other premises) in the initial Ten Streets strategic redevelopment framework (SRF)” (Killick 2019, 3). It was only after a campaign of activism, which included community-­oriented film screenings, and support from local music and arts media, that Drop the Dumbulls was declared as safe and part of the redevelopment plan by Council representatives (Killick 2019, 9). Consequently, unlike Sound basement and Maguire’s Pizza Bar, which were DIY live music venues that were also part of hospitality businesses, Drop the Dumbulls was a venue that was both crafted by and home to a creative collective that found itself in the midst of a battleground over the future direction of a geographical location designated as in need of regeneration. Other individual musicians from the wider Merseyside metal scene, such as St Helens-based band Deified, have taken an active role in promoting metal gigs through building associations with specific small venues. Deified have put on a lot of gigs at Tank Bar (see Fig. 3.5) in St Helens, which is a venue that was previously a terrace house, and the gig space is created by utilizing the bar’s beer garden. Field notes from Deified’s launch party gig for their Inhuman Manifesto EP indicate the way that the small venue’s physical appearance and floor space betray its original status as a domestic dwelling: Tank bar is essentially a converted terraced house sandwiched between a larger bar and a fried chicken takeaway on Westfield Street, St Helens. On a Saturday night, Westfield Street is a popular spot. It is home to larger Irish bars, wine bars, Bar Java and traditional large pubs like The Royal and The Sefton. As I walked through the door into Tank bar, my first impression was that it was similar to entering someone’s living room, albeit someone with hippy tastes in décor and a love of rock music. Windowsills and tables featured empty bottles of Kraken rum (a brand targeted at the rock music community) that were being used as candle holders. I walked to the bar and (in an effort to pace myself) ordered half a pint of Tetley bitter. “Half?” the young, tattooed girl behind the bar inquired to double-check, “yes please”, I confirmed. “They’re in plastic glasses OK” she indicated, “that’s fine” I replied. The bar area was dimly lit, even though there was still plenty of day light outside. This was partly because of the dark wood interiors but also because there was only a small front window to let in light.

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Fig. 3.5  Exterior of Tank Bar, St Helens in 2018. (Photo: Nedim Hassan)

Clutching my half pint, I ventured to the gig space, which was based in the beer garden. It was quite clear that the beer garden was once simply someone’s back yard. Sheltered by a large veranda that featured plastic roof panels and a wooden frame, the gig space dominated the overall environment. A halo of LED rope lighting gave the veranda an almost festive feel. The ‘stage’ was effectively a small square of carpet onto which a modest drum kit and amps had been set up. (Field notes 28 April 2018)

Cohen and Kronenburg make clear that the “informal adoption” of buildings that were originally designed for other purposes by people seeking to support music cultures has been common in places like Merseyside since the 1960s (Cohen and Kronenburg 2018, 19). Although often

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unacknowledged within popular music histories, they also assert that the “staging of live music performances has been commonplace in houses” which may have been former private dwellings (Cohen and Kronenburg 2018, 61). The above description of Tank bar is testimony to the way that such former dwellings can create a distinctively intimate atmosphere for the staging of live music. Within this intimate setting, metal gigs can become much more physical and tactile affairs. In the confines of a small beer garden/back yard setting, crowd members have little choice but to be near to each other. Figure 3.6, which features a photo taken during a performance by Deified at Tank during 2018, illustrates the way the audience were packed together. This means that peoples’ physical responses to the music through things like head banging or moshing are enacted in close proximity to others. Such responses can inspire others to join in but can sometimes inadvertently lead to unwanted physical contact. For instance, my field notes during a performance by Blackpool groove metal act, Daybreaker, at the Deified album launch party event indicated that when a mosh pit was started during their rendition of “Sabotage” by The Beastie Boys: “I could not help but get caught up in this because one rather drunk and over exuberant metal head careered backwards into me. He knocked the plastic stool that was alongside me over and, in the process, knocked the

Fig. 3.6  Deified at Tank Bar, St Helens in 2018. (Photo: Nedim Hassan)

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remainder of my pint of Guinness onto my leather jacket” (Field notes 28 April 2018). Furthermore, although such intimate settings can enable bands to physically interact with audiences and join in with mosh pits and other forms of dancing, they can also have unforeseen physical consequences for the artists. The following extract from field notes taken during Deified’s headline performance at their album launch party provides an illustration of this: The gig took a slightly bizarre twist because during a mosh pit for ‘Hellion’, the aforementioned drunken metal head was a little too energetic and ended up propelling himself into the band. This caused part of the drum kit to fall over. Also, as I learned from [vocalist] Jamie later, a girl had picked up an injury during the melee. When the drum kit had been repaired and when people […] were enlisted to form a kind of human wall between the mosh pit and the band, the gig continued. However, Jamie had to calm down proceedings further after ‘Dead Inside’ by saying, “Right, let’s have a minute.” He then implored the crowd to “look after each other”, before another band member commented “look after us”, Jamie then reinforced this by saying, “that’s right, look out for us too”. (Field notes 28 April 2018)

Such an example reveals that crowd-artist integration need not always be viewed in positive terms and physical activity that may ordinarily foster collective feelings amongst metal fans can also strain relationships between fans and artists. Members of Deified, including vocalist Jamie Hughes, guitarist Alistair Blackhall and bassist Thomas Simm expressed immense gratitude for the presence of the Tank bar venue during an interview which took place on the same day as the above-mentioned gig. The relationship with the venue owner was revealed as both friendly and mutually beneficial. For instance, Blackhall indicated how Tank’s willingness to accommodate the band was down to a strong friendship: “I think we’ve played three times in a year in here but that was just because he loves us, and we love them. It’s like we’re friends with them, other than just because they own a bar and we like drinking, sort of thing. It goes beyond the booze, it’s not one of those friendships” (Blackhall et  al. 2018). While Simm revealed how Deified, other bands and the venue itself benefited from music events in a financial sense: “It’s also keeping a local business going isn’t it? And local bands going. Getting a bit of money in their [the bands’] pocket and getting a bit of money in their [Tank’s] pocket” (Blackhall et al. 2018).

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Furthermore, discussing the notion of a heavy rock and metal scene in St Helens, Hughes went as far as to state that: “This [referring to Tank bar] is it, the scene in St Helens now, for music has pretty much dropped off the radar, it’s gone. So, when something like this [gig] happens, you get quite a good turnout, it is an event” (Blackhall et al. 2018). Thus, the band’s praise for and appreciation of the Tank bar venue needs to be understood in relation to the wider circuit of venues within St Helens. Apart from the Rendezvous bar, which the band characterized as a venue that largely accommodated bands playing cover versions rather than original material, Tank was portrayed as the only supportive place for a live metal scene within the town. Although the band had used the larger Citadel Arts Centre, which has a purpose-built theatre space with a standing capacity of 320, they also indicated that the cost of hiring the space was prohibitive. The emergence of the new venues examined above was significant for several reasons. Firstly, they were venues that were affordable. Promoters and artists could book venues like Maguire’s Pizza Bar, Sound basement and Drop the Dumbulls for under £100 (indeed when I booked Maguires for a charity gig in 2018 we only paid £50 for the sound engineer). This made these places accessible to artists like the Ominous who wanted to provide showcase events for Merseyside bands. It also enabled promoters like Joe Mortimer and Kabir D’Silva to bring niche extreme metal acts to Liverpool, without excessive worries that they were going to lose a lot of money if they had insufficient audience numbers. Secondly, as the above descriptions have revealed, these small venues provided an intimate experience for audiences. Within the confines of buildings that were not originally intended to stage live music events, people gathered to listen to music that was inevitably louder due to the acoustics within the cramped spaces. Consequently, during performances audiences had a different relationship with the music that was reverberating in their vicinity. The excessive volume of the distorted guitars, the often frenetic “blast beats” of the drums and the pulse of the bass were strongly felt. Due to the almost invasive nature of the soundscape in these buildings during performances, audiences commonly tempered the volume of the sound by wearing ear plugs. Nonetheless, such soundscapes in these intimate environments afforded opportunities for immersion—to succumb to the power of the sounds emanating from musicians within close proximity. Contact with other audience members could be enacted on a gestural level in response to the music through head banging and

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moshing. While verbal interaction could only take place if audience members practically hugged each other and shouted down each other’s ears. Thus, each of the small venues focused on above afforded, indeed almost required, proximity to other metal music fans, scene members and musicians. While this did not inevitably lead to friendships or social bonding, it did create specific “relational affordances” (Baym 2018, 140). In relation to connections between fans and musicians, it created opportunities for types of interaction that even went beyond the “highly ritualized” acts of signing artefacts, taking selfies and exchanging personal stories that Baym (2018, 155) characterizes as typical of the interactions that take place at the merchandise table. With no backstage area, when they were not sat at the merchandise table, bands in places like Maguire’s Pizza Bar moved in the same spaces as paying punters. This enabled artists to encounter and potentially interact with the people who had come to see them as they queued at the bar, as they sat eating food, as they visited the toilets, or as they went outside for a smoke. This erosion of the physical separation between artist and audience gave a heightened impression that these were events that fostered integration between people who shared common interests. Likewise, although this was not inevitable, the relational affordances fostered by their proximity to each other gave fans opportunities to develop social connections. Many of the events at these venues were attended by small numbers of devoted people, but the size and architectural constraints of the buildings still paradoxically gave the impression of a mass collective. In this context, it was not surprising that some attendees had developed strong bonds and presumably knew each other on a local level or from attending previous events. This was evident from the way that numerous fans at events greeted each other in a physical manner by hugging or shaking hands. Indeed, while undertaking fieldwork, I was personally greeted by some scene members in this manner on several occasions. On one occasion, having attended previous gigs by the same local metal band, I was recognized by the mother of one of the artists who proceeded to hug me. Such acts of friendship, which may have been motivated by an appreciation of support, demonstrate the way in which metal music scenes can be experienced as supportive. Moreover, in such settings, it is not difficult to imagine the formation of new connections between fans or between musicians. These may, in turn, as we saw with Joe Mortimer’s experiences at gigs during the early 2000s, lead to the genesis of new bands. Therefore,

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the detailed ethnographic examinations of venues and the relationships within them depicted above have revealed how such places may become important for scenes and scene members. In the sections that follow, we will consider the implications when such places are lost.

The Loss of Venues The newer venues profiled in the previous section should not be considered in isolation. These small do-it-yourself venues, which were all independently owned, were popular sites for heavy rock and metal gigs but they were not the only ones available. Instead, they should be seen as adding to a circuit that consisted of long-established independent venues such as the previously mentioned Zanzibar club, the Magnet, as well as newer independent ventures such as Phase One and EBGBS, the latter small venue being located in the basement of the long-running Heebie Jeebies club. These city centre club venues, especially EBGBS which hosted the Deathwave Entertainment promoted Bloodstock Metal 2 the Masses Merseyside battle-of-the-bands style regional competition during 2018 and 2019, have also been hospitable venues for rock and metal bands in recent years. This was also the case with established pubs and bars like the Pilgrim and Bumper, which also housed several heavy rock and metal gigs during the latter half of the 2010s. Furthermore, the O2 Academy Liverpool and Arts Club Liverpool, which are venues owned by the chain Academy Music Group, have sometimes hosted established national and international acts such as the UK’s Orange Goblin (February 2019) and Skindred (February 2017). While the M&S Bank Arena (formerly the Echo Arena) has been the stage for some major heavy rock and metal acts such as Slipknot (January 2015), Iron Maiden (May 2017) and Def Leppard (January 2019). Yet while (as we saw in the last chapter) previous decades had seen relative periods of continuity and longevity for key venues within the heavy rock and metal live music scene, the period since the dawn of the new millennium has witnessed regular change and discontinuity. Our consideration of the changes that Whiplash Promotions contended with during the years 2001 to 2013 has already illustrated this to an extent. However, this process has continued in the post-Whiplash era, despite the above-­ mentioned emergence of new venues. A high turnover of live music venues that have hosted rock and metal events has created the perception

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amongst scene members that the environment for live music has become unstable. For example, in contrast to our initial interview in 2015, during a follow-­up interview that took place three years later in 2018 Joe Mortimer was less optimistic about the Liverpool metal scene. He described the intervening years as: “It’s been a bit of a rocky, wavy few years really. There seems to have been a few promoters come and gone, a few venues come and gone since 2015” (Mortimer 2018). In the latter half of the last decade, it does seem that some of what another promoter, Andy Hughes (2019 personal communication) from Deathwave Entertainment, calls “metal friendly” venues had diminished. For instance, Joe’s optimism about the Lomax reopening after it had been temporarily forced to close following a police drugs raid in February 2015 was short-lived. The venue closed in the same year. Despite a long-­ running campaign to save it, aside from a death metal event that happened in July of that year, the doors of the venue were shut again by the end of 2015 and the venue has ceased to operate. The loss of the Lomax was considered to be a bitter blow at the time. Andy Hughes, whose Deathwave Entertainment had used the venue for events several times prior to its closure, recalled how the Lomax had been “massively important because at that point it was pretty much the only metal friendly venue, and the people there made us feel accepted” (Hughes 2019 personal communication). In addition, the years 2015–2019 saw further changes involving venues that previously hosted rock and metal events. Bumper announced it was closing in August 2016 and it was replaced by a bar that no longer hosts gigs. The late opening bar had hosted a range of small heavy rock and metal events during the latter half of the 2010s, including several promoted by Deathwave Entertainment and Peste Promotions. These had included the regional final of the Bloodstock Metal 2 the Masses Merseyside competition in June 2016. Two years later, the Magnet, an independent club venue that had been occasionally used for metal gigs from the likes of France’s Benighted and Finland’s Omnium Gatherum (both in 2015), announced that it was ceasing music gigs. The venue, which has its roots in the 1960s when it housed the Rumblin’ Tum coffee bar and the Sink club and was one of the first venues to cater for racially mixed audiences and aficionados of soul and jazz, has since been redeveloped primarily as a comedy venue (Cohen and Kronenburg 2018, 21–22).

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The loss of these small venues in this period, especially the Lomax and Bumper, which had been regular sites for live metal music until relatively recently, was compounded by the paucity of accessible spaces for medium and larger gigs. This is not to suggest that larger concerts did not occur. A few gigs, promoted by Deathwave Entertainment in particular, have taken place in venues that have capacities of more than 150 people. For instance, in 2016 influential US thrash metal act, Exodus, played at the O2 Academy, while later that year British black metal act Hecate Enthroned played at the O2 Arts Club. However, these venues are usually prohibitive for local promoters due to the high costs of hire and the contractual obligations involved with ticket sales. Furthermore, there are no accessible medium sized venues, for as Andy Hughes stated: “The lack of decent medium sized venues has caused a choke point [in Liverpool] where artists look at other cities … Perfect example is Chester, how the hell do we lose out to Chester for larger metal bands?” (Hughes 2019 personal communication). Hughes was referring to the fact that Chester’s The Live Rooms (which has a capacity of 500) has been highly active in hosting a range of heavy rock and metal acts, from tribute acts for Iron Maiden and Bon Jovi, to rising UK rock bands such as Massive Wagons. Thus, overall, and in contrast with previous historical periods, the recent circuit for live metal and heavy rock music in Merseyside was somewhat smaller in scale and more prone to change and instability. Many of the metal events in the city were confined to smaller venues such as EBGBS, Outpost, Sound basement, the Zanzibar and Drop the Dumbulls. These shows tended to feature more niche acts, rather than acts likely to draw substantial crowds. Yet, as in previous decades, opportunities for grass roots metal and heavy rock acts to perform in small venues remained and this has helped to nurture upcoming local acts. Although rather precarious, this circuit had evolved alongside wider citywide processes of gentrification and regeneration. As we will see in the next section, these processes also served to limit opportunities for people to engage with metal music culture, although not necessarily always in the most immediately obvious of ways.

Regeneration and Gentrification Despite Tom Ghannad’s (2016) concerns mentioned at the start of this chapter about the impact of regeneration on venues within Liverpool city centre, on the surface it could be argued that members of the metal scene

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have not been as adversely affected as those from other music scenes. The redevelopment of Wolstenholme Square, an area that was a popular nightspot close to the city centre led to the loss of the popular Kazimier club. Although the venue had only been in existence since 2008, it had grown to become one of the city’s best loved independent music venues and a “central hub for Liverpool’s creatives and the alternative scene” (Parker and Guy 2014, para 14). The Kazimier became known for hosting “an all-encompassing array of musical genres from hip hop to jazz and techno to noise” and it hosted Liverpool indie pop and rock acts such as Circa Waves and Stealing Sheep (Parker and Guy 2014, para 16). The purchase of Wolstenholme Square by property development company, Eliot Group, saw both the Kazimier, and its high-profile neighbour the Nation nightclub, eventually demolished to make way for One Wolstenholme Square, a block of 447 residential apartments (Bona 2019, para 3). Nation was originally home to the internationally renowned dance music club, Cream, and at the time of its closure at the end of 2015 it had held the popular student house music night, Medication. Although the Kazimier had hosted a Deathwave Entertainment promoted gig by the Agonist in 2013, it was not a venue perceived to be supportive of the metal scene and it tended to be associated with other genres. While Wolstenholme Creative Space, a not-for-profit studio space and gallery located in Wolstenholme Square until December 2012 when it was closed after its building was deemed unsafe, had staged former black metal act We Came Out Like Tigers in 2011, it too was not seen by many as a venue associated with metal. However, aspects of gentrification have affected the live heavy rock and metal music scene in less obvious ways. The repositioning of many music venues in Liverpool as not just gig spaces but spaces that house cafes and student nights brought unforeseen issues for promoters of metal gigs. The following description of the Magnet from promoter Andy Hughes is telling in this regard: There are associated problems, even with venues who are quite happy [to put on metal gigs], because one of the issues I didn’t mention before with Magnet is that we couldn’t sound check until after 5 pm. No, I think it may have been 6 pm. Essentially, though, we couldn’t sound check until quite late if we had a gig in there because there was a cafe above the room. Apparently, we used to shake the cutlery off the tables, which I’m sure that’s a fairly specific issue to metal but it’s funny. We had similar issues in Bumper.

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A lot of bars, if you look behind the bar they’ve got all the spirits, sorry they’re on the counter or they’re in optics. In Bumper you had these free-­ floating shelves which only had two bottles per shelf because they’re only 6“ across and 4” deep, something like that. One gig I think we smashed four bottles of spirit because the vibrations rattled them off the shelves. (Hughes 2017)

With examples like this, it is apparent that the interests of the owners of bars and cafes that intended to attract Liverpool’s large student population and those of promoters of live rock and metal music could clash on occasions. Although music events may be part of what attracts young people to these places, these venues’ status as dual-purpose establishments that rely on “wet sales” (sales of alcohol) and the provision of food to generate income can be at odds with the requirements of local promoters and artists as they set up live concert events. Of course, these are tensions that are not peculiar to rock and metal events. Indeed, as plans to further redevelop parts of Liverpool city centre look set to continue into the 2020s, tensions between existing businesses in the night-time economy and plans for culture-led urban regeneration are likely to continue. For instance, a pre-consultation statement regarding plans to redevelop the famous Cavern Quarter and the nearby Williamson Square outlined in a recent Strategic Regeneration Framework anticipated issues with ensuring that the area’s “music and cultural heritage caters for all sectors of the population and continues to draw tourists and visitors” (Liverpool City Council 2020, 6). Some of the potential problems with achieving this goal that were raised by stakeholders from businesses and cultural institutions within the area related to the challenges with accommodating different audiences within the area. Stakeholders raised the prospect of conflicts between audiences who valued the night-time economy (such as those out on “stag and hen do’s”) on Mathew Street—which is the heart of the Cavern Quarter and home to a replica of the famous Cavern Club—and wider audiences such as families and tourists who may wish to visit the area during the day (Liverpool City Council 2020, 10). Discourse concerning the challenge of accommodating “wider” audiences and “diversifying” the culture within the Cavern Quarter will have an ironic dimension for some within the ranks of Liverpool’s music communities (Liverpool City Council 2020, 10). The original culture-led regeneration in the mid-1990s that brought the Cavern Quarter into

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existence effectively led to the eviction of some music businesses that had traded on Mathew Street (Cohen 2007). This included Groover Records, a shop that specialized in selling dance music, and the Probe record shop and label. As Cohen (2007) details, these shops and other small businesses in the area were forced to close after a rise in rents and business rates which was prompted by the original Cavern Quarter Initiative. Probe’s move away from the Mathew Street area at the time also had the effect of moving on the “young music fans that had hung around” the shop (Cohen 2007, 194). As an independent record shop that had regularly housed fans who were interested in punk and alternative rock (Carcass guitarist Bill Steer recalled shopping there as a teenager once he had got “more involved with some of the older lads in that hardcore world”), Probe’s enforced uprooting from such a prominent city centre area implied that there was only room for certain types of Beatles-dominated music culture (Steer 2018).3 The way in which the creation of the Cavern Quarter altered peoples’ sense of the Mathew street area as a kind of subcultural space that previously had appealed to a range of people is illuminated in Brian Carney’s (2009) description of the area near to Probe records in the late 1970s. Carney, a member of St Helens psychedelic rock band, Poisoned Electrick Head, that had signed with the Probe record label, provides a revealing description because of the way that he contrasts a somewhat one-­ dimensional contemporary Mathew Street dominated by Beatles tourism with the rich alternative culture that had existed prior to the mid-1990s. As he puts it: “all that area’s become a Beatles tourist mecca, back then it was the epicentre of hip alternative culture with the Armadillo Tea Rooms where Echo & the Bunnymen hung out; Hessy’s, where the Fab Four bought their gear and X-tremes clothes shop and hairdressers where one of A Flock of Seagulls worked” (Carney 2009, 147). Thus, the relocation of Probe and the closure of the rock clothing shop X-tremes, which was also on Mathew Street until the early 1990s, led to the loss of places where rock and metal fans could congregate. Indeed, when asked about their memories of X-tremes on a Facebook community page for the popular 3  Probe relocated to the Ropewalks area of the city centre, an area that would also soon see redevelopment plans and a subsequent rise in property values and rents in the early 2000s. In the wake of these rises, the Palace, a building rented by “small independent clothing retailers” that was often frequented by those interested in rock music and alternative culture, also announced its closure (Cohen 2007, 205).

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rock pub, the Swan Inn, several respondents remembered spending their Saturday afternoons in the shop or else hanging around outside Probe records. Yet, of more significance for those interested in alternative culture more broadly was the loss of Quiggins shopping centre. In the previous chapter this alternative retail centre which housed “almost 50 small businesses that employ[ed] roughly 250 local people” (Jones and Wilks-Heeg 2004, 353) was revealed as an important site for young people interested in rock music subcultures such as Goth and metal. Many of them not only frequented the shops inside Quiggins but used to “hang out” outside the centre, especially on Saturday afternoons. When there were proposals to redevelop the area surrounding Paradise Street in which Quiggins resided to make way for part of what would become the Liverpool One open air shopping centre, there was strong local opposition. Jones and Wilks-Heeg recount how this opposition resulted in a “50,000 signature petition, presented to the House of Commons by local MP, Clare Curtis Thomas on 24 March 2004” (2004, 354). Although Curtis Thomas pointed out how the petition was signed in support of “the retention of a great Liverpool institution” (House of Commons 24 March 2004), it was also noteworthy that the campaign to save Quiggins was spearheaded by the slogan “Save Quiggins, save our culture”. Messages in support of the centre that have been archived in a BBC Have your say webpage from the period emphasize its connections with youth culture. One respondent goes as far as indicating that: “the shop is indicative of a subculture of metal heads, punkers, hippies, bikers, mods (many of whom are students from outside the city) that exists in LIVERPOOL of which I am happily a part” (BBC n.d.). For many, it seemed that Quiggins was far more than a site for retail-related experiences; it was somewhere that young people interested in such subcultures could gather and feel safely part of a community. As another respondent put it: “Moshers, sk8ers, goths ect [sic] all get weird looks when we just walk down the road and people think were [sic] gonna hurt them and were [sic] freaks, but were [sic] NOT! Quiggins was the only place we could go and not be given weird looks” (BBC n.d.). Ultimately, despite considerable opposition, the building on School Lane that housed the Quiggins shopping centre was compulsorily purchased and taken over by Grosvenor for the Liverpool ONE shopping centre project (Houghton 2017). The building has since been redeveloped and incorporated into the Liverpool ONE shopping centre, which

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opened in 2008. Although many of the businesses that were contained within Quiggins moved to the Grand Central shopping centre on Renshaw Street, the sense of community that had been fostered at Quiggins was difficult to recapture, and in recent years the businesses housed in Grand Central have moved out. Other areas within the city that had become popular with those associated with alternative subcultures such as Goth and metal were also lost in this period. For instance, the space outside the law courts in which the likes of musician and music manager Tom Ghannad would congregate with around 300 others during the early 2000s was also redeveloped. Ghannad highlighted how this site was important because of the way that young people travelled there from across Merseyside and it even facilitated the formation of new bands, as he put it: “you’d get people from Southport and all the way over to the Wirral and St Helens, so for example some of the kids who were super into my first bands, they were from St Helens but I’d have met them at the Courts and a couple of those guys actually formed a band in Liverpool” (Ghannad 2018 personal communication). However, in the period in which the area outside the courts and the Chavasse park region of the city centre was being redeveloped to accommodate Liverpool ONE, Ghannad noted how there started to be more of a police presence there. Although Ghannad acknowledged that some of the young people were drinking alcohol, it was “Only when the developers wanted to take it over did you get the police down there. Obviously, they were causing issues and basically it was to raise awareness of, you know, ‘These people are bad, let’s move them on. Let’s move them elsewhere, let’s redevelop this space.’ So, they were flagging it as if the police would come down there and just create bad press for the area” (Ghannad 2016). In an era in the mid-2000s when some within rock and metal music subcultures felt that their communities were being relocated due to regeneration and gentrification, it is also pertinent to mention that such factors had also led to the closure of another music venue. The Picket, which was in the Merseyside Trade Union Community and Unemployed Resource Centre on Hardman street, close to the city centre and student areas, was a “professional and subsidized live music venue connected to a community recording studio” (Cohen 2007, 205). The venue had been supportive of rock musicians for several years and had, among other things, hosted the Liverpool Now! annual showcase for local rock bands. However, due to an inability to afford the rising prices of rent in the area and in order to

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pay off its debts, the Picket’s management was forced to sell its building to developers who proposed to turn the centre into luxury flats (Jones and Wilks-Heeg 2004, 355). Although the Picket was able to relocate to Jordan Street in the Baltic triangle area of the city, where it eventually became known as District, from the perspective of those promoting live metal music its significance as a potential venue for rock and metal music declined. As Joe Mortimer explained: “the Picket is quite out of town. It is just off Jamaica Street […] and that is really far out of the way and they put on some shows, but you don’t really hear about them, because it is so far out of the way. I think it has changed its name now, I don’t even know what it is called anymore” (Mortimer 2015). Although black metal outfit, Dragged into Sunlight, headlined a bill at District made up of hardcore and death metal acts in March 2017, this was very much an isolated event and the venue largely caters for other genres.

The COVID-19 Pandemic and Its Impact on Live Music Venues The already fragile and relatively small-scale circuit for live heavy rock and metal music in Merseyside was ravaged further by the global COVID-19 pandemic. Clearly, the pandemic had severe implications for UK live music since its onset; this was apparent during the UK Health Secretary’s announcement to parliament on 16 March 2020 that people should avoid pubs and clubs. Since this was then followed by a government-imposed lockdown which was instigated on 23 March of that year when Prime Minister Boris Johnson urged people in a televised statement to “stay at home”, music venues and those employed within live music industries existed in a more-or-less perilous state (Allen-Kinross 2020, para 12). As early as 27 April 2020, the UK charitable organization, the Music Venue Trust, announced a national campaign designed to raise awareness of the plight of music venues and to raise funds to help independent grassroots venues entitled #saveourvenues. On the campaign webpage, the Music Venue Trust stated the following: The Music Venue Trust represents 670 independent UK music venues and as a result of the current ‘lockdown’ and social distancing policies the prospects for many are grim.

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A lot of grassroots venues are already operating on very thin margins and since these restrictions came in only 17% of them, equating to just 114, are currently secure for the next eight weeks. The other 556 are at imminent risk of being permanently closed down. (Music Venue Trust 2020a, para 1–3)

After a sustained campaign from the likes of the Music Venue Trust and the Musicians Union, the UK Government announced on 6 July 2020 that the arts, culture and heritage industries would receive support in the form of a £1.57 billion rescue package (Music Venue Trust 2020b). Some Merseyside-based music venues and festivals were recipients of such support with the likes of Cavern City tours, District, Phase One and Jimmy’s being successful with their funding bids. Nonetheless, on a local level, the loss of live music in Merseyside was keenly felt, with venues that have hosted rock and metal events being hit hard. Two popular small venues mentioned above that had regularly hosted metal acts, Sound Food & Drink and the Zanzibar club, were revealed as being set to close during 2020. Such closures will serve to further restrict what is already a limited circuit of venues for heavy rock and metal acts within the area. While venues that did receive support such as Jimmy’s and Phase One had hosted isolated metal gigs during 2019 and early 2020, they were, at least at the time when the pandemic outbreak took place, not usually venues that were part of that circuit.

Placing Changes into a Broader Context: Changing Economics of Live Music and the Success of Manchester’s Arenas In this chapter it has been revealed that there were several local factors that fuelled the notion that Liverpool’s live music scene for metal and hard rock has experienced a tumultuous two decades since 2000. A high turnover of live music venues has been a common theme as owners and promoters have attempted to come to terms with a changing city that continues to both bear the marks of industrial decline and reinvent itself as a modern centre strongly associated with culture. Music culture, in particular, has been integral to Liverpool city region’s attempts to construct a unique identity, or as mayor Steve Rotherham once put it, “cultivate difference” (UK Music 2018, 5). Driven primarily by its live music output, according to a UK Music Wish You Were Here (2018) report, spending on

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music in the region generated around £135 million per year for the local economy. Yet, such statistics belie the struggles and uncertainties that many within the local live music industries face as they attempt to contribute to this economy. Moreover, if the experiences of many associated with the heavy rock and metal scenes have faced are taken into consideration, then it is clear that such indications of economic health do not tell the whole story. It appears that not all music scenes within the city region are equal. Some gathering places have effectively been sacrificed or relocated in the wake of efforts to cultivate a new identity that has ironically, as examinations of the Cavern City Quarter have revealed, all too often been drawn from the ashes of the past. Alternatively, we have seen that more recent forces of urban regeneration and gentrification have effectively evicted communities from popular gathering spaces, or else forced them to relocate. However, there are two further significant and related factors to appreciate when attempting to place the above-mentioned changes into context. Liverpool and Merseyside’s live music scenes for rock and metal, its venues and the fluctuations apparent with them do not exist in a vacuum. They have been influenced firstly by the broader development of an arena circuit within the UK from the late 1970s through to the early 1990s and, secondly by the establishment of Manchester’s various arenas as a central part of that circuit in the North-West of England. Each of these factors will now be outlined in turn. During the 1970s through to the early 1990s, major tours by international artists often passed through both Liverpool and Manchester. In Liverpool during this period, Evangelista recalled how, “A lot of bands like Thin Lizzy and AC/DC would do two nights at the Empire [theatre], purely because in those days there weren’t bigger venues, there weren’t stadiums, there weren’t the arenas. If we had the Echo Arena back then for Thin Lizzy and AC/DC they’d have sold out no problem. They [arenas] just didn’t exist. Bands weren’t expected to be that big” (Evangelista 2020). However, by the late 1980s and into the 1990s this situation began to change as the economics of live music started to shift and the infrastructure to accommodate larger events in certain UK cities grew. As Brennan puts it, the development of an arena circuit meant that “whereas before a band might have to play two shows a night for two nights at a town hall, they could now play one night at an arena for half of the labour and hire costs, making more money, more efficiently, and thus growing the live sector” (2010, 8).

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The gradual impact of these changes on Liverpool’s capability for staging rock music was explained by journalist Malcolm Dome as follows: Whereas in the ‘70s and early ‘80s, bands did 20 to 25 dates in the UK, suddenly they were doing five because they felt it was financially more sensible to only play selected cities rather than go everywhere. It was literally about how much money you could make on the road or how much money you could lose on the road. The bigger picture of course is a lot of American bands were no longer coming to the UK per se because they were losing money. When they did come over, they’d play London and maybe Manchester and perhaps Glasgow and that was it. Liverpool suddenly relegated. It was no longer seen as a city to be part of the A circuit let’s say. That’s why you suddenly found that bands were coming over and bands who would have played at the Empire or the Royal Court or the Krazyhouse in older times, were suddenly not even going to Liverpool whatsoever but they were doing Manchester. (Dome 2018)

Thus, albeit not immediately, as the 1990s gave way to a new millennium, Liverpool began to be understood as a secondary market for live rock and metal music. The identification of Liverpool in these terms continues among music managers catering for the rock and metal market today, even after the city has its own arena. Tom Ghannad who works with management company Tone Artists puts it as follows: “I mean nowadays, Liverpool’s unfortunately considered a B market really at a management level. If I go to a band, if any tours come up, we’re missing a day or something or we’ve got a couple of days off, maybe we can do a show in Liverpool or Manchester. They will always go for Manchester. Manchester in the business world and the management world will be A market and Liverpool is like a B market” (Ghannad 2016). The explanation for Manchester’s superior status in the rock and metal circuit in comparison to Liverpool lies in its early investment in arenas. Law (2000) notes that during the early 1980s the Greater Manchester Council began to take seriously the notion that Manchester could become a tourist city through leisure attractions. Hence, during the late 1980s the staging of events and the redevelopment of property to accommodate events was part of Manchester City Council’s broader “re-imaging exercise” (Brown et al. 1998, 8). In contrast, in the same period cultural policy in Liverpool was not focused on music events or building events-related infrastructure per se. Rather, there were City Council initiatives which focused on the development of cultural quarters and the planning of new

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institutions to facilitate local music business development (Cohen 2007; Brown et al. 1998). However, Manchester increased its portfolio of venues as early as 1986 when the G-MEX exhibition centre was opened on the old Central Station-Great Northern warehouse site. More significantly, in order to strengthen their 1993 bid for the 2000 Olympics, the Greater Manchester Development Corporation had helped to persuade the government to provide large grants towards the construction of a larger arena at Victoria station (Law 2000, 123). This arena became the Manchester Arena, or as it was known for many years, the MEN arena. Although it was anticipated that this arena would be a multi-­ purpose venue for sports and entertainment events, as Kronenburg notes “its largest source of visitors has been as a touring popular music venue”, and between the years 2003 and 2007 it sold more tickets than at any other comparable venue around the world (Kronenburg 2015, 78). Thus, in the same period when two of its major theatres in the Empire and the Royal Court had started to move away from staging concerts altogether, Liverpool’s closest neighbouring city was becoming arguably the major northern city on the arena circuit.

The Limits of Ecology This chapter has demonstrated the value of maintaining an ecological perspective on live music in the sense that, as Behr et al. assert, such a perspective fosters sensitivity to the role of the built environment and the “materiality” of the places for live music (2016, 6). Detailed ethnographic descriptions and interview data revealed that when the architectural constraints are considered alongside what Brocken (2019, 76) has termed “re-inventions and re-articulations” of existing buildings, we can develop a greater understanding of why live music venues can become significant. For heavy rock and metal audiences in Merseyside we have seen that a prevalence of small, often-intimate independent venues has afforded specific kinds of experience. In these places artists and audiences converge in ways not typically apparent in larger venues. Such proximity may nurture a stronger sense of community and foster scenes in that there are varied opportunities for fans or artists to integrate and form social connections. In addition, we have seen that these small venues can enable an intense affective engagement with music that is physically felt. The focus on sustainability emphasized within existing literature on live music ecology was also highly pertinent in this chapter. While Behr et al.

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(2016) and Behr et al. (2014) have considered how issues of sustainability are important for local music culture, this chapter serves as a reminder that music scenes may be experienced or understood in very different ways within a locality like the Liverpool city region. In the context of the rock and metal music venues discussed above, sustainability can be understood in two ways. Firstly, as being connected to the idea of scenic survival. There was a sense, which will be explored further in the next chapter, that the live metal music scene in the region was precariously positioned. Promoters and artists (understandably) partly saw their role in terms of creating and negotiating spaces to house metal music. However, as we have seen, they accomplished this role with a scarce set of resources within a region that, even over the last two decades, has been subject to consistent change. Secondly, though, this chapter (together with the one preceding it) has stressed the way that notions of sustainability connect with welfare. Music venues, especially the more intimate ones examined here, were interpreted as safe spaces. They were spaces and places for gathering that could become strongly associated with feelings of belonging and community. At stake, therefore, when these sites are threatened with extinction or relocation is not some generalized local “eco-system” but the potential loss or dislocation of peoples’ sense of who they are and where they belong. Thus, the latter point starts to highlight some of the difficulties with uncritically applying terms like “ecology” in ways that imply that music cultures or live music scenes are “analogous to environmental ecosystems” (Keogh 2013, 4). As Keogh suggests, a phrase like “live music ecology” has the potential to impose unity and coherence—to imply a “kind of equilibrium” within a given area that may be difficult to substantiate (Keogh 2013, 5). Yet, even if we can perhaps talk about a disruption to the “balance” of small venues in Liverpool city centre caused by something like the recent closure of the Zanzibar club or Sound Food & Drink, this chapter has illustrated that the loss of these venues will have arguably more of an impact on heavy rock and metal scenes by further diminishing an already limited circuit. Furthermore, the evocation of an ecology for live music in a city region like Liverpool must be carefully assessed to ensure that it does not mask the way in which live music cultures involve inequalities and power struggles. Although their intentions are to highlight achievements, benefit local economies and point out further work that needs to be done, reports such

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as Wish You Were Here—Liverpool City Region in which Bido Lito! editor Craig G. Pennington calls for “a more detailed understanding of the role music venues play in the local ecology” (UK Music 2018) treat the notion of a live music ecology as self-evident. Likewise, when Head of UNESCO City of Music for Liverpool Kevin McManus stated that: “Prior to COVID-19 […] the city’s musical eco-system was in fine fettle with a good balance and mix of festivals, venues and labels supporting and developing acts” (2020) he implied an almost harmonious system that nurtured music making in the area. Although each of these individuals have been pivotal in supporting popular music in the Liverpool city region, by uncritically employing these environmental metaphors they risk homogenizing the region’s diverse live music scenes. Such language also obfuscates inequalities within and between scenes that exist in Liverpool and have, in some instances, been exacerbated by the decisions of the city council. Moreover, as Keogh (2013) also suggests, if we are not careful, the implication that arises from such environmental discourse is that there is a “natural” dimension to notions of music ecology. This may even lead us to believe that within certain areas like Liverpool city centre, with its prominent tourist-driven grand narratives of places like the Cavern, Cream, Eric’s and other selective venues, these places become a kind of dominant “species”. To preserve these species within this “eco-system” certain kinds of “adaptation” may become perceived as legitimate, even if, as we have seen, they erode, erase or allow to “die out” places in which those associated with other cultures gather (Keogh 2013, 6). Finally, although this chapter has focused upon environmental issues, it should not obscure the active role played by promoters, musicians and fans in sustaining live metal music. Despite the changes discussed above, over recent decades there has continued to be individuals and groups willing to put their organizational energies behind maintaining events, even if these are usually small scale. Whether these were musicians such as Joe Mortimer or Kabir D’Silva whose entry into promotion work was partly driven by their desire to see bands similar to their own, or individuals like Sal Turner and Andy Hughes who entered into such work as an extension of their fandom. This work will be examined more closely in Chap. 5. Prior to this, however, now that we have scrutinized the shifting live music environment that has housed metal and hard rock scenes, it is important to turn our attention to the nature of those scenes.

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Keogh, Brent. 2013. On the Limitations of Music Ecology. Journal of Music Research Online 4. http://www.jmro.org.au/index.php/mca2/article/ view/83/33. Killick, Anthony. 2019. Resisting the Creative Economy on Liverpool’s North Shore: Art-Based Political Communication in Practice. Westminster Papers in Communication and Culture 14 (1): 1–17. Kronenburg, Robert. 2015. From Shed to Venue: The Arena Concert Event Space. In The Arena Concert: Music, Media and Mass Entertainment, ed. Robert Edgar, Kirsty Fairclough-Isaacs, Benjamin Halligan, and Nicola Spelman, 73–86. New York: Bloomsbury. Law, Christopher M. 2000. Regenerating the City Centre through Leisure and Tourism. Built Environment 26 (2): 117–129. Liverpool City Council. 2020. Cavern Quarter & Williamson Square: Strategic Regeneration Framework. Accessed 21 January 2021. https://liverpool.gov. uk/media/1358965/cavern-­quarter-­and-­williamson-­square-­srf-­consultation-­ statement.pdf. McManus, Kevin. 2020. COVID-19 and Liverpool’s Music Industry. Liverpool Express. Accessed 19 January 2021. https://liverpoolexpress.co.uk/ covid-­19-­and-­liverpools-­music-­industry/. Mortimer, Joe. 2015. Unpublished Interview with Joe Mortimer. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 17 July 2015. ———. 2018. Unpublished Interview with Joe Mortimer. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 14 June 2018. Music Venue Trust. 2020a. Music Venue Trust Launches #Saveourvenues Campaign. Accessed 21 January 2021. http://musicvenuetrust.com/ 2020/04/music-­venue-­trust-­launches-­saveourvenues-­campaign/. ———. 2020b. Announcement: Grassroots Music Venues Receive Lifeline. Accessed 21 January 2021. http://musicvenuetrust.com/2020/07/ announcement-­grassroots-­music-­venues-­receive-­lifeline/. Overell, Rosemary. 2014. Affective Intensities in Extreme Metal Scenes: Cases from Australia and Japan. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Parker, Beth, and Peter Guy. 2014. The Kazimier, Nation and the Fight for Wolstenholme Square—Getintothis on Liverpool’s Changing Musical Landscape. Getintothis. Accessed 20 January 2021. https://www.getintothis. co.uk/2014/11/the-­k azimier-­n ation-­a nd-­t he-­f ight-­f or-­w olstenholme-­ square-­getintothis-­on-­liverpools-­changing-­musical-­landscape/. POSTMUSIC Show. 2018. DropTheDumBULLS.  Accessed 20 January 2021. http://postmusicshow.blogspot.com/p/drop-­dumbulls.html. Riches, Gabby, and Brett Lashua. 2014. Mapping the Underground: An Ethnographic Cartography of the Leeds Extreme Metal Scene. International Journal of Community Music 7 (2): 223–241.

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Setlist.fm. 2021. The Masque Liverpool Concert Setlists. Accessed 10 February 2021. https://www.setlist.fm/venue/the-­masque-­liverpool-­england-­ 73d6369d.html?page=2. Steer, Bill. 2018. Unpublished Interview with Bill Steer. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 8 August 2018. Still, John. 2011. Whiplash. Bido Lito! Accessed 12 February 2021. https:// www.bidolito.co.uk/whiplash/. Turner, Sal. 2016. Unpublished Interview with Sal Turner. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 13 July 2016. UK Music. 2018. UK Music Wish You Were Here: Liverpool City Region Edition. Accessed 22 January 2021. https://www.ukmusic.org/wp-­content/ uploads/2021/01/Wish-­You-­Were-­Here-­Liverpool-­City-­Region-­Edition.pdf. Webster, Emma, Matt Brennan, Adam Behr, Martin Cloonan with Jake Ansell. 2018. Valuing Live Music: The UK Live Music Census 2017 Report. Accessed 10 May 2019. http://uklivemusiccensus.org/wp-­content/uploads/2018/03/ UK-­Live-­Music-­Census-­2017-­executive-­summary.pdf.

CHAPTER 4

“Support your Scene”: Metal Scenes, Solidarity and the Threat of Decline

“We’ve got one of the biggest death metal scenes in the country” (Andrew Carr May 2016) “The scene to me has just died a slow painful death due to the inability to move with the times. It is just stuck in the past and because of that it has just rotted away” (Charlie McLean July 2016) The above two vastly contrasting statements were made by metal music fans who were based in Merseyside during interviews that took place in the same year and within a few months of each other. They are indicative of the way that there were often different perspectives on what was understood as “the Liverpool metal scene”. As has already been revealed and will again become apparent in this chapter, scene is a commonly used vernacular term among metal fans, musicians, promoters and other stakeholders. Yet it is appropriated in relation to Merseyside for a range of purposes—from the description of the bands within a geographical area, to an indicator of the decline of activity within previously well-attended club nights. At the same time, it is often incorporated into broader discussions of genre-related activity through depictions of things like a UK death metal scene or a broader international heavy metal scene. The fact that scene is a concept that can mean different things for different people, even within the same locality and historical period, presents challenges for the researcher. Even scholars who have been at the forefront of establishing and utilizing the scene concept recognize that it is an © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 N. Hassan, Metal on Merseyside, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-77681-7_4

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ambiguous term, although they argue that this is a characteristic that can be advantageous when applying it to musical and social phenomena (Kahn-Harris 2007). Other scholars, however, have found the concept far less useful and have pointed to its ambiguity and varied meanings as a hindrance to analysis. In the first section of this chapter, these scholarly debates will be examined in order to consider the advantages of maintaining the usage of this concept when considering metal on Merseyside. Despite the challenges it poses, it will be argued that applying the scene concept remains the most appropriate way of addressing the temporal and spatial elements that are crucial to an analysis of peoples’ understandings of metal music in Liverpool and beyond. Given the centrality of the scene concept to various peoples’ understanding of their involvement with metal music cultures, rather than dismiss the term, this part of the chapter also argues in accordance with Kahn-Harris (2007, 21) that it is useful to consider the concept’s ambiguity as productive. The value of this approach will be made evident in the sections that immediately follow the exploration of scholarly debates. These will begin with an initial brief consideration of how scene-related activity can develop within more domestic and relatively private settings such as the home or the school. Drawing on the work of Wallach and Levine (2011), this short section will also suggest that the relationships established within such settings may become important for the emergence and continuity of scenes. The more extensive sections that follow this one will illuminate the different ways that participants characterize the Liverpool and Merseyside metal scene. We will see that, for some, Liverpool features a set of fragmented scenes that lack unity and cohesion. Scenes connected with specific sub-genres such as thrash metal or hard rock are depicted by some as somewhat exclusionary. Utilizing Thornton’s (1995) notion of subcultural capital, these sections illustrate how the articulation of tastes within such scenes can work to assert differences between social groups. However, in contrast, it will be revealed how metal scenes in Liverpool were perceived as crucial sites of community. Scene members developed a strong sense of belonging and understood extreme metal scenes such as those connected to different forms of death metal as highly inclusive and welcoming. Determined in part by Liverpool’s marginal position within the Northern England touring circuit for international metal bands that was discussed in the previous chapter, it will also be revealed that these scenes were characterized in terms of resilience and solidarity. For some scene

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members, the Liverpool extreme metal scene was somewhat self-sufficient, and this imbued the notion of scene with a distinctive quality. It also contributed to a sense that this was a local extreme metal scene that was flourishing during the mid-2010s. Strikingly, however, what will become clear is that within this same period there were other scene members who had a far more pessimistic outlook. They saw the notion of a local scene, not in terms of growth but in terms of stagnation. Although they were sometimes critical of different metal scenes in the Liverpool city region, many participants shared a clear sense of locality. It will also be revealed that they were often emotionally invested in maintaining scenes that they perceived as pivotal to their sense of self-identity. However, the final part of this chapter focuses upon metal musicians who have a much more ambivalent relationship with Merseyside metal scenes. Drawing upon interview data with metal bands from the Merseyside area such as Carcass, Conan and Ninkharsag, this concluding section argues that these musicians have forged careers largely without the support of local scenes. Therefore, these artists were much less immersed in issues concerning locality and the sustenance of Merseyside metal scenes. Playing down the role of local influences, these bands discussed the significance of developing links with national and international metal scenes. Consequently, this concluding section highlights the limits with a reductive local focus and reminds the reader of the importance of considering scenes as translocal and global (Bennett and Peterson 2004).

Subcultures and Scenes Although, as Brown (2003) notes, heavy metal was historically neglected in subcultural studies, it has nonetheless been understood as a subculture. Most notably, Weinstein’s (2000) pioneering book length study identified heavy metal as a subculture with several enduring elements. These include the centrality of the music (Weinstein sees it as “its official raison d’être”) and its styles of dress and body movements (Weinstein 2000, 121). The presence of dress codes such as tour t-shirts, denim jackets (like the t-shirts these are often adorned with patches depicting band logos and album covers), long hair and tattoos are long-standing. As are ways of fans moving to the music at gigs and club nights such as head banging, which “involves a downward thrust of the head with a gentler upthrust”, or moshing, where fans typically form a large circle (or “pit”) and proceed to enter it and collide with each other (Weinstein 2000, 130).

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The fact that these remain common elements among fans of metal indicates that heavy metal, like Goth, has what Hodkinson terms “cultural substance” (Hodkinson 2004, 142). The general sense of shared identity, often sustained commitment to metal music culture, and the strong presence of “specialist operations and services”, such as independent record labels, independent promotions companies and management services, serve to reinforce a sense that metal is “relatively self-sufficient […] and relatively self-contained” (Hodkinson 2004, 146). We saw elements of this self-sufficiency in the previous chapter when considering how independent promoters and musicians took on the responsibility of finding (and sometimes adapting) venues for gigs. The remaining chapters will also provide different examples of this. However, the concept of subculture is not particularly congenial to the analysis of metal music on Merseyside. This is primarily because, as Brown argues, there has historically been “inadequate treatment of popular music within subcultural analysis” (2003, 215). For a study like this one that prioritizes explicating what metal musicians, fans, promoters and others do within a specific locality and elucidating how they understand their locality, the overriding emphasis on youth is also too limiting. Within British cultural studies in particular, subcultures were often understood in relation to their opposition to a broad “parent culture” (Cohen 1997; Clarke et al. 1997). They were envisaged, as Hebdige famously put it, as “a major dimension in people’s lives—an axis erected in the face of the family around which a secret and immaculate identity can be made to cohere—or it [subcultures] can be a slight distraction, a bit of light-relief from the monotonous but none the less paramount realities of school, home and work” (Hebdige 1979, 122). While Hebdige acknowledges that there will be different kinds of affective involvement in subcultures, he, like other theorists during the 1970s, constructs an unhelpful dichotomy between home, the family, school and work on the one hand, and subcultural activity on the other. Yet, as this study has already indicated and will elucidate further, metal music culture was not usually experienced in this manner. Participants often became interested in metal music due to siblings or parents, they talked about swapping music artefacts in school, and as we will see in later chapters, they relied on the family when it came to the production of events or music. The range of criticisms of the subculture concept and of subcultural studies are manifold and cannot be adequately covered here (see for instance, Hesmondhalgh 2005; Clarke 1990). However, another key

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limitation of the subcultural studies of the 1970s was their preoccupation with style and with a select few “card-carrying members of spectacular subcultures” (Clarke 1990, 83). It is partly out of a desire to move away from this narrow focus, which often privileged the highly visible, public activities of groups of young men in London over the diverse activities of young women and other people in different parts of the UK, that the concept of the scene emerged (Clarke 1990). Keith Kahn-Harris, in particular, deploys the scene concept because he sees terms like subculture and neo-tribe (Bennett, 1999) as too restrictive.1 For Kahn-Harris, scene is a concept that is more agile and able to recognize “the possibility that a variety of forms of involvement and interaction may coexist within a particular space” (Kahn-Harris 2007, 19). Thus, scene is an inclusive concept that “need not be based on predetermined ideas of what scenic involvement consists of” (Kahn-Harris 2007, 21). It is, he asserts, a concept that fosters holistic analysis due to the way that it has no “privileged ‘centre’” (2007, 21) and because it implies that “scenes include everything, from tight-knit local musical communities to isolated musicians and occasional fans, since all contribute to and feed off a larger space(s) of musical practice” (Harris 2000, 25). The post-millennium era has seen a rise in the use of the scene concept to examine musical practices, with the term’s flexibility becoming attractive for scholars examining how local music scenes are “understood in relation to broader transnational processes” (Cohen 1999, 243-244; Bennett and Peterson 2004). Despite being widely used by music scholars, it is also a term that has prompted debate and criticism. In particular, the fact that scene is a somewhat ambiguous term and has multiple meanings that can emerge from within public as well as academic discourse has prompted writers such as Hesmondhalgh (2005) and Crossley (2015) to question its usefulness as an analytical concept. Crossley notes that the pervasive use of this term by audiences and fans of popular music can be unhelpful in that it “is already loaded and has different meanings for different people, which make it difficult to pin down for academic purposes” (Crossley 2015, p. 28). Crossley’s adoption of the notion of “music worlds” when studying the emergence and development of punk and post-punk in particular cities is an interesting 1  Weinstein sees the concept of neo-tribe as the antithesis of community in that it defines a mentality “that figures engagement to cultural forms as identity-play rather than as intrinsic to identity formation” (2016, 8).

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alternative concept. Highly influenced by Becker’s “art worlds” concept, Crossley’s framework which explicates the roles of networks, places, conventions and resources in creating and developing musical worlds is one that allows for a good deal of analytical precision. His examination of the music worlds of punk and post-punk reveals how places, such as music venues, provide substantial evidence for how they can become network foci, bringing people together at historical moments (Crossley 2015, 40-42). Likewise, Emms and Crossley’s work on the “translocal music worlds” of UK underground metal illustrates the value of a structural approach to the analysis of music events via “social network analysis” (2018, 116-117). Their method of surveying participation in events across cities like Liverpool, Manchester and Leeds yields empirical data on how some areas such as Manchester become “core localities” while others such as Liverpool become peripheral within such translocal worlds (Emms and Crossley 2018, 131). With their emphasis on mapping the structural features of translocal networks, the ambiguity of the scene concept is perhaps understandably seen as unhelpful for writers like Emms and Crossley. However, as was made clear from the outset of this book, one of the central aims was to examine how musicians, fans and a range of people involved in the production of metal music culture conceptualized a Liverpool or Merseyside metal scene. This was partly because “scene” was the vernacular term that they used when describing aspects such as the relationship between place and metal music cultures, as well as when describing the connections between people that were based on shared interests in heavy rock and metal music. Therefore, while it may be an imprecise term, its utility and longevity as a word used by the participants in this study and wider metal fans cannot be underestimated. As Couldry asserts when discussing the value of cultural studies, one of its founding principles articulated within the work of Raymond Williams was that “each person’s voice and reflections about culture are valuable” (Couldry 2000, 2). Consequently, part of the commitment to maintaining a focus on the notion of the scene in this book is driven by a desire to take participants’ reflections seriously. Indeed, as Emms and Crossley acknowledge, network structures are “outcomes of interaction” as much as they may facilitate new interactions (2018, 116). Thus, if “scene” is a term that is part of those interactions and if it is used in various ways to describe the context in which “metal music, practices and discourses are produced” (Kahn-Harris 2007, 13), then this warrants critical attention. Furthermore, while the notion of a

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musical world which features networks that can be mapped is an appealing one, scene is a term more conducive to the task of explicating the significance of phenomena that is prone to change. Writers like Kahn-Harris (2007), Kotarba et al. (2009) and Harmon and Scott (2017) indicate that scenes have an emergent dimension. As such, they cohere with Bauman’s (1977) understanding of the notion of “emergent culture” in that they are articulated within a nexus of “residual forms and items” (such as the existing built environment within a city), “contemporary practice” (such as those involved with live music production) and “emerging structures” (such as attempts to re-build or re-brand part of a city) (Bauman 1977, 48). Echoing the use of the term within the theatre, music scenes have been conceptualized in spatial and temporal terms. The former aspect is important because it reminds us to pay attention to the infrastructure and resources that may foster (or inhibit) music production and reception within specific places (Cohen 1999; Emms and Crossley 2018). Yet, the spatial dimension of the scene concept refers to much more than examining the visible features of built environments. It facilitates an examination of peoples’ “sense of place” (Kotarba et al. 2009, 313) and recognizes that peoples’ experiences within places like live music venues and their affective attachments to them or understandings of them matter (Cohen 1999; Kotarba and LaLone 2014; Riches and Lashua 2014). This has been revealed in several ways during previous chapters, for instance through the ways that participants understood metal music with reference to Liverpool and its musical heritage or through their relationships with venues. Temporal dimensions are also vital to examine when considering music scenes. Finnegan’s influential study of local music making in the UK town of Milton Keynes elucidated how musicians’ and fans’ perception of time was partly created by “intervals in social life” that were “marked out” (Finnegan 1989, 322). Notions of peak periods for music events and festival “seasons” have become commonplace for a range of people involved with the production and reception of heavy rock and metal music. For example, as we saw in the last chapter, live music events have historically been vital for heavy rock and metal music fans and musicians. These events have become “recurrent rituals” (Finnegan 1989, 322) which involve mass gatherings. For instance, promoter Andy Hughes described the ritual of travelling to the annual Bloodstock Open Air festival in Derbyshire, England almost in terms of a pilgrimage. When the festival is running Hughes takes a bus load of fans from Liverpool to the festival and he described the experience as one where “metal communities from various

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places are uprooting, just for a weekend, as a group, going to Bloodstock, they’re taking some of their bands, they’re going on a bus together, they all camp together” (Hughes 2018). For many, then, Bloodstock has become a calendar event that is marked as a time when local scenes uproot and converge with others from around the UK and wider afield. Aside from the way that music events can become a central dimension to how people understand scenes from a temporal perspective, considerations of time can also alert us to significant broader aspects. Scenes, as Shank’s analysis of the rock ‘n’ roll scene in Austin, Texas eloquently reminds us, can be finite and fleeting. This is made clear when Shank asserts that scenes involve struggles to sustain meaning. When Shank writes that a range of phenomena—from flyers to tours to recordings— “participates in the struggle to codify and stabilize the possible meanings that the scene can produce” this serves as a reminder that scenes are vulnerable (Shank 1994, 192). Not only do the meanings that may come to be associated with a scene lack stability, but they may also fundamentally shift. For instance, Shank illustrates how the Austin scene became more high profile and attracted people due to the potential “promise of making it” and this changed the meanings associated with it (1994, 241). Yet, importantly Shank asserts that this “reconfigured scene” is no more or less important than earlier ones in Austin (1994, 241). It remains a “historical construct that shifts and changes in the response to the conscious and unconscious concerns of the individuals who create it in their presence, their actions, their tastes, beliefs, and desires” (Shank 1994, 241). Thus, this emphasis on temporality within such work on scenes adds a further layer of complexity to the concept. It underlines that it is not only the case that the notion of “scene” can have different meanings for people at different times. Rather, even within synchronic moments there will be variations regarding how people understand what may be termed a scene’s temporal boundaries. In other words, at historical moments there will be struggles articulated over when scenes emerged, the extent to which they are flourishing and whether certain scenes are declining or even “dead”. Indeed, because such struggles emerge within the nexus of residual forms, contemporary practices and emerging structures mentioned earlier, there are bound to be divergences relating to how people perceive scenes to be connected to time periods.2 2  Indeed, as Varas-Díaz et  al. (2016) illustrate via qualitative and quantitative methods, even within small metal music scenes that are located within discrete geographical areas there

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The tensions between the ways in which people understand scenes at specific moments, even within the same locality, can also be fruitfully explored in relation to Deena Weinstein’s (2016) work on communities of metal. As will be seen shortly, several informants connected the notion of scene with that of community. Weinstein identifies the following basic features that various communities (including those associated with metal music) have in common. These are: a shared set of values or culture between members; mutual identification and interaction among members; the solidarity that can emerge from the previous features; and finally, the presence of boundaries that can control who has access to the community (Weinstein 2016, 10-11). When assessing metal music communities, Weinstein distinguishes between three types—ideal, diminished and imaginary. Ideal communities for metal refer to moments or places when “each of the definitional features of a community […] is maximally fulfilled” (Weinstein 2016, 13). Specific local scenes (Weinstein uses the example of the Bay Area thrash metal scene of the 1980s in the USA) that fit with the ideal community are described as having a strong degree of unity and cohesion. While not totally insular, Weinstein characterizes such scenes as working towards a shared goal. Thus, as Weinstein puts it: “In each of those scenes, for a time, fans formed bands, bands were fans, mediators joined bands, and some fans and musicians became mediators of one sort or another” (2016, 15). However, as Weinstein notes, there are many ways in which metal communities can fail to live up to the ideal form because each of the five features of community “may not be ideally achieved” (2016, 16). In relation to scenes, she suggests that factors such as a loss of enthusiasm or commitment by key mediators or a lack of opportunities for face-to-face interaction may lead to a “diminished” metal community (2016, 16-18). Yet, the extent to which members consider scenes to be diminished will, as Weinstein implies, differ to varying degrees. Crucially, Weinstein makes clear that understandings of ideal or diminished metal music communities are related to a third category—the “mythic/imaginary community” (2016, 19). This category refers to peoples’ beliefs about community and how people may “idealize” imaginary metal communities in different can be clear variations in the sense of belonging experienced by scene members. While the account in this book is based upon ethnographic research, their study also importantly opens up the potential for mixed methods approaches to provide further insights into the importance of scenic boundaries.

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ways. In this sense, she elaborates, ideas about community can function on a mythic level and work to generate allegiance to an “imagined ideal metal community” that may never have existed (2016, 20). In a similar way to Rosemary Lucy Hill (2014) in her earlier work on metal fan communities, Weinstein’s approach serves partly as a reminder to critically interrogate the ways that people understand scenes as communities. The sections that follow examine sometimes conflicting impressions of scenes that draw on notions of community but also on metaphors of growth and stagnation to articulate understandings of change and continuity within Liverpool metal music culture.

Scene Beginnings: Beyond the Public Prior to an examination of different understandings of Merseyside’s metal scenes, it is pertinent to acknowledge that although scenes are often connected to public places such as gig venues or clubs, scene-related activity is also housed in more private places. Indeed, interest in heavy rock and metal music typically starts in school or in the family home. Several participants active within metal music scenes indicated that it was after discovering a parent’s or sibling’s rock or metal music collection that their metal fandom was sparked. For instance, guitarist Mike Hollows, who had been a member of melodic death metal band Lazarus Syndrome, indicated that: My dad has always been into rock and I used to borrow his old Whitesnake LPs and put them on the turntable and play them. I guess, throughout childhood, I went through phases of different things. My brother was really into grunge, Nirvana and stuff like that. He had some Iron Maiden cassettes, so I nicked them at one point. (Hollows 2018)

Carcass guitarist, Bill Steer, recalled how parents and siblings were important for enabling him to go to his first metal gigs: I guess I was quite lucky because I started going to gigs, or concerts as they were known then, very early and you know there was always somebody’s dad or an older brother that would take you along. […] I mean the very first concert I saw was Iron Maiden on the Killers tour with Paul Di’Anno. That was at the Liverpool Royal Court Theatre, which, I have no idea what that venue is like now, but at the time it was brilliant. (Steer 2018)

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Consequently, rather than depicting the family as some monolithic entity to be rebelled against, these examples illustrate the crucial role that family members can play in fostering interest in music and music scenes. Complementing these accounts, the role of sharing music with friends in secondary school was also cited as important. Chris Furlong, vocalist for Liverpool death metal band Exhumation, explained how: “in high school […] all the ones that were into all the alternative stuff would have their own little part on the playground [and] would all bring CDs in and CD players and sit there and swap and change” (Furlong 2017). Likewise, writer and musician Michael Brocken recalled how during the late 1960s he would “swap records in class” and became interested in rock through “listening to albums and going to people’s houses and swapping ideas and swapping albums” (Brocken 2019). Schools and the homes of school friends can therefore become potential breeding grounds for engagement with music scenes. As Dos Santos Silva (2018) demonstrates in her work on the circulation of metal music items within the Brazilian metal scene, the exchange of artefacts such as albums has the potential to foster social ties within scenes. Furthermore, the dedication and time involved with curating cassette “mix” tapes, making CD compilations or simply deciding which albums to share with others involves “affection-invested creation” (Dos Santos Silva 2018, 246). It can generate fascination with scenic artefacts, which can also encourage a shared sense of value about such artefacts and create enduring memories regarding how fans first became invested in music scenes. However, the role of school or domestic settings as potential resources for scene formation or scene-related activity is a relatively under-researched area. The likes of Cavicchi (1998) and Vroomen (2004) have provided insights into how fandom can become part of family life through the way that parents, children or siblings can share their musical tastes. Furthermore, Vroomen posits that the passing on of fandom and music tastes can “secure the ongoing existence of the scene” (2004, 244). Richards (1998, 1999) and Werner (2009) have also indicated how sharing music can become integral to the sustenance of friendships in school contexts. Yet there remains a dearth of scholarship in this area and limited exploration of the ways in which these contexts may foster, or indeed constitute, scenes. In particular, Wallach and Levine’s salient point that scenes require “generational continuity” and that new generations of scene members may emerge from settings and activities not typically assessed within official histories is pertinent here (2011, 127). School settings, domestic environments and

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even university or college groups (such as the rock societies that are a feature of several UK university campuses) may facilitate “scene beginnings” (Wallach and Levine 2011, 127). They may accomplish this in much the same way as activities like hanging out in more public places (gig queues, alternative clothing shops, record stores, etc.) which were mentioned in the previous two chapters. Although it was largely beyond the scope of this project, as Hill (2014) suggests, due to the historical overemphasis on public fandom and highly visible scene-related activities there is a need for more research into the role of private settings and activities.

The Extreme Metal Scene in Liverpool: Community, Inclusivity and Resilience Echoing the use of the term by journalists and musicians that has been outlined by the likes of Cohen (1999) and Bennett and Peterson (2004), some people involved with metal on Merseyside understood the scene in terms of community and shared interests. This was articulated most prominently in Andrew Carr’s account of how the Liverpool metal scene was like a “family”: “The Liverpool scene, it’s […] a lot more like a family because everyone knows everyone, everyone spends time together, everyone will help each other” (Carr 2016). As a young person who went to the Download festival at Donington Park, UK, at the age of 18, Carr was able to meet more locally based attendees through a Facebook group called the “Download Scouse Invasion” (Carr 2016). After camping with some of the people in this group, he was able to feel part of a local scene. As he described: “I started drinking at The Swan and going to the Krazyhouse and the Cabin, when it was still open, and Lomax and stuff like that. I just found everyone there. Everyone was really welcoming and they made me feel at home” (Carr 2016). Carr went on to describe how he developed more of an affinity for extreme metal sub-genres like death metal and black metal as he got to know people in this scene. He went as far as to define the extreme metal scene as the “establishment” in the city. He explained this as follows: “the extreme metal scene in Liverpool is like the establishment in a way. They’re the core of the metal scene in Liverpool […] the most amount of people are into it. Most of the gigs that go on are extreme metal gigs” (Carr 2016). Like promoter and death metal musician, Joe Mortimer, and his optimistic assessment of the Liverpool metal scene during the mid-2010s

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as featuring an abundance of shows and venues, which was mentioned in the previous chapter, Carr also saw this period as one of growth. He highlighted the death metal scene as particularly healthy at this time, claiming that “we’ve got one of the biggest death metal scenes in the country” (Carr 2016). When asked to elaborate on how he had arrived at that conclusion, Carr stated: We put on more regular death metal gigs and we get a lot of, as I say, international bands and bands from around the country but also you begin to get a feel, the more you’re in the metal scene, the more you interact with metal scenes from around the country, you get a feel for which … each city scene has its own atmosphere, it has its own personality […] When you go to festivals in particular, you go around the country or you meet other people from around the country, through other people or just from travelling and stuff like, you get to have the feel of it. You get to see what sort of people, metal heads and what sort of music those metal heads are into. Liverpool has the most, apart from like I say Glasgow and maybe London […] but Glasgow and Liverpool have the largest amount of extreme metal fans. (Carr 2016)

This assessment of the extreme metal scene in Liverpool at the time, therefore, was informed by interactions with metal fans from around the UK, as well as Carr’s experiences of attending gigs and meeting artists within the city. These had all contributed to his “feel” for the “personality” of the scene, a personality that was constructed in largely positive terms as inclusive and growing. At the same time, however, this evaluation of the Liverpool scene was influenced by the particularity of the live music environment that was discussed at length in the preceding chapter. Given the relative shortage of venues in Liverpool city centre and Manchester’s perceived status as a more desirable market for touring rock and metal acts, it was not surprising that notions of the overall status of a Liverpool metal scene were influenced by those factors. Interestingly, Carr articulated how in his view the dominance of extreme metal in the city at that time was partly down to its unequal relationship with its nearest neighbours: We may not say that but there’s a definite air of everyone in Manchester are lucky. They’re spoilt. They don’t have to go to little local gigs because every month, every few months they’ve got a big band playing there […] They don’t have to rely on each other. They don’t have to make their own music

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or anything like that or they don’t have to go and see local little bands or little bands from Eastern Europe or North America or South America […] They’ve hardly any supporters but they’re underground and they play death metal, or they play black metal, or they play some subset of metal which everyone in Liverpool likes. (Carr 2016)

Thus, Liverpool’s more marginal position within the touring circuit for Northern England, which was influenced by the historical circumstances mentioned previously, contributed to the impression of the quality of its scene. Such testimony about marginality also coheres with those identified in relation to other metal scenes. While Emma Baulch’s ethnography of metal scenes in the Indonesian island of Bali during the 1990s featured more pronounced forms of exclusion than those experienced within Liverpool, she identified a fetishization of marginality that has some relevance to this discussion (Baulch 2003, 196). In a similar vein to Baulch’s informants, Carr’s discussion of the Liverpool extreme metal scene fetishized its marginality, emphasizing difference. Whereas, as will be seen later in this chapter, others discussed commonality. Nonetheless, Manchester’s more prominent status on the touring circuit indirectly shaped the activities of Liverpool-based musicians and promoters. The self-reliance that Carr refers to was to some extent born out of the recognition that many more metal acts would have tours that stopped in Manchester only. As Joe Mortimer put it: If I go to Manchester for a show for a band of any level, I could be paying £10 to £15 on the train return. £10 to £15 on the door to get in, drinks, buy CD, t-shirt or whatever and […] sometimes I will get a taxi back from the train station if it gets too late. So, I am spending £50, £60, £70 on small shows and if I am willing to spend that on going to a show in Manchester, I am willing to spend that on putting on a show in Liverpool. That is the way I view [it] and I know a lot of other people feel the same. (Mortimer 2015)

Liverpool’s status on the touring circuit in comparison to Manchester, then, together with its proximity to its nearby neighbour, paradoxically fuelled an appetite for local production. Rather than simply lament inequality or attempt to benefit from Manchester’s more enviable position on that circuit, it was striking that several Liverpool scene members looked to continue to stage metal music events within the city. Moreover, it was telling that for fans like Carr this was understood almost in terms of

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resilience—scene members, whether promoters, bands or fans, “had to” embrace more niche or “extreme” metal bands or sub-genres because they were more likely to be housed in Liverpool’s small venues. Of course, there are factors that complicate this perspective, including the fact that key Liverpool-based promoters of extreme metal also operate on translocal and international levels. Nonetheless, the above evaluation of Liverpool’s extreme metal scene vis-à-vis Manchester provides a strong reminder that the notion of a local scene can still matter, even if this is defined in opposition to nearby areas. Similarly, the perception of the Liverpool metal scene as related to feelings of community was also evident in promoter Andy Hughes’ (2018) explicit use of the phrase “whole communities” to describe groups of fans from different localities who would travel to the independent metal music festival, Bloodstock Open Air, in Derbyshire. When discussing the attendance at Bloodstock by the metal music community in Liverpool, Hughes depicted this community as being characterized by shared experiences: “Well, a lot of people from the Swan here, who come to my gigs, and then they get on my Bloodstock bus and we all camp together and it’s all the same people” (Hughes 2018). While such testimonies indicate how the Liverpool metal scene could be experienced by some as a unified “whole” community as Hughes put it, as we will now see they were tempered by alternative accounts that either stressed that the Liverpool scene could not be understood in singular terms or else lamented that this scene did not feature cohesive communities.

A Lack of Unity? Divisions and Separate Metal Scenes Although he had described the Liverpool metal scene as like a “family”, in the same interview Carr (2016) acknowledged that there were different groups within this scene. He contrasted what he termed the “extreme metal scene” with the “thrash metal scene” in Liverpool that he had witnessed at this time (Carr 2016). While he suggested that the extreme metal scene partly consists of “local bands that are all together, especially in the death metal scene […] They all hang out together, their mates hang out together”, they were nonetheless considered by Carr to be a more inclusive crowd. On the other hand, the thrash metal scene was perceived as “even more insular in a way because they’re still trying to settle into

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their own very little nook in a way because they’re younger and they have their own little groups, their own little scene” (Carr 2016). Furthermore, Carr (2016) perceived “an awful lot of elitism” within the thrash scene, which manifested itself in the expression of taste and display of what Sarah Thornton has termed “subcultural capital” (Thornton 1995, 27). Attempts to gain status within this thrash scene corresponded with Thornton’s observations of distinctions within dance club cultures in that they were embodied in how members acted and talked, as well as objectified through clothing and their band preferences (Thornton 1995, 27). Hence, Carr perceived how those on the thrash scene policed taste through discourse and style; he described their approach as follows: “if you don’t like these bands or you have this opinion or you don’t dress this way, you’re not a real metal head, you’re a poser” (Carr 2016). The contrast between the two scenes that Carr identified was also manifested on a spatial level within venues. The Swan Inn on Wood Street in Liverpool city centre, which he aptly described as “like the epicentre” of the Liverpool scene, was for him the place where the differences between the groups became publicly noticeable. Whereas those associated with the extreme metal scene “will be intermingling” with others, “thrashers” used the space in a different manner (Carr 2016). As Carr put it, “then you get all the thrashers or the slightly younger ones that probably haven’t made those connections [with others on the extreme metal scene] yet. They’re in the corner by themselves and they don’t move […] They take over their own little corner of the bar or something like that and they don’t try and talk to anyone” (Carr 2016). It was not possible to contrast Carr’s observations with specific testimony from those within the thrash metal scene, so this understanding (like other accounts from ethnographic interviews) needs to be recognized as partial and incomplete. However, this testimony is interesting because of the way that it implies the emergence of newer generations of scene members. Part of the reason why Carr perceived these groups of “thrashers” as aloof and elitist may have been as much to do with their age and status as young people who may have all started taking an interest in metal within the same school year as it was to do with music tastes. Such accounts, then, point to the possibility of emerging scenes and scene members negotiating spaces that may have felt less like a “home” for them in comparison to members of more “established” scenes. They also provide an important reminder that, even though previous chapters highlighted how scene members recalled how venues like the Moonstone were safe spaces, at different points in time

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these buildings were likely to have housed groups and individuals who were less sure of their identities within such surroundings. The perception that there were different groups that distinguished themselves from others within a Liverpool metal scene was also referred to by other participants. Musician Jay Lashbrooke, who had been a member of hard rock bands Rozetta Stone and Black Cat Bones during the early-­ to-­mid 2010s, discussed how there were clear differences between hard rock and metal scenes. Even though he was playing in bands that had more of a hard rock sound, Jay found that there tended to be more support from metal fans. Commenting on these differences, Jay stated: I found that amongst the bands and the fans, there was a lot of competition. There was a lot of hubristic … there was a lot of jealousy amongst each other. Whose band is better? Whose band sounds more like Guns N’ Roses? […] Whereas on the metal scene, ironically, everyone was best buddies. We all went to support each other’s bands. We all, you know, played on each other’s gigs. It was always, ironically, that way round. […] Hard rock fans and the hard rock bands always hated each other. The metal bands and the metal fans always loved each other. (Lashbrooke 2015)

Such testimony makes apparent that there were overlapping scenes connected with metal on Merseyside. References to a “whole community” were offset by accounts of divisions and suggestions of tensions between different groups and bands. These were not necessarily as publicly visible as the spatial divisions that Carr identified as being set up by younger members of the thrash metal scene when they were in the Swan Inn. On some occasions, genre expectations and music tastes could lead to bands and scene members feeling marginalized in less obvious ways. Although those on the extreme metal scene in Liverpool were depicted as more inclusive and supportive by the likes of Carr and Lashbrooke, within this scene there were still instances where subcultural capital was used to ascribe more value to specific metal sub-genres. Mike Hollows, guitarist for former Liverpool-based melodic death metal band, Lazarus Syndrome, described one such situation as follows: At the [Bloodstock] Metal 2 the Masses [Merseyside], you get quite a lot of very different bands, across the metal spectrum, playing on the same evening. So, at the Lomax, everyone used to go outside, whether they smoked or not, in-between bands and then go back in for the bands. So, I was definitely there, at one point, and I heard something along the lines of, “Oh,

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I’m not going back in, this guy sings.” And his mate was like, “Right, let’s not bother with that, then.” Not knowing that we, the band [about to play], are stood a few feet away from them going, “That’s a shame because we do other stuff, as well.” Yes, so it did feel, at the time, that we were…despite being a metal band and loving metal since we were teenagers just like everyone else, that we weren’t, somehow, as ‘metal’ as we should be or something like that. It felt like a little bit of…I don’t really like the term, but ‘elitism’ in that we were death metal ‘light’ or something and therefore not worthy of some people’s attention. I think that there were some promoters that felt that, as well; some. It’s a small part and a lot of people did come along and had lots of comments that were like, “I don’t really like melodic death metal, but you guys did it really well” and that sort of stuff, which is fine. If you don’t really like something but can appreciate it, I’m totally on board with that but to completely reject us out of hand because of a preconceived idea of what we are is a bit unfair. (Hollows 2018)

Although this is an isolated example, it demonstrates that scene-related interaction can constitute a form of embodied subcultural capital that can have an impact on other scene members’ feelings of belonging. Expressions of preference for death metal style (guttural, largely inaudible vocals as opposed to the more cleanly sung vocals often featured in melodic death metal) in this instance led to pre-judgements about a band during a battle-­ of-­the-bands style competition. Although unwitting in this case, such discourse can effectively work to reinforce genre boundaries within metal scenes. Indeed, Carr’s (2016) notion of the extreme metal scene as the “establishment” in Liverpool becomes especially apt here. In this moment, Lazarus Syndrome were not perceived to be “heavy enough” to fit in with some peoples’ established notions of death metal. Therefore, as with Overell’s account of how members of the grindcore scene in Melbourne, Australia articulated their sense of belonging partly through the “Othering of non-grindcore metal scenes” (2014, 92), the Othering of certain death metal sub-genres can be understood as a way of asserting the superiority of more “extreme” styles.

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Liverpool’s Rock Club Scene, Decline and the Loss of Identity Tensions regarding taste for certain sub-genres were also apparent in Liverpool’s club scene for rock and metal. Husband and wife Roger and Charlie McLean were involved with several club nights during the early-­ to-­mid 2010s. As a rock DJ Roger attempted to establish regular club nights at Bumper, a late opening bar close to the city centre. Both Charlie and Roger had been regulars at the Krazyhouse night club and the Swan Inn for over 20 years. Roger explained during an interview that he had arranged to start a new club night: “The idea of us doing it was that we just thought no one was really doing a night out that we would want to go to so the only way to make that happen was to try and make it happen ourselves” (McLean and McLean 2016). However, as Roger and Charlie made clear, the efforts that they went to were not felt to be worthwhile due to the way that the playlist choices became so fraught: Roger:

That’s why we tried but then you just go to a lot of expense and don’t get any thanks for it Charlie: Yes, there were people on Facebook saying, “This is not metal for me.” When I was younger it seemed much more of an accepting scene whereas now I feel it’s gone the other way. I feel people are more judgemental in the metal scene than just being with people who aren’t into that sort of music. Everyone is so…I don’t know. Everyone wants these tiny little niche genres of metal that are probably not going to be that suitable for a club night. But, if we don’t play them the night is “not this” or it’s “not that.” (McLean and McLean 2016) Consequently, despite the above-mentioned perceptions of the extreme metal scene as a more inclusive and supportive one, Charlie’s testimony suggests that the popularity of extreme metal sub-genres in Liverpool had the potential to stifle other scenes. DJ playlists, even for rock and metal nights, cater for a range of tastes. Yet, certain extreme metal sub-genres such as brutal death metal and sludge doom metal are not necessarily conducive to the club dance floor. In addition to their views on the difficulties with attempting to accommodate tastes for niche sub-genres, Charlie and Roger’s perception of the overall Liverpool metal scene was in stark contrast to scene members who

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regularly attended live gigs. This perception was influenced by their long-­ standing status as club-goers. For them, the rock club scene in Liverpool, which had the Krazyhouse as its focal point for several decades, was in steep decline. As Roger put it: I suppose the Krazyhouse used to be two or three people deep at the bar. It used to be a really thriving club. There was just a totally different feeling to it and it [the decline] was just that gradual thing. There were some points and probably a whole combination of reasons [for it] but people stopped going and it just lost that vibe. The music seemed to be stuck in a bit of a rut and it was just a gradual process to where it is now where you have just got a handful of people at the bar and a handful of people on the dance floor. (McLean and McLean 2016)

Roger and Charlie partly blamed the demise of the club scene they had once experienced on the inability of club night organizers to “move with the times” and update playlists. Due to this, Charlie even went as far as to say that: “The scene to me has just died a slow painful death due to the inability to move with the times. It is stuck in the past and because of that it has rotted away” (McLean and McLean 2016). What was especially striking about Charlie and Roger’s testimony was their emphasis on the lack of unity. When I asked them whether they would characterize the overall Liverpool metal scene as something cohesive or fragmented, they agreed that it was fragmented but Roger added: I suppose now more than ever there seems to be many metal genres where people seem to be quite heavily into one and not the others which is a bit strange. I suppose in general there must be a scene out there. There are a whole load of people into extreme metal music but nothing seems to bring it together these days […] It’s hard to think of it as cohesive, everyone supporting each and everyone wanting the best for each other’s scene. It just doesn’t seem to be out there anymore. (McLean and McLean 2016)

It is interesting how this testimony contrasted with Carr’s perception of the extreme metal scene as like a “family” and Lashbrooke’s understanding of the metal scene as more supportive. This may partly be attributed to generational differences once again. Charlie and Roger were comparing the contemporary scene with one from the late 1990s and early 2000s, a period when younger members like Carr and Lashbrooke would have been too young to participate. Furthermore, Lashbrooke especially

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developed a perception of the contemporary scene primarily as a musician performing live, rather than as a club-goer. As well as implying generational differences, Charlie’s testimony was particularly striking due to the way that it drew attention to how changing involvement with scenes can powerfully affect notions of self-identity. In response to Roger’s comments on a lack of cohesion and unity, she replied with an in-depth reflection on how her historical involvement with the scene connected with her sense of self: Yes, I think I would agree. When I think back to when I first got into metal when I was a lot younger, I did feel part of something and I had an identity as that and I knew who I was as that sort of person. Now some of that has eroded and I don’t really know what my identity is as that person anymore into that music because I have lost…I suppose what defined me was that, from an early age, I have always been more of a club-goer just because of circumstance. I like to go and see bands but that’s not really been my…I enjoy that, but I enjoy going to the club element as well and I have lost that aspect. I don’t really know what the scene is any more […] Quite often I suppose we were quite happy to just go to the K [Krazyhouse] and enjoy it on our own but we haven’t got that now, so I feel like my identity as being into that scene, I don’t know what that actually is any more. I still just enjoy the music and wear the clothes, but I don’t actually express it in any other way. (McLean and McLean 2016)

Charlie’s reflections are interesting on several levels. In part, they reveal how adoption of what Paula Rowe calls a “metal identity”, which can be crucial for enabling young people to establish some “certainty” about identity and alleviate anxieties about “fitting in”, can become challenged by scene-related change (Rowe 2017, 725). The certainty that Charlie felt in relation to identity—“I knew who I was as that sort of person”—had been replaced by more of an uncertainty in the face of the loss of a feeling of “being into” the club scene. The statement also reveals the emotional investment that scene members like Charlie make. Perceived changes to the scene and the concomitant loss of a sense of belonging that they ushered in seemed strongly felt. While there is nothing inevitable about the association between metal music and feeling part of a community, indeed Yavuz’s (2017) research on death/doom metal fandom illustrates that fans can feel isolated as much as part of a collective, emotional responses to this association are important. As Yavuz also points out, emotional responses are social and can reveal

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peoples’ sense of “who they are and to what they feel or [do] not feel like they belong” (2017, 206). Indeed, as we will see from a different perspective in the next chapter, involvement with scenes involves various kinds of emotional labour (Hochschild 2003). When describing such involvement, scene members may utilize discourse that emphasizes metal’s strong potential to produce communal experiences that are felt as transcendent. This can involve moments where the self becomes temporarily submerged in the collective, as Overell illustrates through accounts of grindcore’s affective power for scene members in Osaka, Japan and Melbourne, Australia (2014, 51-53). Indeed, Perez Pelayo’s research on Mexican metal band Cemican reveals how band performances can build what Victor Turner calls communitas—the sense that boundaries between individuals are dissolved and replaced by a powerful feeling of shared identity (2021, 141). However, as we have seen, when the feeling of being part of something collective is lost it can have almost the opposite effect, prompting people to reflect on a more isolated sense of identity, which has less of an intensive attachment to community. Although the above examination of different perceptions of a Liverpool metal scene was informed by the notion of a local scene, the issues this raised were linked with peoples’ understanding of broader UK and international scenes. This was most evident during exchanges at a panel discussion event co-organized by Liverpool-based webzine, Getintothis, and promotions company Deathwave Entertainment. The event was advertised as the first “Liverpool metal conference” and took place in the music venue, Phase One, prior to a gig by US gothic metal act, A Pale Horse Named Death on 4 November 2019. I was one of the panellists at the event, along with Getintothis Chief Editor, Peter Guy; Joe Maryanji, the vocalist of Liverpool metal band Oceanis; JJ Haggar, a metal and rock music promoter and former Krazyhouse DJ; and Amanda Barnett, a PhD student based at University of Liverpool who is researching UK rock societies. The event was chaired by Mark Cooper, the host of the Spoken Metal Show podcast series, who also recorded the event and disseminated it as a podcast. During the panel discussion, one of the key topics raised by the host was elitism. Unlike the interviewees cited above, at this free public event there were no specific examples of elitist behaviour cited by participants. However, similarly to views expressed in some of my interviews, there was an emphasis on the lack of unity within the Liverpool metal scene. For instance, when debating the issue of how Merseyside metal artists could gain more support and momentum through securing a place on the

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bills at major city-based festivals such as Liverpool International Music Festival or Sound City, the way in which local scenes had coalesced around sub-genres was referenced as part of a wider issue with metal music in general. As one audience member put it: “That’s an issue with metal as well [because] with every other genre ‘it’s pop music, it’s R ‘n’ B’ [whereas] metal is, ‘this, this, this, and this’ […] People outside of that [sub-genre specific knowledge] will never understand it” (Cooper 2019). The range of sub-genres and the allegiances that metal fans have to them was, therefore, perceived as an obstacle to presenting a united front when it came to the promotion of local metal artists at Liverpool’s more prestigious international music festivals. Yet, at the same time, this discussion acknowledged that conflicts or tensions between sub-genres were long-standing and not confined to Liverpool’s metal scene. Indeed, even during its strongest period of commercial success in the 1980s, Walser makes clear that the “expansion of the metal scene […] was accompanied by its fragmentation” (1993, 13). As Walser (1993) demonstrates, during this period there were conflicts between fans of glam and thrash metal over the authenticity and credibility of each sub-genre that were articulated regularly on the pages of magazines like Hit Parader in the USA. Furthermore, returning to scenes within Liverpool, it is important not to overemphasize division. As Ste Moses, guitarist for Liverpool death metal bands Exhumation, Colpocleisis (and formerly with Kryocell) indicated during an interview, although genres like black metal, doom, grindcore and death metal had “different crowds”, at gigs there were still what he termed “regular gig-goers, who would go to pretty much any gig … so you’re always bound to see someone that you know” (Moses 2016). Thus, while sub-­ generic affiliations were important, they did not necessarily prevent people from feeling that they were part of a broader local scene. Indeed, Moses’ mention of usually seeing “someone that you know,” suggested a sense of commonality rather than division. Up to this point, this chapter has illustrated that there were several metal scenes in Liverpool and varied understandings of those scenes. These were shaped by scene members’ interactions and observations within various venues as well as by their sense of how their identity as a scene member had changed over time. For some, finding a scene was akin to feeling at home or being part of a family, for others the erosion of a sense of belonging that arose from not feeling part of a scene in the same way that they used to in the past was equated with losing part of their identity. In the final section of this chapter, we will turn to a consideration

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of Merseyside-based musicians who were far less invested in the notion of a Liverpool metal scene or scenes. They did not have the same emotional attachment to place, but rather saw their involvement with metal far more in terms of translocal and global scenes.

Not Feeling Part of a Liverpool Scene: The Limits of a Local Emphasis When compared to the interviewees cited above, several of the more established artists interviewed for this book appeared far less invested in the notion of a Liverpool metal scene. Bands originating from Merseyside such as Carcass, Conan, Anathema and Ninkharsag were already signed to internationally renowned record labels. Furthermore, the first three of those bands had become established acts on international tours and festivals. Carcass and Anathema especially had also been at the forefront of their respective sub-genres for several decades, garnering critical acclaim and a global fanbase. Anathema, for instance, have been celebrated as “figureheads of English doom [metal]” (Carlos Santos 2012, 55). Alongside Yorkshire’s Paradise Lost and My Dying Bride, they are considered part of the so-called Peaceville three, a reference to the Yorkshire-based Peaceville record label that these acts signed with in the early 1990s. As mentioned in Chap. 1, Anathema’s first gigs in Liverpool were at Planet X and they quickly began to establish a reputation as a pioneering death/doom metal band with early releases such as their debut EP Crestfallen (1992) and debut album Serenades (1993). Yet, as vocalist Vincent Cavanagh pointed out when I interviewed him for Getintothis, “Even in the early days, we always saw ourselves as different to anyone else in that scene. We were writing a fair amount of experimental, psychedelic, classical, folk, alongside all the heavy stuff” (cited in Hassan 2019). By the late 1990s, releases like Alternative 4 (1998) and especially Judgement (1999) signalled that Anathema were eschewing the distorted guitar-­ based sounds of metal in favour of more progressive, art rock influences. While Cavanagh played down feeling part of a music scene, he did not explicitly refer to Anathema’s experiences within the Liverpool city region. Although they were equally as dismissive of the notion of feeling part of a local scene, other artists elaborated on the reasons for this. In Carcass’s case, frontman and bassist Jeff Walker emphasized that when the band started out they were not really influenced by a UK metal scene in general:

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“We were influenced by foreign bands, nothing really from the UK […] We were more interested in what the American death metal bands were doing, more extreme thrash bands in Europe. So, it wasn’t really a scene, as far as we were concerned. I mean we were the scene, us and old friends” (Walker 2018). Although they were not directly influenced by local or national bands, Walker did go on to indicate that they were deliberately trying to move away from what was happening with UK metal at the time: “I mean I guess we felt we were filling a void otherwise there’s no point forming the band is there? We felt we were doing something different, like an antidote to these really cheesy UK thrash bands that were in Kerrang! [magazine] at the time, these bands that were trying to be American” (Walker 2018). Hence, members of Carcass felt somewhat apart from a UK metal scene and any notion of a Liverpool metal scene at the time when they first formed in 1987. Guitarist Bill Steer reflected on this period, stating that: “at that time we felt very isolated with the stuff we were trying to do. I guess our early gigs we were invited to be the first band of a four-band package for some of those hardcore [punk] gigs at the Planet X club, so we didn’t really blend in too well with that. People tolerated us, but I don’t think the band was taken particularly seriously, probably not even by us, at that stage” (Steer 2018). However, Steer went on to recall how gradually Carcass became more established within a Liverpool hardcore punk scene, even if they were aligned more to death metal: “I would say there was definitely a hardcore punk scene and, out of necessity if anything, a few of us from the metal side of the fence joined in, it was the closest thing we had to the music we liked really” (Steer 2018). Even though they did not really feel part of a UK metal scene at this time, Steer concurred with Paul Evangelista’s impression cited in a previous chapter that the punk scene housed in Planet X felt inclusive. He recalled that: “It was fun, it was a nice little community vibe to it or at least that’s how I remember it. It was pretty relaxed really, even though officially it’s supposed to be a punk thing, a hardcore thing, I don’t recall anybody raising any objection to people turning up in denim jackets and long hair or whatever, it seemed like everybody was accepted” (Steer 2018). Unlike Carcass, sludge doom metal band Conan did describe how they felt part of a wider UK, as well as international, metal scene. Once again, though, they played down the notion that they felt part of a Liverpool scene. Indeed, vocalist and guitarist Jon Davis elaborated on how Conan developed almost in spite of the Liverpool metal scene at the time. When

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asked about opportunities to play live in the city when Conan first started out, Davis explained that: Very early on … we played three shows in Liverpool before we got that show in Manchester [at Star & Garter] […] There was Korova. Then shortly after that there was Liverpool Music Week I think it was called […] We begged and begged and begged if we could play one of those stages and they put us on first in the Barfly. We played to about five people […] The third show we played […] that was in the Zanzibar again. It was a show that was organized by a guy who was a colleague of mine at the time at Liverpool City Council. They have a youth project, they just put on shows at the weekends […] I don’t recall how many people I’ve written to, there may have been half a dozen or something, like, [where I was writing] “Can I play this show?” and it was always the in-house booker at the Barfly […] There’s me begging him for a show with Winnebago Deal at the Barfly or Gonga at the Barfly and getting blanked because he probably remembered the shitty band that I was in when I was a kid. (Davis and Fielding 2017)

Thus, it became evident that, aside from their connections with fellow Merseyside metal act The Bendal Interlude who helped them play at their first gig (as a support act), Conan felt that they developed largely outside of a Liverpool scene. As Davis clarified in an interview: Personally, I’ve never really felt a part of any scene anyway, I think part of the reason for that is because I don’t tend to go to very many shows. The scene now is more online than it is, in a way for me because all my interacting, which would have been done say in a bar in Liverpool before a show, because I’ve never really done that, all of my interaction now with bands who are local and who aren’t local, is all done online so it’s hard for me to consider Conan or myself as being part of a scene. I mean if you look at the band as a whole, we don’t practice in Liverpool anymore. We used to. We practice here now. But, yet we’re called a Liverpool band. You were very happy to be called that but that’s more like a historical reference for me. […] We’re rehearsing this weekend with a drummer and he’s flying over from Dublin. Neither of us live in Liverpool. It’s hard to feel part of a local scene if you like. I feel very much part of the heavy music scene within the UK and I think a lot of bands who you would ask would probably say we’re one of the important bands, if you look at Facebook followers or whatever. When we play a show, the crowds tend to be quite good, but I don’t think we’re any more important than the bands who are just starting out. (Davis and Fielding 2017)

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Interestingly, Conan’s bass guitarist (and prolific music producer) Chris Fielding felt that the band could be identified more with a regional metal scene, as well as the global heavy metal scene that Davis referred to. As he stated: I’d say the north west has a strong scene of which Conan could be classed as [part of], the sludgy, scuzzy influences that would be classed as maybe doom and also hardcore and whatever, it’s all merged together in one thing. Because obviously Liverpool and Manchester are so close, they’re about a half an hour away from each other really, aren’t they, so it’s easy for bands in and around the north west to play all those places and be able to drive home or whatever, get a taxi home or whatever to where they live in the same night. So quite a lot of the younger bands, there’s loads of gigs going on in the north west of a certain genre with a scene I’d say that is strong, not necessarily specific to one town but it’s still from the north west. (Davis and Fielding 2017)

Therefore, although the notion of a local scene was seen by some as important for extreme metal genres like death metal, it was played down by members of the contemporary doom metal scene. Conan saw themselves as connected with translocal scenes within North-West England, but also as part of a global heavy metal scene. This understanding, as Davis suggests, was aided by online communication with other artists and fans. Furthermore, the sense of community and solidarity that was considered significant for the Liverpool metal scene (even if some had felt this was being lost), was still felt within such translocal scenes. Conan emphasized how collaboration between bands was commonplace in the UK doom metal scene. This involved aspects such as sharing equipment during tours but also, on a less practical level, a general feeling of camaraderie. As Davis put it: It feels really nice. We’ve been doing it [for] a while now so we bump into people and its almost like we’re friends. We’ll see people who we played a festival with a few years ago and it’s like seeing an old friend. We’ll give each other info on someone who might have tried to rip us off at one point or someone who’s a really good promoter […] I’d say there’s definitely a really strong feeling of collaboration and friendship. (Davis and Fielding 2017)

Expressing a similar sentiment to members of Conan, Paul Armitstead, guitarist for Liverpool-based black metal act, Ninkharsag, also did not feel

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part of a Liverpool scene. Echoing the way that bands like Carcass and Conan drew inspiration from more global scenes, Armitstead asserted: “I personally didn’t feel part of a [Liverpool] scene. More of a black metal band just trying to play feel” (2017). Initially forming in 2009, Ninkharsag developed a strong reputation as a live act and recording artist, which led them to sign with prestigious record label Candlelight Records for their debut album, The Blood of Celestial Kings (2015). Armitstead acknowledged support in finding gigs from key individuals on the metal scene in Liverpool, such as John McNulty from doom metal band Coltsblood, Sal Turner at Whiplash Promotions and Andy Hughes from Deathwave Entertainment. However, he also mentioned that they had encountered a lack of cooperation from a member of “another Liverpool black metal band” (Armitstead 2017). He described how they “seemed not to want us playing shows together” and had given promotions company, Deathwave Entertainment, “an ultimatum of booking them or us, and never the two together” (Armitstead 2017). Although such instances were rare and there were far more accounts of bands and scene members supporting each other with gigs, it does illustrate that tensions and clashes may arise on the live circuit for metal in Liverpool. Moreover, such examples illustrate how the role of an independent promoter can become quite challenging, especially if you are known primarily for staging concerts in one local area. Promoters can become recognizable faces within a local scene and any disputes or tensions between bands would often need to be dealt with on a face-to-face level. Far more than promoters connected with national and international companies, independent local promoters operate at the centre of music scenes, and, to borrow a phrase used by one of the interviewees cited earlier, they can help to shape the perceptions of the “personality” of the local scene via the bookings that they make. The next chapter will provide insights into how such promotion work is managed and how it feels to engage with labour that can be central to the production of local and translocal scenes.

Conclusion Overall, the above section on artists’ reflections of their understandings of metal scenes affirmed the emergent dimension of the scene concept. Although a number of these participants still lived in Merseyside, perhaps partly due to the ways in which their careers as musicians had evolved, they emphasized their connections to more translocal and global scenes. The

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notion that scenes are tethered to ideas about locality, or to a specific geographical area is made problematic by such accounts. This also concurs with the way in which scenes have been understood as having porous boundaries (Bennett and Peterson 2004, 12; Weinstein 2016). Yet even among bands or other interviewees who questioned the presence of a scene at historical moments, a scene was by implication something that was desirable even if it was not deemed to be present. The idea of being “part of” a scene or feeling “part of” a scene was not often rejected altogether, but it was often suggested that this was an ideal, something that was difficult to achieve. In this regard, the discourse about scenes cited above has parallels with Hill’s understanding of metal fandom as involving an “imaginary community” and Weinstein’s closely related concept of a “mythic/imaginary community” (Hill 2014, 182; Weinstein 2016, 19). Both authors assert that metal fans imagine themselves as part of a wider community of fans with shared tastes and interests in ideal terms. However, as Hill notes, “drawing attention to the way it is imagined as living up to an ideal, the concept opens up the community to scrutiny of its power structures and relations” (Hill 2014, 182-183). As has been elucidated in both this chapter and the one preceding it, the ideal of a scene as imagined by scene members on Merseyside is thrown into tension when we scrutinize the social and environmental milieus in which the feeling of community can take place. Firstly, feelings or fantasies about community are, nonetheless, housed within localities. With the Merseyside region, it has been made clear that we need to consider its geography and the scenic infrastructure that can foster or stifle peoples’ abilities to form or feel part of scenes. Secondly, as this chapter has suggested, it is important to recognize that at any one moment there will be different generations of groups who will congregate within various scenic hubs (these could be music venues or even the school yard) and who will bring their own hopes, desires, memories and fantasies. These will contribute to the extent to which they can imagine or feel a sense of belonging to a community. Finally, it is vital to acknowledge the role of key individuals within these social milieus. Although they are often considered in romantic terms, scenes are not merely understood in relation to an ideal. Rather they are also produced and reproduced by the work of key intermediaries, including promoters, bands and fans. In the remaining two chapters of this book, we will examine their roles more closely.

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References Armitstead, Paul. 2017. Unpublished email interview with Paul Armitstead. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 18 August 2017 Baulch, Emma. 2003. Gesturing Elsewhere: The Identity Politics of the Balinese Death/thrash Metal Scene. Popular Music 22 (2): 195–215. Bauman, Richard. 1977. Verbal Art as Performance. Illinois: Waveland Press. Bennett, Andy. 1999. Subcultures or Neo-Tribes? Rethinking the Relationship Between Youth, Style and Musical Taste. Sociology 33 (3): 599–618. Bennett, Andy, and Richard A.  Peterson. 2004. Introducing Music Scenes. In Music Scenes: Local, Translocal and Virtual, ed. Andy Bennett and Richard A. Peterson, 1–16. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. Brocken, Michael. 2019. Unpublished interview with Michael Brocken. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 17 July 2019 Brown, Andy R. 2003. Heavy Metal and Subcultural Theory: A Paradigmatic Case of Neglect? In The Post-subcultures Reader, ed. David Muggleton and Rupert Weinzierl, 209–222. Berg: Oxford. Carlos Santos, Jose. 2012. The Forever People. In Terrorizer’s Secret History of Doom Metal, 54–57. London: Dark Arts Limited. Carr, Andrew. 2016. Unpublished interview with Andrew Carr. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 31 May 2016 Cavicchi, Daniel. 1998. Tramps Like Us: Music and Meaning Among Springsteen Fans. New York: Oxford University Press. Clarke, Gary. 1990. Defending Ski-Jumpers: A Critique of Theories of Youth Subcultures. In On Record: Rock, Pop and the Written Word, ed. Simon Frith and Andrew Goodwin, 81–96. London: Routledge. Clarke, John, Stuart Hall, Tony Jefferson, and Brian Roberts. 1997. Subcultures, Cultures and Class. In The Subcultures Reader, ed. Ken Gelder and Sarah Thornton, 100–111. London: Routledge. Cohen, Phil. 1997. Subcultural Conflict and Working-class Community. In The Subcultures Reader, ed. Ken Gelder and Sarah Thornton, 90–99. London: Routledge. Cohen, Sara. 1999. Scenes. In Key Terms in Popular Music and Culture, ed. Bruce Horner and Thomas Swiss, 239–250. Oxford: Blackwell. Cooper, Mark. 2019. The Spoken Metal Show [podcast] episode 58. https:// soundcloud.com/user-­732549415 Accessed 25 Jan 2021. Couldry, Nick. 2000. Inside Culture: Re-imagining the Method of Cultural Studies. London: Sage. Crossley, Nick. 2015. Networks of Sound, Style and Subversion: The Punk and Post-­ punk Worlds of Manchester, London, Liverpool and Sheffield, 1975–80. Manchester: Manchester University Press.

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Davis, Jon and Chris Fielding. 2017. Unpublished interview with Jon Davis and Chris Fielding. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 8 September 2017 Dos Santos Silva, Melina Aparecida. 2018. Letters, Cassette Tapes and Zines: The Circulation of Brazilian Heavy Metal as a Gift System. Metal Music Studies 4 (1): 241–249. Emms, Rachel, and Nick Crossley. 2018. Translocality, Network Structure, and Music Worlds: Underground Metal in the United Kingdom. Canadian Review of Sociology/Revue canadienne de sociologie 55 (1): 111–135. Finnegan, Ruth. 1989. The Hidden Musicians: Music-making in an English Town. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Furlong, Chris. 2017. Unpublished interview with Chris Furlong. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 15 December 2017. Harmon, Justin, and David Scott. 2017. The Extended Leisure Experiences of Music Scene Participation. Leisure/Loisir 41 (4): 585–605. Harris, Keith. 2000. Roots’?: The Relationship Between the Global and the Local within the Extreme Metal Scene. Popular Music 19 (1): 13–30. Hassan, Nedim. 2019. Anathema’s Vincent Cavanagh on the Poetic Significance of Gigs, Denim Shaming and Returning to Liverpool. Getintothis. https:// www.getintothis.co.uk/2019/07/anathemas-­vincent-­cavanagh-­interview/. Accessed 23 Jan 2021. Hebdige, Dick. 1979. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London: Routledge. Hesmondhalgh, David. 2005. Subcultures, Scenes or Tribes? None of the Above. Journal of Youth Studies 8 (1): 21–40. Hill, Rosemary Lucy. 2014. Reconceptualizing Hard Rock and Metal Fans as a Group: Imaginary Community. International Journal of Community Music 7 (2): 173–187. Hochschild, Arlie Russell. 2003. The Managed Heart: Commercialization of Human Feeling. California: University of California Press. Hodkinson, Paul. 2004. The Goth Scene and (Sub) Cultural Substance. In After Subculture: Critical Studies in Contemporary Youth Culture, ed. Andy Bennett and Keith Kahn-Harris, 135–147. New York: Palgrave. Hollows, Mike. 2018. Unpublished interview with Mike Hollows. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 18 July 2018 Hughes, Andy. 2018. Unpublished interview with Andy Hughes. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 9 May 2018 Kahn-Harris, Keith. 2007. Extreme Metal: Music and Culture on the Edge. Oxford: Berg. Kotarba, Joseph A., Jennifer L.  Fackler, and Kathryn M.  Nowotny. 2009. An Ethnography of Emerging Latino Music Scenes. Symbolic Interaction 32 (4): 310–333. Kotarba, Joseph A., and Nicolas J.  LaLone. 2014. The Scene: A Conceptual Template for an Interactionist Approach to Contemporary Music. In Revisiting

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Symbolic Interaction in Music Studies and New Interpretive Works (Studies in Symbolic Interaction, Volume 42), ed. Norman Denzin, 51–65. Bingley, UK: Emerald Group Publishing Limited. Lashbrooke, Jay. 2015. Unpublished interview with Jay Lashbrooke. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 19 August 2015 McLean, Charlie and Roger McLean. 2016. Unpublished interview with Charlie and Roger McLean. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 23 July 2016 Mortimer, Joe. 2015. Unpublished interview with Joe Mortimer. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 17 July 2015 Moses, Ste. 2016. Unpublished interviewed with Ste Moses. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 25 June 2016 Overell, Rosemary. 2014. Affective Intensities in Extreme Metal Scenes: Cases from Australia and Japan. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Pelayo, Marisol Pérez. 2021. Building Communitas Through Symbolic Performances: Mexican metal and the Case of Cemican. Metal Music Studies 7 (1): 139–148. Richards, Chris. 1998. Teen Spirits: Music and Identity in Media Education. London: UCL Press. ———. 1999. Live Through This: Music, Adolescence, and Autobiography. Counterpoints 96: 255–288. Riches, Gabby, and Brett Lashua. 2014. Mapping the Underground: An Ethnographic Cartography of the Leeds Extreme Metal Scene. International Journal of Community Music 7 (2): 223–241. Rowe, Paula. 2017. Becoming Metal: Narrative Reflections on the Early Formation and Embodiment of Heavy Metal Identities. Journal of Youth Studies 20 (6): 713–731. Shank, Barry. 1994. Dissonant Identities: The Rock ‘n’ Roll Scene in Austin, Texas. Hanover, NH: Wesleyan University Press and University Press of New England. Steer, Bill. 2018. Unpublished interview with Bill Steer. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 8 August 2018 Thornton, Sarah. 1995. Club Cultures: Music, Media and Subcultural Capital. Cambridge: Polity Press. Varas-Díaz, Nelson, Sigrid Mendoza, Eliut Rivera-Segarra, and Osvaldo González-­ Sepúlveda. 2016. Methodological Strategies and Challenges in Research with Small Heavy Metal Scenes: A Reflection on Entrance, Evolution and Permanence. Metal Music Studies 2 (3): 273–290. Vroomen, Laura. 2004. Kate Bush: Teen Pop and Older Female Fans. In Music Scenes: Local, Translocal, and Virtual, ed. Andy Bennett and Richard A. Peterson, 238–253. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. Walker, Jeff. 2018. Unpublished interview with Jeff Walker. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 5 July 2018

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Wallach, Jeremy, and Alexandra Levine. 2011. ‘I want you to support local metal’: A Theory of Metal Scene Formation. Popular Music History 6 (1): 116–134. Walser, Robert. 1993. Running with the Devil: Power, Gender, and Madness in Heavy Metal Music. Hanover, NH: Wesleyan University Press. Weinstein, Deena. 2000. Heavy Metal: The Music and Its Culture. Boston, MA: Da Capo Press. ———. 2016. Communities of Metal: Ideal, Diminished and Imaginary. In Heavy Metal Music and the Communal Experience, ed. Nelson Varas-Díaz and Niall Scott, 3–22. London: Lexington Books. Werner, Ann. 2009. Girls Consuming Music at Home: Gender and the Exchange of Music Through New Media. European Journal of Cultural Studies 12 (3): 269–284. Yavuz, M.  Selim. 2017. “Delightfully Depressing”: Death/doom Metal Music World and the Emotional Responses of the Fan. Metal Music Studies 3 (2): 201–218.

CHAPTER 5

Promoting Metal on Merseyside

There was me, my girlfriend and four other people in the room and I remember them [This is Turin] blowing me away and thinking, ‘Do you know what? There are bands like this in the world that have a crowd like this. There’s no one there watching them and they’re ripping my face off. They’re putting on an amazing performance. What are these guys like in front of 300 or 400 people going nuts?’ […] I went home and I remember lying in bed about four in the morning and my girlfriend was asleep and I actually woke her up and said, ‘Do you know what? I’ve got this really stupid idea,’ and she was like, ‘What?’ I said, ‘I think I’m going to start a promotions company,’ and she was like, ‘Shut up,’ and went back to sleep. (Andy Hughes, Deathwave Entertainment)

Common definitions of concert promoters see them as key intermediaries in the music industries. They facilitate live music events by bringing together artists and audiences. To accomplish this, they perform duties such as liaising with artists and agents when a concert or tour is being set up, negotiating fees to be paid to an artist, finding and hiring suitable venues, funding the promotion of events and researching the market value of tickets (Rutter 2011, 49-50). Yet as Brennan and Webster note, such definitions are rather too neat. In reality, promotion work involves a strong degree of flexibility and promoters operate within a “matrix of factors” (2011, 4). On a structural

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level, promoters may have a specific level of responsibility, geographical remit and organizational scale. Their approach may also be partly determined by conventions associated with musical genres. On a more personal level, their work may be motivated by commercial or cultural interests, as well as their musical tastes. As this chapter will reveal, approaches to metal music promotion work are profoundly influenced by the personal journeys that led the individual promoters to such work and continue to be informed by social and personal relationships with a range of people. Thus, the matrix of factors in which promoters operate has an external dimension in that “the role of the promoter will depend on how the other actors who may have a stake in the live music event are involved in the event itself” (Brennan and Webster 2011, 4-5). Such stakeholders may include artists, audiences, record labels, venue managers, agents and artist managers. Consequently, promotion needs to be understood as collaborative work. Even the relatively small-scale promotion companies discussed below, which effectively operate as sole traders within a discrete area like Merseyside, rely on establishing good working relationships with venues, artists, local media, photographers, and so on. This chapter, therefore, explicates the nature of the work involved with metal music promotion within the Merseyside scene. In common with the other chapters in this book, it accomplishes this through an examination of ethnographic interview data and data derived from participant observation. In particular, the chapter sets out to address two central questions. Firstly, what are the promoter’s roles within the Merseyside metal music scene? This involves paying attention to the various tasks involved with promotion work and how promoters manage various relationships, including their relationships with artists and audiences, but also how they negotiate promotion work in the context of their personal lives. Secondly, what is the nature of metal music promotion as labour? This involves considering how the different tasks are experienced by various individuals and elucidating the motivations behind promotional practices. The specific individuals whose work will be examined in this chapter are Andy Hughes (founder of Merseyside-based events management company Deathwave Entertainment, 2011–present), Sal Turner (founder of promotions company Whiplash Entertainment, which was

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active between 2002 and 2013), Kabir D’Silva (founder of Peste Promotions, 2013–present) and Joe Mortimer (an independent promoter who has had experience of promoting metal gigs in Merseyside since 2005 and runs UK Slam Fest (2015–present), a national festival specializing in slam death metal). All of these people have organized small to large gigs in the city of Liverpool and surrounding areas. Although two of the promoters discussed here have also gone on to gain experience of hosting events in other cities in Northern England, they started out promoting concerts in Merseyside and have continued to regularly work and live in that area. Their commitment to continuously organizing live events despite financial losses was something that earned promoters admiration from established musicians. Jeff Walker, vocalist and bassist with Carcass, arguably the most influential and internationally acclaimed metal act to emerge from Merseyside, evidently respected the work of local promoters. He cited how contemporary promoters, such as Andy Hughes from Deathwave Entertainment, as well as previous promoters, such as Sal Turner from Whiplash Promotions, had struggled and were regularly “losing money” due to an inability to sustain audiences for gigs in Liverpool (Walker 2018). Despite the difficulties involved with attracting sufficient audience numbers to make promotion work financially worthwhile, which were compounded by the contextual factors detailed in the previous chapter, promoters of metal events in Merseyside have continued to commit to hosting events within their immediate locality. One reason for this is their broader affective investment in metal music and specific genres or bands. The quote from Andy Hughes at the start of this chapter is striking because of the way it indicates how his initial motivation for getting involved with promotion work was his desire to support specific artists and enable their live performances to be seen by more people. Hughes portrayed this decision as one primarily determined by fandom—This is Turin were “amazing” despite a small audience—he wanted more people to share how their performance felt to him (Hughes 2017). Such instances reveal the strong affective dimension that is often integral to music fandom. Writing about rock audiences, Grossberg aptly summarizes this affective dimension as follows: “The notion of affect

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points to the fact that there is more to the organization of our everyday lives than just a distribution or structure of meaning, money and power. There is a variable distribution of concern and energy: some things feel different from others, some matter more, or in different ways, than others” (1992, 164). Hughes’ reflections on how he felt as a fan at a metal gig, coupled with his observations of the situation, lay at the foundations of his decision to start a promotions company. His representations of a pivotal musical event were bound up with emotion. Furthermore, his recollection of his initial decision was not primarily articulated in business terms, but it was conveyed through the language of evaluation (the band were “amazing”) and with reference to feelings (the performance “blowing me away”) (Hughes 2017). Indeed, as the next sections will reveal, metal music promoters often demonstrated a strong emotional investment in their work. Their fandom was a central factor that framed their involvement in promotion work and, in many cases, this overrode financial considerations, as well as the practical challenges involved with hosting events in Liverpool. However, the considerable affective investment involved and the potential to derive pleasurable feelings from metal music promotion should not obscure the need to carefully examine this type of labour. The sections that follow analyse the types of work involved with promoting metal on Merseyside by drawing on scholarship on cultural production that has interrogated the notion of creative labour (Hesmondhalgh and Baker 2011; McRobbie 2016; Sandoval 2018). Moreover, utilizing Hochschild’s (2003) theories on emotional labour, as well as Goffman’s earlier work on the presentation of self (1959) this chapter will explicate the ways in which aspects of such work require the complex management of feelings.

Passionate Work: Doing What You Love? Events mattered to promoters on a range of levels that went beyond the notion that promotion was an ordinary job. Promotion work became intertwined with promoters’ lifestyles and musical tastes; powerfully affecting their intimate family and personal lives. Two participants used discourse that drew on a religious lexicon when describing their experiences at gigs they considered successful. Andy Hughes from Deathwave

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Entertainment recounted his feeling of elation after a thrash metal gig by the band Exodus: “[…] standing there at the end of Exodus and seeing all those people. I was drunk, I was sweaty. I love Exodus anyway. I was stood there looking around and I remember thinking, “Thank God I did this. This is incredible.” […] that moment was when I was proud of me […] I was like, “Wow, this is me doing what I want. This is the dream. This is what I want out of life” (Hughes 2017). Similarly, Sal Turner, former head of Whiplash Promotions, displayed a strong emotional investment in events and experienced successful gigs in a similar way. Indeed, the way she describes the climax of seeing Destroyer 666 and Watain conveys a sense of blissful elation: It was one of my, I would say, sparkling moments […] after watching Destroyer 666 play, and there was, like 600 people there, it was brill, it was absolutely amazing, and then they [Watain] had the pyrotechnics. And the trident’s on fire and everything on stage […] And when they came on the stage and they did the stage show, and they spat the blood everywhere, and then they came and did the stuff, I was just like, “I did this, I did this.” And I got a bit emotional and it was like, “Oh my God!” It was amazing, it was absolutely fabulous. (Turner 2016)

Thus, on an affective level, there are parallels between the feeling of elation that a fan gets when seeing their favourite band and the feelings that a metal music promoter gets. Not only are they seeing their favourite bands at an event, but they also gain an augmented sense of euphoria because they have enabled the event to take place for others. They are the ones who have brought artist and audience together. Aside from the feelings of elation that stem from overseeing a successful gig, a sense of excitement at securing particular acts to perform in Liverpool was also discussed by promoters. When recounting their proudest moments as promoters, it was telling that both Andy Hughes and Sal Turner talked about securing well-known acts to play in Liverpool. Moreover, in describing those moments they once again elucidated how strongly they had felt: I’m going to say early 2012 I got offered Anaal Nathrakh and Fleshgod Apocalypse. They’re two of my favourite bands, I love them. I’ve seen Anaal

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Nathrakh a bunch of times. I’ve seen Fleshgod every single time they’ve toured the UK. […] To be offered them on the same bill, it was the first really, really, big exciting gig. I cried. I actually cried […] I messaged my girlfriend and I actually messaged my sister. I was like “I can’t believe I’ve been offered this!” (Hughes 2017)

Like Hughes, Sal Turner explains the magnitude of being offered the opportunity to host an illustrious metal event by connecting its importance to her family: And my favourite gig ever was, I got offered a show of Deicide, and I’ve been into Deicide since I was fifteen, you know. Glen Benton was like a little God to me when I was fifteen years old. And the show that they offered me was on my son’s birthday and it was: “Child/Glen, Glen/child, oh my God, what do I choose?” […] It got to the point where I was speaking to my friend and she said, “Well, people have to work on their children’s birthdays, it’s just a fact of life.” And it was like “Yeah, but, but…” you know. And in the end, I said, “Yes, I’ll do it”. (Turner 2016)

Such explanations affirm Cavicchi’s (1998) findings that rock music fandom can be central to family life, having the potential to influence relationships and potentially forge stronger bonds. In both these examples, it is also implied that metal fandom is something that in certain circumstances can have as much significance as close family members and loved ones. The opportunity to host a treasured artist seems to have similar emotional importance to other momentous life events such as the celebration of a special achievement such as obtaining a qualification, passing a driving test or even announcing an engagement or pregnancy. Considering how it can become so personally significant, the conflation of metal music fandom with promotion work warrants close attention. On the surface, it is tempting to conclude that these individual promoters are doing work that they “love”. However, this belies the complexity of this type of labour and the often-challenging circumstances under which it takes place. Writing broadly about the concept of “do what you love”, Sandoval (2018, 114) argues that the conflation of work and pleasure involved with this can function as an ideology. This is partly because the notion of

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doing what you love “promises liberation from labour”; if we are following our passions during the work that we do then it may not feel like work and we will be less inclined to question the instability and relentless labour that are characteristics of modern employment within contemporary neoliberal societies (Sandoval 2018, 115-116; McRobbie 2016). Considering these critical debates while recognizing the aforementioned discussion of fandom and emotional investment, it is pertinent to examine the experience of metal music promotion on Merseyside further. In other words, it is necessary to ask, what does metal promotion work feel like?

Promotion Work and Audiences Like other work that involves interacting with different members of the public, the type of live music promotion discussed so far can be understood as what Hochschild calls “emotional labor” (2003, 7). This labour “requires one to induce or suppress feeling in order to sustain the outward countenance that produces the proper state of mind in others” (Hochschild 2003, 7). Focusing upon the work of flight attendants, Hochschild is interested in the emotional toll of this public facing labour. She indicates that workers can become “estranged” from their bodies by having to summon up the appropriate feelings required when welcoming passengers and so on (Hochschild 2003, 7). For example, attendants “spoke of their smiles as being on them but not of them” during such emotional labour (Hochschild 2003, 8). In contrast, the inducement of feelings such as excitement or enthusiasm may be naturally achieved by promoters and have a strong degree of authenticity, if, as we have seen with earlier examples, it is during events featuring favourite bands. For instance, during the above-mentioned Destroyer 666/Watain concert, Sal Turner went on to discuss how “I always used to make it my business at the end of the night to say, ‘Thanks for coming,’ to everybody and, ‘See you soon.’ And they’d add me on Facebook and go, ‘Oh, it’s dead nice to see you, ta raa.’” (Turner 2016). This display of friendliness and enthusiasm would undoubtedly have been easily accomplished after a successful night in which Sal had felt elated. However, as this quote suggests, it would have been required after an event that was not felt to have gone as smoothly.

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The connection between the private feelings of enthusiasm for a band or gig and the public display of those feelings to a paying audience can be conceptualized using Hochschild’s notion of transmutation. She writes: “When I speak of the transmutation of an emotional system, I mean to point out a link between a private act, such as attempting to enjoy a party, and a public act, such as summoning up good feeling for a customer” (Hochschild 2003, 19). With promotion work, when transmutation of emotional systems is effective the promoter can engender the feeling that the concert event is special for the audience. Their enthusiasm and love of the music can enhance the affective power of the concert event. For instance, Sal went on to remember how “one of my punters, Craig, bought me a bottle of wine just to say thank you for the gig before […] He was just dead nice, he didn’t have to. But he’d had such a good time at the gig before that he wanted to. And then I was hearing that people were saying ‘Oh, this was my favourite gig ever that I’ve been to,’ and, ‘The Watain gig was special and this gig was special’” (Turner 2016). In such circumstances, Sal’s enthusiasm as a fan and promoter and the feeling that those gigs were special to her were, in a sense, reciprocated by members of the audience. Yet such acts of transmutation of feeling by promoters may not always be understood in these terms. For example, Andy Hughes discussed how acting “like a fan” was interpreted by one audience member in negative terms: I went and watched a band I booked. I went and head banged at the front. I took my t-shirt off because I was hot. At the end of the gig I had a girl turn round and say to me, “I’m never coming to one of your gigs again.” “Why?” “Because you’re unprofessional,” “What? I booked the gig because I like the band.” It was like, “Yes but I didn’t want to see you without a t-shirt on so I’m never coming to one of your gigs again.” There are ten other guys here with no t-shirt on, because I booked the gig, you’re never coming here again because I’m unprofessional. You could have just enjoyed the gig. She stuck to her word; she’s never come to another Deathwave gig. (Hughes 2017)

Thus, there is a vulnerability to emotional displays by a gig promoter. What Hochschild calls “the feeling rules” that “guide emotion work by establishing the sense of entitlement or obligation that governs emotional

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exchanges” are not always clear (2003, 56). In addition to the standard conventions of a concert—that purchasing a ticket entitles you entry to a venue and to experience a live performance—the promoter’s exchanges with audiences at metal gigs (such as Turner’s friendly conversations with fans at the end of the gig) can be seen partly as attempts to establish feeling rules. In other words, they are ways to establish “what feelings people think are owed and are owing” (Hochschild 2003, 74). Some audiences may feel that it is appropriate for the promoter to display feelings of enthusiasm and passionate fandom, whilst others may consider that they should suppress such feelings. At smaller gigs, it is common for the promoter to be highly visible. It usually becomes apparent to those in attendance that this person is responsible for the way in which they encounter their favourite bands. This is because the promoter meets and often greets paying customers because most people attending these events “pay on the door”. When audiences arrive at an entrance point to the venue one of their first points of contact will usually be the promoter (or the team helping the promoter). The promoter is normally present at this initial gateway into the venue and, on most occasions, they will collect entrance money in person. The following extract from field notes provides a commonplace example of the way that an audience member will encounter a promoter at a metal gig on Merseyside. This particular gig took place at Sound basement, a small Liverpool city centre venue: Crossing the road on the chilly January night, I head for the side of the building. There I can see a few people outside a side door dressed in black leather and denim and smoking cigarettes. I walk down the stairs towards the basement, which houses the main gig venue. I can already hear Exhumation’s brand of technical, brutal death metal, which gets louder as I descend the steps. There in a small entrance area sat at a small table that features two small event posters and a cash tin is Kabir D’Silva, the gig’s promoter. The wide eyes, friendly smile and short goatee beard remain the same, but his previously long hair has been replaced by a crew cut. He greets me warmly and then says ‘they’ve only just come on’. I quickly hand over ten pounds and wait for my fiver change. Kabir then picks up a black felt tip pen and draws an ‘X’ on my right hand. (Field notes, January 13, 2018)

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This welcoming moment, in this case a warm smile, the provision of information about the performance and a token to signify that the customer has the right to enter the gig (either a ticket, wristband or mark on the customer’s hand), helped to establish the feeling rules for the event. As many audience members already had familiarity with the specialist metal music promoters on Merseyside, it was common for people to have longer conversations with promoters upon entering venues. Promoters may shake hands or even hug attendees who they are familiar with, striking up friendly conversations with them. Such friendly exchanges, then, can serve to make audience members feel valued as a paying customer but also part of a community. This is because these acts of welcome are social performances that, as Goffman (1959, 14) puts it, “give off” wider messages than simply rudimentary information about the event. They communicate the notion that people at this gig can expect to feel that the people behind the organization of the event share their love for the music being performed. This visibility has implications for it means that the emotion work involved with managing audience experiences at an event takes place within what Goffman (1959, 109) terms the “front region”. Unlike nationally based, high-profile promoters of large concerts who rarely deal directly with paying customers, promoters of small metal music events on Merseyside were an integral part of the performance on the night. Thus, their activities in the front region needed to convey that they were maintaining and embodying appropriate standards of politeness and decorum (Goffman 1959, 110). We have seen already that this can place the promoter in vulnerable situations when there was a lack of clarity regarding feeling rules. However, Goffman’s theories on performance also suggest another area of vulnerability during promotion work. On an instrumental level, a promoter’s performance within the front region has to adhere to the fundamental expectations of the audience for a concert (Goffman 1959, 110). The audience literally expects the advertised event that they have paid their entrance fee for to take place. If those expectations are not fulfilled, the highly visible promoter has to deal with the consequences. The first gig that I attended as part of the research for this book took place at Blade Factory in the Baltic quarter of Liverpool city centre. During this gig the headline band, Acid Witch, did not end up playing due to

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several circumstances including the venue reneging on the promise of an extended curfew. Consequently, the head of Peste Promotions, Kabir D’Silva, ended up giving people some of their entrance money back. In this situation, the promoter, who had already welcomed audience members personally, had no place to hide. As Kabir admitted, in such circumstances: “It can be quite nerve wracking, you’ve got to deal with the situation the best way you can. I do get quite anxious sometimes without even being under the spotlight” (D’Silva 2019). Commenting specifically on the ill-fated Acid Witch gig, Kabir stated: There’s been a few shows where things haven’t ran on time and everything ends up being delayed. For example, the Acid Witch show, we had Acid Witch play in The Blade Factory, that was quite a stressful show, as you know we ended up having to give everyone a refund and still pay all the full fees so we lost quite a bit of money. That was quite nerve wracking in the sense that everyone was looking forward to the show too. A big sort of… feeling like… that things didn’t go to plan. (D’Silva 2019)

It is interesting that Kabir explained the discomfort involved with this experience from the fans’ perspective; he, and the other people involved with promoting this event, failed to fulfil the audiences’ expectations. We have seen that the promoter in such contexts will have already worked to convey feeling rules and to share their excitement and enthusiasm for the upcoming musicians, as well as establish themselves as a friendly face for the audience. These moments of misfortune undermine the feeling rules that may have been established. The emotional promise, for some, will have been betrayed. So far, we have examined the vulnerability involved with the emotional labour carried out by metal music promoters on Merseyside by focusing on how aspects of their performance can constitute attempts to establish feeling rules. We have also seen that these attempts may break down because their performances may be prone to misinterpretation or because events beyond a promoter’s control can undermine such attempts. The next section considers further aspects of this emotional labour and its potential vulnerability by focusing on the relationships between promoter and artist.

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Promotion Work and Artists: Backstage at Maguire’s Pizza Bar Above it was revealed that the emotion work involved with managing audience experiences at an event very much takes place on what Goffman (1959) would term the front region level. Yet, as this section will elucidate, on the contrary, the emotion work that takes place when dealing with artists primarily exists at a backstage level. The notion of “backstage” in this instance does not simply refer to the backstage area at a venue, especially because smaller venues do not necessarily have a separate backstage area. Rather, it refers to what Goffman terms “a place, relative to a given performance, where the impression fostered by the performance is knowingly contradicted as a matter of course” (1959, 114). Audiences may not see the promoter providing artists with a rider, liaising with the venue booker or sound engineer, helping to set up a backline and so on. These interactions largely occur without the audience being present. However, because these interactions are central to promotion work they certainly constitute an integral part of the promoter’s overall performance. This was made highly evident when I became involved in co-­ promoting a small charity gig that took place at Maguire’s Pizza Bar on 8 April 2018. As it was a small-scale charity event, the promotion of the gig, in aid of Merseyside-based music therapy charity, MusicPlace North-West, was relatively straightforward. This was because the co-promoters (this writer and Joe Mortimer) had control over different stages of the promotion process; we did not have to liaise with booking agents, as we were not promoting a tour as such. In addition, the artists we approached to perform at the gig were all based locally in the North-West of England and they donated their services free of charge. Since Joe is a practising musician and promoter well known on the local and national death metal scenes, he was able to approach artists who would be willing to play at the gig. This involved initially sending messages out via the social networking site, Facebook. After this, during the weeks that built up to the gig we had secured the Maguire’s Pizza bar venue on a suitable date via a £50 deposit. Joe then created a Facebook event page and asked someone to create a flyer to advertise the bands.

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However, even these relatively low-key promotional activities were initially delayed because it became apparent that our original headliners—the Liverpool-based death metal band, Exhumation—were unable to play because one of their members was away. After Joe and I contacted several artists, the crust punk black metal act, Wolfbastard, from Manchester eventually agreed to headline. The headline act was joined on the bill by two fellow Manchester-based acts, progressive metal outfit, Chiasmata and young melodic death metal outfit Intoxication. Crejuvent, a one-man Liverpool-based technical metal act, completed the line-up. As well as the Facebook event page that Joe had set up and promoted via a series of messages connected to that page, in the week prior to the gig I obtained some colour prints of the flyer and set about distributing those. I placed flyers in appropriate Liverpool city centre venues to promote the event. Venues I visited to ask permission to put up a flyer included the established popular rock pub, The Swan Inn and long-­ standing alternative record shop, Probe records. Newer record shops Dig vinyl and Jacaranda records were also visited, as well as Maguire’s Pizza Bar itself. Aside from this sort of small-scale event advertising, then, it was apparent that even with this type of small charity event, establishing effective working relationships with artists was integral to the feasibility of the event. Promotion of a specific event could only begin in earnest on a public level once the artists were in place. The cancellation by our first-choice headliner (Exhumation) and the subsequent search for a suitable replacement meant that the core promotional activities involved with making potential audiences aware of the event were delayed. The significance of the relationships between promoter and artist together with the emotional labour connected with this was brought into sharp focus once the actual evening of the gig arrived. Given that Joe and I had already invested time (and money) in this event, I travelled to the venue feeling somewhat anxious. The field notes made about the gig summarized some of these experiences at the time and revealed more about the vulnerable position that the promoter is susceptible to: As I travelled into Liverpool on the train I felt a little apprehensive. I had devoted a lot of time into the organisation of the event (and Joe even more so). […] I felt more emotionally invested in the event than in others I had attended purely as an audience member/participant observer.

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As I walked towards Maguire’s my feelings veered towards excitement. I felt content that I had done all I could and was looking forward to the experience. My optimism was justified as soon as I walked into the Maguire’s venue. Joe greeted me warmly and he immediately said that “All the bands are here already. It is the first time that has happened. All the bands were here before I arrived. Normally I end up messaging people to see where they are.” (Field notes 8 April 2018)

Although, on this occasion, we were both relieved and happy that all the artists were on time, Joe’s comments about expecting a delay illustrated the massive reliance that the promoter has on the artists. While promoters have a strong degree of agency when it comes to the organization of an event and how it is communicated to the public, they cannot predict the actions of artists. Furthermore, once promoters come into contact with artists, both prior to and on the day of the gig, it is clear that they need to employ a varied amount of emotion work. This can be as simple as adding comments about the band to the existing Facebook event page. For instance, a couple of days prior to the charity gig, Joe Mortimer added a comment to the ‘MusicPlace Charity Show’ Facebook event page. He wrote that: “Nice to see numbers rising for this! Keep sharing and inviting. Pizza, music, charity. Check out some epic progness from Chiasmata too”. By copying a link to one of Chiasmata’s YouTube videos into this post, this type of communication conveys to the performers that the promoter is invested in their music. While this type of preparatory labour is public, at least to those audiences interested in the event on Facebook, much of the work that the promoter does with artists on the day of a gig goes unseen. Rather than involving the sorts of emotional labour connected with highly public facing hospitality work, which Hochschild examines through a consideration of flight attendants, the backstage emotion work engaged in by promoters features a different type of hospitality. Instead of the emotional rigours of having to sustain an “outward countenance” (Hochschild 2003, 7) by making members of the public feel that they are being treated as special guests, the emotional labour employed by the metal music promoters in relation to artists may be considered more informal. Considering the backstage interactions that took place between promoter and artists as the MusicPlace charity gig was being set up will elucidate examples of this kind of labour. Unlike the relationships between

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customer and hospitality worker for instance, the promoter and artists in the build up to a metal gig have a common goal—to deliver an event for audiences. They also have other things in common. Most notably, they often share membership of a metal scene, whether this is on a localized or national scale. Consequently, they frequently have a shared culture to an extent; even if they do not know each other personally, they are familiar with different metal sub-genres. Perhaps due to their shared goal and scene membership, there was strong evidence of camaraderie and cooperation between the different musicians whilst the charity gig was being set up. Since they were the headline act, Wolfbastard conducted a sound check with support from Joe and a sound engineer who we hired to work at the event. Consequently, the other acts on the bill were partly waiting for this to happen as well as unloading some of their equipment. Although there were four different bands in the same small space, there was no apparent tension; rather the atmosphere was convivial and relaxed. Indeed, the sound engineer’s choice of background music during the set-up and sound check helped to foster quite a jovial environment. Joe and I listened to him explain how he had chosen his “absolute eighties” playlist but that he could swap it for something “heavier” if we preferred. However, given the fact that several band members setting up had already been humming or singing along to the hits being played we both agreed with the sound engineer that the background music was an appropriate choice. This was also confirmed by the fact that various members of the different bands openly displayed their appreciation of commercial hits like Michael Jackson’s Beat It by saying “tuuune!” in an exaggerated manner. Furthermore, the vocalist from Chiasmata began dancing to some of the songs. The background music also served as a convenient talking point amongst musicians and the promoter. For instance, at one point when Toto’s Africa came on and prompted several musicians to start singing along, Joe commented to members of Chiasmata that: “I think I’m the only one who prefers [Toto’s] Hold the Line to Africa”. This then created some friendly debate regarding which was the better track. On the surface, these momentary backstage interactions were hardly instrumental to the successful running of the event. They were somewhat throwaway conversations and activities that took place in between the more evidently important tasks regarding the sound check, setting up, tuning equipment and connecting to the venue’s backline (the audio

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amplification equipment). Yet, as previous research on momentary musical activities in domestic contexts (Hassan 2010) and on community choir participation (Hassan 2017) has illustrated, such interactions can become important for defining social situations. They can help to establish what Goffman terms a “working consensus”; the implied rules regarding how to act in a given social situation that then go on to shape and define that situation (1959, 21). In this instance, the promoter’s role in assisting the establishment of this working consensus was subtle but crucial. By contributing to the conversation and facilitating the interest in the background music, which was also playing a part in what DeNora (2015, 50) terms “refurnishing” the environment, Joe supported the maintenance of an atmosphere conducive to ensuring that the social situation during the preparation for the event was relaxed and convivial. Clearly, not all gigs run as smoothly as the MusicPlace North-West charity show. This was a small event that eventually attracted a crowd of approximately 30 people and raised proceeds of a little over £125. Larger and more high-profile events can place more demands on the promoter and require different kinds of emotional labour. Indeed, the emotional labour required to deal with artists and to effectively prepare for a show can be arduous and makes tremendous demands on promoters. These demands may be exacerbated by the way that the boundaries between promotion work and the private lives of promoters can often become blurred.

“They wanted a litre of pig’s blood”: Managing the Personal Risks Hochschild’s (2003) notion of transmutation of emotional systems rests on the idea that we can distinguish between public acts of emotional display and private ones. The emotion work that one normally accomplishes in the private domestic sphere, such as greeting house guests and making them feel “at home”, is transferred to the working environment in jobs such as those of a flight attendant. Thus, in these instances emotion work becomes “no longer a private act but a public act, bought on the one hand and sold on the other” (Hochschild 2003, 118). Yet this distinction is made somewhat problematic when considering promotion work accomplished by people embedded within music scenes

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they care deeply about. All promoters involved with metal events in Merseyside discussed how the work regularly overlapped with their private lives, sometimes in ways that led to significant strain. For instance, consider the following description provided by promoter Joe Mortimer of the risks involved with accommodating touring bands: I recently put up a band for a friend who put on a show, in my flat and the bassist got very drunk, vomited all over my bathroom, all over my shower, all over the living room, all over himself, all over the sofa and I woke up in the morning and the whole place stunk. It was a mess and I was going around cleaning up and I had to tell my girlfriend not to come out the room because she would have absolutely destroyed him. […] I am not getting paid for this, I have done this out of the goodness of my own heart, to just help out a mate who is putting on a show and this guy came out and I have never actually met him before and he has just chucked up everywhere. I am like that is not very respectful. […] It’s not that it comes with the territory, because that makes it sound like it should be accepted, but it is a risk you take. You risk things with your personal lives, with your home lives. You risk money; you risk theft in some cases. (Mortimer 2015)

While Joe acknowledged that promoters are flexible and expect that occasionally bands they support will “get drunk”, such behaviour was felt to show a lack of respect. In this instance, the feeling rules expected of a private guest in one’s house were brought into tension by a musician’s desire to party a little too much while exploiting another’s hospitality. These types of risk taken with their own property are a regular occurrence for the promoters of such concert events. Discussing members of alternative rock promotions company, Damn You!, Cluley notes that “the invitation, [to stay at a promoter’s house] and the implication of trust, forms an immediate social bond between the bands and promoters” (2009, 385). Yet, despite the potential to develop social bonds and trust within a music scene, the above example illustrates that such benefits are not inevitable. Aside from the various tensions and strains that may arise from dealing with artists, the often invisible “shadow labour” (Hochschild 2003, 167) involved with promotion adds another dimension to the work. This is especially apparent when we consider some of the time and effort that goes into aspects of hospitality. Promoters may send a multitude of Facebook messages while they are in their “day jobs” or at home in order to respond to fans’ or artists’ questions and so on. This can sometimes be

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as simple as clarifying door opening times or checking that bands know how to get to the venue. However, it can also be much more involved. Consider, for instance, the following extract from my interview with Sal Turner in which she discusses how she was faced with the considerable demands of the rider that had been requested by Watain and Destroyer 666’s tour manager: And I’d split up with my husband and left, and I was sleeping on my sister’s couch with my kids. And it was two weeks to the show, and this rider, it was like a rider you’ve never seen. They wanted a litre of pig’s blood, they wanted 40 towels so they could clean and shower. They wanted two dozen candles, two dozen red, two dozen black, two dozen white. Yeah, they wanted loads of stuff. And it was like, “Okay, so I’m just literally going to have to go to eBay and just tick down the list of what they need.” My sister had the tiniest house in the world, it was sort of like a lounge and a tiny kitchen/diner, it was like a two-bedroomed tiny thing. And I had a box of 40 towels which was a metre by a metre by a metre. It was huge. And we were falling over it all week. And I had to get them all out and I had to wash them all so they were all clean. I mean, they were all factory seconds, you see, because they were nice and cheap, but they were all big bath sheets. (Turner 2016)

Such shadow labour was not seen by audience or band, but it significantly imposed upon domestic life at a time when Sal’s family life was already fraught. In particular, the request for a litre of pig’s blood by the black metal band Watain posed numerous challenges for Sal. These were ultimately met through a combination of ingenuity and collaboration that again predominantly took place in domestic settings. The interview transcript section below highlights the different stages that Sal went through and illustrates how these had the potential to affect her living arrangements in her sister’s house: We don’t have any abattoirs here in the north-west, and I don’t drive, so going down to Wales to an abattoir was a bit out of the question. I managed to find a black pudding factory [laughter], and for a tenner they filled an ice cream tub with [laughter] blood. And it was frozen, so it looked like sorbet. Now, as you do, [I said to] my sister, because I was at my sister’s, “can I put this in your freezer?” [She replied] “No, that’s not going anywhere near my freezer.”

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So I had to ask on Facebook, “Would anybody be willing to house a litre of frozen pig’s blood?” And I got somebody to do it for me, like, but you know when you’re just thinking, “Ohh,” I went out to get [them] a free ticket, so it was like, “Don’t eat it, it’s not food, it looks like sorbet but I’m telling you it’s not.” And it didn’t really dawn on me what I was doing until the day before the gig, when I thought, “I’m going to have to get that pig’s blood out of the freezer, aren’t I? How long is it going to defrost? Should I put it in water? Should I just leave it out on the side? Should I take it out on the morning? Does it need to…? How long does blood take to defrost?” And at the time I was friends with a guy […] who lived in America, and […] he did autopsies but he was also an author. So I sent him a message and I said, “Right, this is an honest question and I’m not bullshitting here. How long does it take to defrost blood? I’ve got a litre of it in my freezer and I need it for a gig,” and blah, blah, blah. And I explained. And his response was, “Right, this is your honest answer, it depends on how much air gets to it because as soon as it starts to defrost it’ll start to coagulate. So you might need to get your potato masher on it.” And I was just like, “Ohhh, ohhh.” It was just like, “Oh my goodness!” So in the end I just thought, “Sod it, I’ll get it out in the morning, I’ll just leave it on the side and I’ll just hand it to them [Watain] when they get off the bus. And they can do what they like with it.” As it turned out, they thanked me for the freshness of the blood at the end of the night [laughter]. (Turner 2016)

Although Sal recounted this story with a great deal of humour and laughter, it is clear that this was a rider request that had caused a severe amount of stress during the attempts to solve the problem of how to store pig’s blood. To accommodate an extreme metal artist’s demands, she had to put her relations with her family at risk and risk the health of the willing volunteer who stored the blood. After all these efforts, there remained a high amount of unpredictability regarding the outcome in that she did not know whether the blood would meet the requirements of the band until the day of the event itself.

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“Go and get a proper job”: Coping with Financial Losses and Justifying the Risks The promoters I spoke to rarely made a profit from their gigs and certainly did not see promotion as their main source of income. Rather, it was often expected that their work would involve losing money to varying degrees. Perhaps due to this factor, it was interesting that most of the promoters seemed reluctant to describe their companies as a business. For instance, as Sal Turner reflected: “it was still a hobby. It was never a business. It was still once a month. It was just ad hoc. It fitted, it was okay, I could do it” (Turner 2016). Likewise, Kabir D’Silva (2019) described Peste Promotions as an “expensive hobby”. The implications of understanding metal music promotion as a hobby will be examined further below. However, firstly it is necessary to consider the financial risks involved in more depth. In certain cases, the financial costs of offsetting loss-making gigs caused further strain on family life. For instance, Andy Hughes from Deathwave Entertainment recalled how when he booked the band The Agonist he lost almost £2500 due to problems with promoting the show. He had to borrow £1000 from his father due to this and the losses from a previous poorly attended gig. Andy admitted that this then led to conflict: Me and my dad had big arguments about it and my dad said then, “Go and get a proper job. Leave it. Stop being a kid. It’s a hobby, it’s an expensive hobby and it’s now costing me money not just you, so stop. I’m not going to support you doing this anymore”. (Hughes 2017)

What is notable from Hughes’ recollection of this conversation with his father is that the criticism of his promotion work partly centred on the contention that it was an “expensive hobby”, rather than a sustainable business. Thus, although according to the testimony of the promoters mentioned above, the notion of metal promotion as a hobby was perceived as acceptable from an insider’s perspective, family members who were less directly involved understood the conflation of metal promotion with a hobby in highly negative terms. From this perspective, this type of metal music promotion work was considered, by extension, illegitimate work; it is not “proper” because it does not (often) yield any financial return on the hours devoted to it. Financial losses were also a consistent source of tension for Sal Turner during the years when she ran Whiplash Promotions. A lack of support

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from her husband and his scepticism over the financial sustainability of Whiplash had partly led to them splitting up. Sal’s reflections on her time at Whiplash reveal the unpredictability of promotion work and the way that promoters can be affected by misfortunes beyond their control, which can then exacerbate the financial strains. For instance, in 2010 as Sal was re-establishing Whiplash Promotions after a few years break to start a family, she was presented with an exciting opportunity to work with the major metal music label, Earache Records, and host Singapore grindcore band, Wormrot. However, the opportunity to have the band perform in Liverpool soon became far more challenging when the proposed venue for the gig, Roadkill, burned down prior to the scheduled gig. As Sal recalled: I found out while I was at a show that, it was like two weeks later, and the venue had burnt down, and it was like “Oh my God.” So the Zanzibar jumped in and said I could do it there. But he charged me £150 more than the other venue, and I didn’t break even. And that was the first time I hadn’t sort of broken even. […] And my ex-husband, well, ex-husband now, he used to say, “Ohh, I told you you wouldn’t make any money.” It’s like, “I would have made lots of money if I hadn’t have had to change the venue”. (Turner 2016)

As Sal became more involved with promoting larger more established international extreme metal bands between the years 2010 and 2013, the financial risks and challenges intensified. These are illustrated most clearly in her account of the approach taken to financing a concert by influential US death metal band, Deicide, whose gig took place at the Masque venue in Liverpool on 30 June 2011: They [Deicide] wanted a fortune, and then a week before the gig they dropped another contract down, and apparently, it was a week before the gig, I had a meltdown, because I’d sold ‘x’ amount of tickets and was looking to break even. However, I’d lost loads at the Vader gig the week before. So it was like, “Oh my God,” because hardly anybody came to see [Vader] because they were going to see Deicide, it was literally two weeks later. And it was like, “Oh my God, I don’t know what to do.” So, in order to pay Vader, I had to dip into the Deicide ticket price, and it was like, “Oh my word, oh my word.” And I’d been single for about, it was June, we split up in the July, so I’d met somebody in the November and we were together. And his mum and dad said, “We’ll get you a loan, don’t worry, we’ll get you

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a loan, don’t worry.” So they got me a four-grand loan, and I couldn’t believe it. But that paid all my debts off, paid the gig. Because what they wanted, Glen Benton [Deicide’s vocalist] wanted the payment up-front as he got off the tour bus—not as [venue] door opened, as he got off the tour bus. And I’m going, “But I’m open for another 100, 120 walk-ups here at £15 a ticket. What am I going to do?” And the venue wanted their money up-front as well, but that was [because], they were starting to not do very well, so they needed to make sure that they had their money up-front as well. So their money was paid early, their money was paid for that venue after the Vader gig. And it was just like, “Urrgh.” And it was £600 to hire the venue because I needed to get a side lot of monitors, and an engineer for the side of stage to do the monitors. But it happened, we negotiated. I ended up getting the venue involved to help me with negotiations because I was just like, “I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what to do. It can’t happen this way.” And we got to the point where the loan wasn’t in until two days after the gig, and they [the band] trusted that I would pay up. And I did. Two days after the gig the money came in, the money went into the bank. Job’s a good ‘un. They emailed me and said, “Got it, thank you very much,” you know, “thank you for being you and looking after them and stuff.” (Turner 2016)

Thus, reliance upon goodwill (of a boyfriend and his family members, of the venue and even of the band) was integral for enabling this high-­ profile extreme metal event to take place at all. Given the financial challenges involved with promoting these metal music events and their capacity to place strains on family life, it is striking that each of the promoters featured in this chapter continued to engage in this work for a prolonged period. Indeed, the primary reason why Sal Turner is no longer running Whiplash Promotions is not due to financial considerations, but health reasons. At the time of writing, Andy Hughes’ Deathwave Entertainment was celebrating its ten-year anniversary, while Joe Mortimer continued to promote extreme metal gigs in both Liverpool and elsewhere for over ten years (albeit on a more sporadic basis). In this section of the chapter, it is, therefore, pertinent to consider the appeal of such work. How does engagement in such risk-laden work continue to be justified and how do those involved perceive the benefits? These are questions that will now be explored. Returning to a theme discussed earlier, one clear way in which these promoters justified enduring the risks connected with this type of work was to emphasize their status as fans. Their fandom and affection for the

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overall metal scene not only offset the challenges previously outlined, it was also referred to when discussing financial risks. Both Andy Hughes and Joe Mortimer have adopted a highly pragmatic approach to financial loss during promotion work. As devoted fans they recognize that even if they were not undertaking promotion work, they would spend a lot of money effectively supporting the metal scene in the North-West. As Joe put it: If I go to Manchester for a show for a band of any level, I could be paying £10 to £15 on the train return. £10 to £15 on the door to get in, drinks, buy CD, T-shirt or whatever and get back and sometimes I will get a taxi back from the train station if it gets too late. So, I am spending £50, £60, £70 on small shows and if I am willing to spend to that on going to show in Manchester, I am willing to spend that on putting on a show in Liverpool. (Mortimer 2015)

Andy Hughes’ testimony on this subject was very similar and he too emphasized the expenses involved with travelling to gigs in Manchester. However, for Hughes, the realization that the financial costs of attending such gigs were equivalent to the actual costs of promoting a Liverpool-­ based metal concert prompted an entire shift in his approach to promotion. As he explained: Because I’ve been drinking or whatever and a taxi is £50 or £60 and I’m having to buy a train ticket for the next morning or a concert ticket, it was getting to the point where I’m spending as much to go and see a few bands in Manchester as it’s going to cost me to put a small gig on. So eventually I got itchy feet and I got fed up of a couple of months of going to Manchester for something which I can do myself for the same money. Oh dear, I’m back being a promoter again. But this time I did it differently. I decided that instead of relying on the gigs to make the money, I work, I go to my day job or my night job or whatever I’m doing at the time and earn the money. I turn round, set myself a budget for the gig. I’ve got the money before the gig starts. It’s covered. I have a few pints, I have fun, I talk to everybody. I have as much fun as all the punters and all the money that comes through the door or through the ticket vendors on the night or when the ticket vendors pay, they release the money a couple of days later, it’s mine because I’ve already paid for the gig itself. (Hughes 2017)

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This approach, then, is informed by the recognition that promoters connected with this scene are fans who justify financial losses because they wish to facilitate events they would like to experience as fans. Aside from financial investments being connected with fandom, the rigours and risks of promotion were also justified with reference to the skills and qualities that the work enabled the Merseyside metal promoters to develop. Andy Hughes, in particular, explicated how promotion work, even when it led to financial losses, had helped him to develop skills and abilities that he could use in other paid work. As he put it: “even though I don’t make any money on Deathwave, it’s the skills and the abilities that I’ve learned running Deathwave, I’ve now transferred and because I work in the events industry full time, through those skills…Deathwave paid for itself in a very, very roundabout way in the fact that most of the work I do I couldn’t do if I hadn’t started Deathwave” (Hughes 2017). This development of skills and abilities that are central to work in the events industry was also a source of pride for Andy. Indeed, although his father had previously been sceptical of his promotions work and had even at one stage branded it a waste of time and money, it was interesting that Andy considered his proudest moment to be when his father had appreciated how valuable the work had become. After their conflict over the previous loss of money, a year later his father apologized and Hughes recalled that the conversation unfolded as follows: He said, “If it wasn’t for Deathwave, you wouldn’t be where you are now. You wouldn’t be who you are now. So me telling you to abandon Deathwave would have been the worst thing I could have ever done to you and I’m sorry. I’m so proud of who you are, what you’ve achieved now and the fact that you can literally walk from job to job for people and get paid well and you’re well respected.” At that point I’d never even thought of it in terms of proud yes, but it meant so much to me. (Hughes 2017)

Although she did not reflect on her achievements in an explicit manner, Sal Turner’s testimony about her work for Whiplash Promotions also conveyed a strong sense of pride in the skills and abilities she had developed. One of the aspects of the work that she elucidated with a sense of pride was the, as she put it, “problem solving” (Turner 2016) in relation to the sorts of challenges discussed above. Using her initiative and learning “on the job” was another element of this that Turner highlighted. As she explained:

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So every time I had a show I was learning as I was going along, you know, what backline do I need to get, what have you got, what do we need, who’s providing what? And I just got used to being able to ask the questions without knowing what it meant, and slowly but surely, I started to learn a little bit about what it meant, you know, what a DI box was for and what, you know. And a couple of months earlier I wouldn’t have been able to tell you, d’you know what I mean? (Turner 2016)

Her more ad hoc approach to the promotion of specific events in her early tenure at Whiplash also led her to develop her own distinctive style of hospitality for the bands. For instance, when hosting the bands Ragnarok and Negura Bunget on 27 April in 2010, Turner described her approach to catering as follows: So I put the Negura Bunget, Ragnarok show on. They arrived, they got a big buffet on arrival which consisted of, and it became my standard […] My standard buffet was four different types of sandwiches, so it would be like bread rolls, baps or buns or bread cakes, or whatever you call them. And I’d do some cheese salad, I’d do ham salad, I’d do tuna sweetcorn mayo, and I’d do egg and cress mayo. So I’d do four types of sandwiches. I’d do a platter with hummus and lots and lots of, like, celery and stuff, so they had some fresh food. They got another platter, which just had apples, oranges and bananas on, because I was very aware that they all like bananas because they release energy and all that. There was a platter with crisps on at the end, so they could have a bag of crisps if they wanted. So I did that, so yeah, I did it, I did the show. And they were absolutely gobsmacked. And I didn’t know any different, I didn’t know you weren’t meant to look after people. I didn’t know you were meant to argue over giving them a fiver to go and get themselves a MacDonald’s, or something, which is apparently what the promoters in the UK have been doing for years and years. And we arrive and we’ve got all this fresh fruit and beautiful sandwiches, and they were just like, “Is this for us?” (Turner 2016)

The practices that Sal developed regarding hospitality and catering for the bands were, therefore, a crucial element of her overall approach to promotion work. A focus on such practices also affirms a central theme that has emerged from the ethnographic data that underpins this chapter. While approaches to metal music promotion are, as with Cluley’s (2009) informants, shaped by the music tastes of the individual promoter to a certain extent, they are

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also idiosyncratic. This is a type of labour that is uniquely inflected by the promoter’s personal circumstances and their overall social, economic and cultural trajectories during the periods when they undertake the work. Furthermore, promotion work has to be understood within the wider context of the individual’s personal biography. For instance, it was perhaps unsurprising that because he was a touring metal musician both prior to and during his time working as a promoter, Joe Mortimer seemed comfortable with the technical practicalities of gig organization such as organizing a back line. Whereas, Andy Hughes and Sal Turner in particular both emphasized how they had to learn by their mistakes.

Metal Music Promotion and Passionate Work Scholars like McRobbie (2016), Sandoval (2018) and Hesmondhalgh and Baker (2011) have rightly been critical of the way that the notion of “creativity” has become a doctrine within neoliberal policy discourse. They assert that creative labour in sectors like the arts or media can quickly become a means of justifying exploitation in that workers are expected to find solace in the thought that their role enables them to be “creative”, even though the work itself may involve a lack of stability and precarious working conditions. McRobbie argues that those engaged in what she terms “passionate work” are particularly susceptible to being swept up in the romance of creative work (2016, 35-36). This, she goes on to write, is a “way of acclimatizing these new social strata to a different kind of existence” involving insecure employment (McRobbie 2016, 35-36). Passionate work is certainly an apt way of describing the kinds of labour that promoters of metal events on Merseyside engage in. Their work is often motivated by their fandom and their personal investments in local and national music scenes. As we have seen, the promoters featured in this chapter do not define their labour as “a job” or their promotions organizations as a business. Rather, it is considered an expensive “hobby”, a term that immediately connects it explicitly with fandom. Clearly, in some respects, identifying music promotion work in terms of fandom and pleasure is problematic. Discourse that constructs music promotion as an extension of fandom legitimates the notion that creative labour exists within the domain of personal expression and pleasure. This then coheres with the ideology of “do what you love”, which individualizes passionate work and promotes a neoliberal version of creative labour (Sandoval 2018, 120). From this perspective, individual promoter’s

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accounts of their experiences could be interpreted as testimony that underpins this ideology—the risks and sometimes difficult conditions are portrayed as necessary when engaging with work that is pleasurable. As there are aspects of the labour that are defined in personal terms, then this could suggest that responsibility for the promotion and organization of metal music events always lies with passionate individuals. Any consideration of the wider social ramifications of this and the value that promoting metal music events can have on a broader social or economic level are downplayed in favour of “self-management” (Sandoval 2018, 120). Yet, when considering metal music promoters on Merseyside, this chapter has revealed the limitations of this perspective. Although interviews conveyed promoters’ individual approaches to their work and illustrated how they felt a personal sense of responsibility for events, it is crucial to recognize the intention behind such approaches. From the outset of this chapter, we saw that promoters like Andy Hughes started their companies with the aim of bringing more people together to watch bands like This is Turin. Promoters work to create events that become collective “transcendent” experiences (Behr et  al. 2016, 416). We have seen that such experiences can be transcendent for the promoter themselves who may describe them in religious or euphoric terms. However, it is worth reiterating that such experiences partly become transcendent for the promoter because they have facilitated events that may also be experienced in this way by others. As Joe Mortimer stated when describing a set by headliners Corpse at the UK Slam Fest event he promoted in 2017: they had an absolute stampede of people crushing against the stage. The pit was insane. It was one of, it was [an] extremely full-on show of absolute slam [death metal] brutality, it was a crazy, crazy show. And that was the exact epitome of what I wanted to achieve in the festival. I wanted crowds to come. I wanted crowds to interact. I wanted to party and have fun. I wanted to have a great time. (Mortimer 2018)

Therefore, the pleasure that Joe derived in such moments was intimately connected with the enjoyment displayed by the crowd. These metal music promoters, then, act on behalf of scenes and work to create shared events. Even though they may stress their individual roles within interviews, they foster collective experiences at gigs and festivals. Furthermore, as we will see in the next chapter when the focus shifts to how events are mediated, they both facilitate communities and draw on wider

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communities to disseminate information about their events. While such promotion work involves subjecting themselves to potentially challenging working conditions and routinely taking financial and personal risks, this chapter has shown that the work does not neatly fit with established understandings of creative labour.

References Behr, Adam, Matt Brennan, and Martin Cloonan. 2016. Cultural Value and Cultural Policy: Some Evidence from the World of Live Music. International Journal of Cultural Policy 22 (3): 403–418. Brennan, Matt, and Emma Webster. 2011. Why Concert Promoters Matter. Scottish Music Review 2 (1): 1–25. Cavicchi, Daniel. 1998. Tramps Like Us: Music and Meaning Among Springsteen Fans. New York: Oxford University Press. Cluley, Robert. 2009. Engineering Great Moments: The Production of Live Music. Consumption, Markets and Culture 12 (4): 373–388. DeNora, Tia. 2015. Music Asylums: Wellbeing Through Music in Everyday Life. Farnham: Ashgate. D’Silva, Kabir. 2019. Unpublished interview with Kabir D’Silva. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 14 January 2019 Goffman, Erving. 1959. The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. Harmondworth, Middlesex: Pelican Books. Grossberg, Lawrence. 1992. Rock and Roll in Search of an Audience. In Popular Music and Communication, ed. James Lull, 152–175. London: Sage. Hassan, Nedim. 2010. He’ll Have To Go: Popular Music and the Social Performing of Memory. IASPM@journal: Journal of the International Association for the Study of Popular Music 1 (1): 1–19. http://iaspmjournal.net. https://doi. org/10.5429/2079-­3871. ———. 2017. Re-voicing: Community Choir Participation as a Medium for Identity Formation Amongst People with Learning Disabilities. International Journal of Community Music 10 (2): 207–225. Hesmondhalgh, David, and Sarah Baker. 2011. Creative Labour: Media Work in Three Cultural Industries. London and New York: Routledge. Hochschild, Arlie Russell. 2003. The Managed Heart: Commercialization of Human Feeling. California: University of California Press. Hughes, Andy. 2017. Unpublished interview with Andy Hughes. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 14 February 2017 McRobbie, Angela. 2016. Be Creative: Making a Living in the New Culture Industries. Cambridge: Polity.

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Mortimer, Joe. 2015. Unpublished interview with Joe Mortimer. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 17 July 2015 ———. 2018. Unpublished interview with Joe Mortimer. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 14 June 2018 Rutter, Paul. 2011. The Music Industry Handbook. New York: Routledge. Sandoval, Marisol. 2018. From Passionate Labour to Compassionate Work: Cultural Co-ops, Do What You Love and Social Change. European Journal of Cultural Studies 21 (2): 113–129. Turner, Sal. 2016. Unpublished interview with Sal Turner. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 13 July 2016 Walker, Jeff. 2018. Unpublished interview with Jeff Walker. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 5 July 2018

CHAPTER 6

Mediating Metal on Merseyside

The previous chapter on metal music promoters illustrated how they were important intermediaries. They “came between” people and metal music culture in Merseyside and further afield. Influenced by Raymond Williams’ (1983) analysis of the etymology of the term “mediation”, Keith Negus (1996) asserts the value of this concept for enabling us “to think about the range of processes, movements, relationships and power struggles that occur between and across the production and consumption of popular music” (Negus 1996, 70, emphasis in original). This chapter will draw on this concept and reveal how a critical consideration of the mediation of metal music by actors associated with the Merseyside scene enables us to gain a richer understanding of their cultural production. As we will see, the work of intermediaries like the promoters mentioned in the previous chapter is facilitated by using a range of communications media and an evolving set of social and professional relationships. There is now a growing body of academic work interested in metal’s depiction within mass media. Early work in this area from the likes of Walser (1993) and Weinstein (2000) paid attention to both how metal music culture was often dismissed by many sections of the music press and how specialist magazines to cater for the music’s international fan base had grown since the 1980s. Weinstein also illustrated how an initial lack of radio airplay, even in the light of successful album sales in the 1970s from the likes of Kiss, Aerosmith and Black Sabbath, together with a complete © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 N. Hassan, Metal on Merseyside, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-77681-7_6

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absence of the music on television, contributed to the notion that metal’s fans and artists had the status of the “proud pariah” (Weinstein 2000, 161). Subsequent academic work on metal music magazines (Brown 2007; Jones 2018) has illustrated how such publications are integral for constructing metal music as a lifestyle that revolves around the music, while studies on metal’s mediation via different types of film form have shed light on how film shapes metal culture (Bayer 2019). However, much of the existing research in this area tends to understand mediation as “transmission” and focuses upon major forms of communications media and their role in transmitting metal music culture (Negus 1996, 68). There is less work on the specific mediation of what Thornton termed “micro-media” within metal music scenes (1995, 211). Flyers, fanzines, webzines and communication via social media such as Facebook, Twitter and Instagram are media forms used within music scenes, but these often only reach small groups. Despite Kahn-Harris’ (2007) influential work on how extreme metal music scenes have relied upon phenomena such as tape trading, writing fanzines, niche magazine exposure and specialist websites, there remain few accounts that provide an ethnographic perspective on this type of micro-mediation within scenes. This chapter seeks to partly address that absence by providing such a perspective. Moreover, as the chapter will illustrate, a narrow conceptualization of mediation as transmission serves to underplay the range of intermediaries, social relationships and the role of texts and technologies within processes of cultural production. Inspired by the sociological work of Antoine Hennion (2012), Georgina Born (2005) and Tia DeNora (2000, 2015), this chapter illustrates that a consideration of the mediation of metal music needs to move beyond a sole focus on communications media. The concept of mediation will be deployed to highlight how metal music culture in Liverpool and Merseyside is the result of, as Hennion puts it, “specific yet varying combinations of particular intermediaries, considered not as the neutral channels through which predetermined social relations operate, but as productive entities that have effectiveness of their own” (Hennion 2012, 252). Thus, in accordance with this understanding, this chapter will pay close attention to how the work of intermediaries such as promoters, artists, journalists and fans is dynamic and can have a varied impact at a local, translocal and global level (Bennett and Peterson 2004). This approach necessitates an understanding of mediation that is not merely about considering how agents disseminate “the music”. Rather,

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following sociological theory, it requires sensitivity to the notion that music and its mediation are inseparable. Metal music, like other forms of art, cannot be reified as autonomous. Instead, it needs to be acknowledged as what DeNora terms “music-plus” in that its significance is added “locally” through “action” (DeNora 2015, 2). At the same time, considering metal music as mediation is an essential part of this understanding. Metal music “affords” action; in DeNora’s terms it is a resource for agency, interaction and “world-making” (DeNora 2000, 40). Elaborating on her perspective in later work, DeNora suggests that music genres such as metal (or sub-genres of metal) can “model” emotional states, developing an authority that then “authorizes actions and dispositions” (DeNora 2015, 88). For example, in Walser’s seminal study of heavy metal, he illustrates how metal can become empowering for audiences by focusing on how it articulates “musical discourses, social practices, and cultural meanings” which cohere around “experiences of power” (Walser 1993, 2). Consequently, metal music (like other genres) needs to be recognized as “one of the many aesthetic media that tacitly offer parameters, structures and modes for how to be and how to act and, thus, how to react and how to feel” (DeNora 2015, 88). Conceiving of metal music as mediation in this manner, then, enables us to recognize that specific instances of metal music production, such as the songs on an album release, as well as the communication involved with that release (from press releases to the sharing of social media posts) are integral to the understanding of that cultural event. These events, as well as others such as live shows, involve “multiple mediations” and have “many simultaneous forms of existence” (Born 2005, 13). The onset of digital music media has extended this process because digitized music is “immanently open to re-creation” and, as Born makes clear, it can afford “recurrent decomposition, composition and re-composition by a series of creative agents” (2005, 26). In this digital era of “high connectivity” between artists, media and fans that has been accelerated by the rise of social media sites, we will see below that it has become easier for metal musicians and promoters to disseminate their products quickly. We will also see that it is easier for fans and artists to either aid or transform this process through sharing, reviewing, critiquing and so on (Wikström 2009, 88). Concomitantly, though, the contemporary mediation of metal music needs to be contextualized via a wider consideration of its historical mediation. Therefore, it is vital to consider what Hennion terms the

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“accumulated mediations” such as generic conventions and metal music’s historical trajectory as a mediated phenomenon (Hennion 2012, 250–251). As Walser (1993), Weinstein (2000) and Brown (2003) have done, this involves examining how metal has historically been represented in media such as the music press, film and television, as well as how it has featured within scholarly accounts of youth culture. However, as earlier chapters illustrated, it also involves appreciating how metal music has been mediated within specific places like Merseyside. This, it has been argued, allows us to examine how dominant narratives about music’s connection with place can inflect the mediation of relatively hidden genres and practices of cultural production. This chapter also draws on more recent work on digital cultural intermediaries, particularly to assess scene members’ engagement with social media. As Hutchinson (2021) demonstrates, it is important to consider the processes involved when people seek to make their work visible across social media platforms. In this chapter we will examine how musicians, promoters and fans work to circulate various kinds of content online, including information about concerts and new music. Hutchinson asserts that these activities can no longer be considered solely as cultural intermediation, but rather as what he calls “digital intermediation” (Hutchinson 2021, 36). This is a concept that can help to explain “the process of how content appears for particular platform users” while at the same time alerting us to “the process by which content producers engage to ensure their content is visible” (Hutchinson 2021, 36). It will be revealed that these processes involve artists, promoters and fans developing and displaying forms of “digital cultural capital” (Arriagada and Concha 2020, 45). In other words, this chapter highlights the ways that “digital expertise” can be combined with “aesthetic judgement” in order to assist metal scene members to create various social and cultural meanings (Arriagada and Concha 2020, 43). Furthermore, we will see how these forms of digital cultural capital can facilitate the accumulation of social capital, whereby scene members enter into valuable relationships with others. Thus, the sections that follow will couple the above-mentioned understanding of mediation with a consideration of ethnographic data derived from various sources. Interviews with different intermediaries will be examined to illustrate how the production of metal music in Merseyside and the wider construction of a Merseyside scene are dependent on a range of mediations. Also, data from participant observation at

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Merseyside-based gigs will inform considerations of aspects such as the use of micro-media, particularly flyers and posters. In addition, elements of netnography will be incorporated into this chapter in that forms of communication embedded in online communities will be scrutinized (Costello et al. 2017). As a member of communities on the social networking site, Facebook, I was able to derive an understanding of online community activity and how it can contribute to the mediation of Merseyside’s metal music culture. Although this netnographic understanding will later be unpacked as partial and incomplete, it will nonetheless offer another important dimension to a consideration of the range of mediations under consideration. Finally, in accordance with the methodology detailed in the Introduction to this book, sections of this chapter are based on a more autoethnographic approach. As discussed earlier, this was necessitated by the fact that during the process of research for this book I became increasingly close to the field of study and was asked to write regular columns, reviews and features for the Merseyside-based webzine, Getintothis. As my research on the Merseyside metal scene was informed by my perspective as an “aca-­ fan-­writer” who was actively mediating aspects of the scene, it facilitated an appreciation of the affective elements involved with producing this music scene (Roach 2014, 39). In the latter sections of this chapter, I will reflect on some of those experiences and on my personal role as an intermediary when examining the working relationships with intermediaries that musicians and promoters need to develop.

The Role of the Music Press and the Continued Importance of Metal Magazines As Shuker (1994) and Brennan (2006) have outlined, historically the relationship between the music press and music industries has been largely symbiotic. Various music publications rely on record labels, artists, PR companies, promoters and other intermediaries to provide them with material to review, feature, preview and so on. In turn, the music industries are reliant upon the press to promote the material that they produce. However, as writers such as Shuker (1994), and Brown and Griffin (2014) have elucidated, the music press is far more than a mere service industry for the music industries. They are significant gatekeepers, particularly for emerging artists who wish to gain exposure. Furthermore, they are not

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just gatekeepers in the sense that they can provide musicians with access to their readership, they are, as Shuker puts it, “gatekeepers of taste and arbiters of cultural history” (Shuker 1994, 78). Consequently, journalists have an ideological and moral role, having the power to inform both the industry and the public (Brennan 2006, 232). Heavy metal is a genre that, more than most, exemplifies how the ideologies of critics and musicians can clash. Weinstein (2000), Walser (1993) as well as Brown and Griffin (2014) have examined how rock music criticism since the 1970s has consistently constructed metal music as inauthentic. Straw (1990) notes that one effect of its critical dismissal in the rock press during the 1970s was to encourage metal musicians to adopt a “populist argument” and stress that they were reflecting the interests of fans, rather than the rock establishment (Straw 1990, 102–103). Weinstein goes further and suggests that such representation within the rock press served to entrench the “proud-pariah image of metal” and to facilitate bonding between metal artists and a metal subculture who felt they were being ignored and marginalized by the mainstream (Weinstein 2000, 174). These historic tensions between the rock press and the metal subculture have arguably accounted for the fact that when the niche metal music press emerged in the UK firstly with Kerrang! (1981-present), then with Metal Hammer (1986-present), RAW (Rock Action Worldwide) (1988–1995) and Terrorizer (1993–2018) they were launched in connection with the perceived popularity of metal or specific metal sub-genres at particular times (Brown 2007, 646). Aside from the commercial interests of their owners, the editors of such magazines positioned themselves as committed enthusiasts and advocates who promoted the hard rock and metal subcultures. Brown demonstrates that such UK metal magazines are “as much lifestyle magazines as they are music journalism; that is they are promoting a metal lifestyle as part and parcel of the way that they address their readership and justify their coverage to corporate owners and advertising sponsors” (Brown 2007, 646). However, through his analysis of style and content in these magazines he illustrates that they conform to a traditional music paper format in that they emphasize news, album and live reviews, features and studio reports at their core. Moreover, the notion of lifestyle constructed within such publications remained as Brown writes, “one that took place very much around the music, rather than across the range of leisure sites” (Brown 2007, 652).

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The close links between the UK metal music magazines and the lifestyles of the fan base is not confined to the pages of these publications. Indeed, in December 2016 when it was announced that TeamRock, the owners of Metal Hammer at the time, had gone into administration, it was striking that there was an immediate response from the UK metal music community. Ben Ward, frontman for the metal band Orange Goblin started a crowdfunding campaign to raise money for the staff who had worked at Metal Hammer, Classic Rock magazine and others. On the campaign page Ward wrote that: “These are good, hard-working, committed people that through Metal Hammer, Classic Rock, Prog, TeamRock Radio and more, have supported the rock and heavy-metal scene in this country for decades and now we, the rock community, need to pull together to help give something back” (cited in the Guardian 2016). The fundraising page had a target of £20,000 but this was exceeded considerably, and money raised amounted to over £88,000. Thus, within this campaign there was an explicit acknowledgement of hard rock and metal music’s reliance upon publications like Metal Hammer for support. Despite some musicians’ scepticism when it comes to music journalists, within metal and rock scenes it appears that there is a deep-­ rooted appreciation of the relationship between music culture and the media. Given this background, this chapter will now focus upon the ways in which relationships with the metal music press affects the mediation of metal on Merseyside. Artists and promoters recognized that exposure in specialist metal music magazines remained important, at least to an extent. Sludge doom metal act, Conan, a band that started life in Liverpool and are now based in the Wirral, underlined the continued value of exposure in such publications. When initially asked about the importance of the media for Conan, vocalist and guitarist Jon Davis (who founded the band) immediately responded by referring to metal magazines: “the first time you’ll hear about a band is through media of some sort, usually it will be a band review. For me it was a CD on the front of Kerrang! where I first [heard] about High On Fire for example” (Davis and Fielding 2017). However, although the band were in the fortunate enough position to have their record label (Napalm Records) creating a press campaign for their albums and tours to ensure that the major print publications like Metal Hammer paid attention, it was interesting that they also appreciated the independent perspective that came from online publications. As Jon

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explained, online reviews are more “interesting” because those reviewers are “under no contractual obligation to review” but they choose to review because they are fans of the sludge doom genre (Davis and Fielding 2017).

Promoters and Print Media Whereas internationally established full-time bands like Conan were used to working with print magazines, locally based promoters had more limited relationships with them. Especially when it came to advertising within such publications, the costs were considered prohibitive. For instance, death metal events promoter, Joe Mortimer, explained that even though he had developed several contacts with “the bigger metal magazines” it became “pretty costly, pretty quickly” to place advertisements within them (Mortimer 2015). He indicated that for “a quarter of a page of A4” advertisement, the costs would be somewhere in the region of £200 (Mortimer 2015). Promoters organizing concerts in larger venues in the past did utilize print media advertising. For instance, Sal Turner explained that during the period between 2010 and 2012 when Whiplash Promotions was most prolific and putting on shows by well-known death metal bands like Vader and Deicide, she would take out advertisements in extreme metal magazine Terrorizer. Sal recalled that the cost was £125 plus VAT for a quarter of a page. She would place an advertisement over a half page (doubling the cost) every couple of months when she had several shows. She explained that, “I had six or seven shows and I had a half page, so if you were flicking the page, it was just there, you could see it, and it had a list of six shows coming on” (Turner 2016). Although several interviewees mentioned costs as a barrier to working with magazines like Terrorizer, there were instances where these magazines were recognized as supportive of promotion work. For example, Kabir D’Silva pointed out that when his company Peste Promotions was involved with promoting larger gigs in 2016 it received help from Terrorizer free of charge. He explained that “we reached out to Terrorizer, we had some friends who worked with them, at one point they would do a print-out of gig listings in the magazine or […] would do an online write up promoting the show” (D’Silva 2019). Regardless of their ability to afford to place advertising in print metal media, or any connections they had with such publications, all promoters primarily stressed their reliance on other forms of advertising. The two

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most popular forms of event advertising for promoters and artists were the use of events pages on social networking sites and the use of flyers. In the sections that follow, the uses of these types of micro-media will be examined in depth. It will be argued that the deployment of these types of media reveals how the mediation of metal on Merseyside featured types of work that cohered with notions of entrepreneurship and co-creative labour.

“A Death Metal T-Shirt?” Have a Flyer While we have seen that some artists and promoters valued print metal media as gatekeepers, during interviews the overriding emphasis within discussions about promotion was that the responsibility was on individuals to take the initiative. When asked about their uses of media, artists and promoters alike spent much more time discussing the role of social media and of posters and flyers (small, often postcard sized posters). Unlike working with journalistic publications, or seeking radio airplay, exposure through these forms was portrayed as something that individuals could influence more directly. In a similar way to their uses within the dance music subcultures that Thornton (1995) examined, as will be detailed below, physical flyers were distributed in three ways. Firstly, they were directly mailed to fans who had purchased tickets, music or merchandise. Secondly, they were handed to the “right people” by promoters who knew “young people’s routes” through a city like Liverpool and anticipated the kinds of events they would be attending (Thornton 1995, 216). Finally, they were left in spaces such as pubs, clothing and record shops that were perceived as popular among metal fans so that they might be picked up by the “right crowd” (Thornton 1995, 216). In addition, given the extensive use of Facebook by promoters and bands, it was unsurprising that electronic versions of the flyers were, in a sense, “distributed” to the “right crowds” on Facebook. However, rather than sending individuals flyers within discrete messages, as will be revealed below, electronic versions of flyers became integral to the organization of Facebook events pages. Flyers were valued for their capacity to be cheaply mass-produced and because their materiality meant that they could be circulated during face-­ to-­face encounters. Costs were far less prohibitive than placing an advert in a print magazine and the creative approaches to production by

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promoters meant that they could economize in different ways. For instance, as Joe Mortimer stated: I have got a particular company which I found on eBay and he does really good quality flyers for really cheap. It is £30 for 1000 double sided A6 flyers, great quality. I have been working with that particular company for a while. If I have only got one show booked myself, I will speak to friends who have got other shows which need promoting and see if they want to put their flyer on the other side. (Mortimer 2015)

Thus, with this approach Mortimer had an opportunity to split the costs with another band or promoter, reducing them further. Other promoters utilized a single flyer to promote several upcoming shows at the same time. For instance, as Andy Hughes from Deathwave Entertainment indicated, “we used to […] get large runs of flyers but wouldn’t dedicate it to a single gig. What we’d do, we’d put the Deathwave logo and details about us on one side and then on the reverse we’d have a list of say three months’ worth of gigs” (Hughes 2017). While their cost effectiveness was a key motivating factor behind the production of flyers, they were also revealed as having a fundamental role in networking, reaching audiences on a personal level and even on an international scale. Death metal promoter Joe Mortimer was an ardent believer in the value of flyers. He suggested that firstly their very materiality can be useful as it enabled him to have “something to put in people’s hands” (Mortimer 2015). Distributing flyers was also a method that enabled Joe to meet potential audiences in person and to network with other promoters in Liverpool; he described his activity as follows: I will go to other shows around the city, by all the promoters in other alternative and extreme genres and I will have flyers to give to people on the door or from chatting to people, or if I see somebody with a shirt which I am thinking, oh, yes, that looks like that kind of show. A death metal t-shirt, I will go “boom, have a flyer.” I will go around and I will put flyers in around the local area, around the venue. I was blu-tacking flyers for the Maruta and Kraanium shows in phone boxes, on bus stops and all down Hardy [Hardman] Street, in Renshaw Street and I walked around Quiggins and put some posters up and then walked around the Swan, the Pilgrim, all of the regular haunts where, it sounds horrible, but [you have] the right type of people to promote to. (Mortimer 2015)

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It is clear from this interview extract that such processes of mediation of metal music events afford social interaction and proximity in a way that is difficult to replicate online. These activities may invite direct interaction and conversations that are immediate. For example, Andy Hughes described how using flyers “does work because I’ve actually been stood in the pub and I’ve had somebody turn around and say, ‘Andy, I want to ask you about this,’ get his wallet out and pull one of these flyers out of his wallet and unfold it and say, ‘See that gig there, what’s that?’ kind of thing, which is job done” (Hughes 2017). In addition to the promotion of local Merseyside or wider UK events, the production of flyers can also facilitate international exposure for artists. For instance, Joe Mortimer explained that he was always willing to send other artists’ flyers whenever he shipped out merchandise for his bands. He indicated that when he is on his own Facebook profile page or his bands’ pages, “I say are there any bands who have got promo materials or any promoters with flyers or anything like that who wants to get more distribution? Send me a message, I will give you my address and anytime [his bands] Neuroma, Crepitation, Cancerous Womb sells any merch, I will send out one of your flyers” (Mortimer 2015). Mortimer compared this sharing among the death metal community with the “tape trading days” of the past when, in a pre-broadband internet era, extreme metal bands would circulate their music through the trading of cassette tapes (Mortimer 2015; Kahn-Harris 2007). Although these promoters stressed their personal agency when distributing flyers, there was also a clear sense of collectivism with this scenic activity. Bands worked together; even if individuals like Joe acted as central intermediaries for this, as he went on to explain: I would say to people I am going to this big European festival. I am going to Wacken next week, give me stuff to take with me to give out and I would get a band giving me a handful of flyers and CDs. I’m like “come on”, and these days more and more people seem to be doing it and who are speaking to other promoters, going “I have got a flyer for a show, do you want to put your flyer on the back of mine? We will go halves and we will get 1000 made and then they will post it out with loads of merch and then we will go around different cities and post the flyer.” (Mortimer 2015)

Flyers were not the only forms of micro-media utilized by promoters. Joe mentioned the use of stickers, Andy Hughes mentioned using high

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quality posters and Sal Turner mentioned how she had special Whiplash Promotions t-shirts made to promote the company during festivals. Indeed, during 2011 instead of taking flyers to the Bloodstock festival, Sal had 500 Whiplash condoms created. Her rationale for this was that “I didn’t want to send flyers there because they just dropped them on the floor, so I got the Whiplash condom created” (Turner 2016).

Flyers as Paratexts We have seen that the value of flyers lies very much in their micro-media form. They are small enough to be kept in a pocket and handed to someone who can also then carry them with them. One of the first things I would do when entering small venues like Maguires pizza bar was to look for flyers that I could pick up and put in the inside pocket of my leather jacket. They were artefacts that I could collect easily as part of fieldwork activities, but my actions also replicated those of scene members and fans who pick up flyers to remind them of forthcoming gigs or possibly as mementos of those gigs. The ability to easily produce and disseminate them, either in person or, as will be examined below, online, was central to their appeal for promoters and artists. However, there is another aspect of their form worth attending to here. Flyers also constitute paratexts, which can serve to shape the audience’s expectations of the event they are advertising. Gray notes that “paratexts condition our entrance to texts, telling us what to expect” (Gray 2010, 25). In the case of flyers, they condition our entrance to gigs, providing information about the artists and what audiences can expect from the forthcoming event. It is important to recognize that paratexts do not work in isolation. As Gray (2010) asserts by drawing on the work of Barthes, audiences bring their own experiences, literacy and knowledge when they engage with a text. Furthermore, intertextuality is also vital for understanding texts—connections between other texts inform meaning. This is certainly the case with flyers for metal gigs because everything from the images used to the font of the bands’ names becomes integral to the meaning of the flyer. For instance, Fig.  6.1 depicts the flyer for brutal death metal band Neuroma’s final Liverpool gig, which took place on 1 September 2018. The flyer acclimatizes the reader to the potential gig experience in several ways and it requires forms of genre-specific knowledge in order to appreciate its meanings. Firstly, the main image on the flyer appears to be

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Fig. 6.1  Flyer for Neuroma’s final Liverpool gig in 2018. (Image courtesy of Mutilated Poster Designs)

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a wall that is heavily splattered with blood. The image implies that a brutal murder has taken place within a room and this is reinforced by the presence of a section at the bottom of the wall that appears to have been painted over with fresh cream coloured paint. Over the top of this image are the logos for each of the six bands that appeared on the bill. As the headline act, Neuroma’s logo is at the top in the largest font and the other acts feature below in roughly the same order of their positions on the event’s bill. A depiction of a crime scene and connotations of murder cohere with some of the main themes apparent within death metal, which is replete with gory and brutal imagery within both album artwork and lyrical content (Kahn-Harris 2007, 35–36). The overlaying of the band logos over the top of this image are clearly the main signifiers which establish that the flyer is advertising a death metal gig. However, the logos themselves provide strong connotations of the death metal genre in that they provide a “cultural association” with past bands connected with that genre (Vestergaard 2016, 110). For example, the Neuroma logo has features which are common to other established death metal band logos. Like influential Swedish band, Dismember, Neuroma’s logo is predominantly symmetrical in the sense that each side is virtually mirrored on a vertical axis (Vestergaard 2016, 112). Furthermore, the logo is ornamental in that it has “flourishes and decoration” on the letters as well as jagged, thorn-like edges sticking out (Vestergaard 2016, 112). The type of ornamentation evident with Neuroma’s band logo and, moreover, with the logo for fellow Merseyside death metal band Colpocleisis (second row down on the right) cohere with generic conventions in another sense. They are examples of extreme metal logos that are difficult to read. As Mark Riddick, author of Logos from Hell, told Kerrang! magazine’s website, illegible logos “carry meaning and weight” within extreme metal genres (Riddick in Rampton 2018). Therefore, such logos have connotations of extremity, implying that the artists they are denoting have a more extreme aesthetic and sound. As the above example reveals, flyers are productive entities in their own right. They are not merely a neutral means of advertising an event; they are paratexts that can play a crucial role in constructing the meanings of live concerts. This is because they can help to clarify the meaning of an event, positioning it in terms of genre and setting up what Gray calls a “welcoming perimeter” that reinforces the nature of events (2010, 38). Of course, the ability for such paratexts to be seen and engaged with in the

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first place becomes of crucial importance for promoters and artists. By examining the dissemination of events on the social networking site, Facebook, the next section will reveal some of the challenges with accomplishing this.

“It’s Not a Post Unless My Nan Posted It”: Facebook and the Sharing of Events Facebook was a vital source for promoters and artists to disseminate information about their products and events. The social networking site was utilized in various ways to accomplish this. One central resource on Facebook was the creation of an events page for each gig. Promoter Kabir D’Silva summed up the importance of this resource as follows, “social media is the backbone of what I do because, flyering is still very important, but a lot of people will be reached through social media rather than physically seeing a flyer these days, so that’s the nature of how gig promotion works” (D’Silva 2019). Despite Kabir’s distinction between the physical act of, as he puts it, “flyering” (handing people flyers, mailing them or leaving them in certain spaces), and the virtual act of creating a Facebook event page, such pages can be considered as hybrid media forms in the sense that they still incorporate the flyer image. For instance, for the event page set up for the gig by Scandinavian slam death metal act, Kraanium, which took place at Maguire’s pizza bar on 21st May 2015, Joe Mortimer pinned an image of the flyer to the top of the page. Facebook events pages like this one were structured into two sections; in this case these sections were accessible via tabs that appear under the flyer image, the sections headed “About” and “Discussion”. The “About” section provided the basic details of the event, such as how many people were invited, the date the gig was scheduled to take place, the gig venue and some links to the Facebook pages of the bands playing. On the other hand, the “Discussion” section provided opportunities for bands, fans and promoters to post messages relating to the event. This could be as simple as the promoter providing a few words of thanks for those who attended, but could also involve the promoter, bands or fans expressing their anticipation of the gig by posting messages or links to music or videos by the bands scheduled to be involved. For example, in the build up to the Kraanium event on 8 May promoter Joe Mortimer

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posted: “This show is less than two weeks away! Who’s ready?” Comments that directly responded to this post then either indicated an affirmative “Oh yes” but also enabled prospective attendees to ask questions about whether tickets were still available for purchase on the night of the gig as well as in advance. Thus, Facebook event pages that incorporate what Mortimer (2020 personal communication) terms an “e-flyer” are media forms that virtually replicate and extend the traditional roles played by the physical flyer. Like a physical flyer they can prompt discussion and facilitate the passing on of information or the creation of a “buzz” about an event that would have previously taken place via “word of mouth”. In addition, although e-flyers do not get left in physical spaces, they can be copied and pasted into relevant discussion groups and community pages. As Mortimer (2020 personal communication) put it: “E-flyers are incredibly easy to share far and wide, reaching new eyes and potential customers beyond the scope available to that of a physical flyer.” Such examples reveal the way in which promoters like Mortimer acted as digital intermediaries. It was apparent that the process of creating a flyer (which was usually entrusted to a digital design company like Mutilated Poster Designs) and then distributing it online required the development of forms of digital cultural capital (Arriagada and Concha 2020). Mortimer was making connections with relevant design companies but his digital expertise and experience of using Facebook events pages were utilized in order to enhance the impact that e-flyers made. Processes of digital intermediation were also key to how various scene members shared events through the support of a range of people and Facebook groups. In addition to the creation of event pages for their individual concerts, band members and promoters stressed the importance of using Facebook’s facility of “sharing” posts about their activities. For instance, Chris Furlong, the vocalist for death metal band Exhumation, explained this process of sharing in the following way: It’s like, we share it, obviously, each individual band member on our own profiles [shares]. Our many friends we’ve got will then see it but then there’s all the groups that have been set up. You’ve got a Slam Worldwide [slam death metal international group] that’s been set up, so we’ll send it to […] them, so then they’ll share it for us, and then somebody else will share it for us, and then if you played with a bigger band, you’d tag them in it, and then all their fans will see it. […] Because we’ve got a load of people sharing and

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sharing. And then, my family members, my nan, it’s not a post unless my nan posted it. It’s not. And the band’s family members as well, they will share stuff on. So, one big network. (Furlong 2017)

One main reason why it has become incumbent upon individuals to share posts on bands and promoters’ behalf is because of changes that Facebook made in late 2013. Their approach to the news feed facility changed and they stated that pages would see changes in distribution and a “decline in organic reach” (cited in Unitt 2014, para 3). These changes had an impact on the activities of promoters who were creating specific events pages. As Kabir D’Silva explained: It becomes more difficult to use Facebook over the last few years for promotion, because initially you could make an event page or post it on your page and a lot of people who liked the page would see that. But then they changed the mechanics of Facebook where only a small percentage of people who like your page or follow your page will get to see that and you have to pay to get people to see that, [whereas] you could do everything for free at one point. Now, if you want to reach extra people you have to put money into it. It became more difficult in that sense, more difficult than it was when I was first using Facebook to promote and push things. (D’Silva 2019)

Although promoters like Andy Hughes indicated that they regularly paid for their events posts on Facebook to be advertised, the reach of those events was still seen as limited in comparison to the period prior to 2013. Hughes explained that to reach an estimated 20,000 people he would need to spend £40 a week on Facebook promotion of his events. Given that events need to be promoted for several weeks in advance of them taking place, then this can constitute a significant amount of expenditure for a small promotions company. Another challenge with sharing Facebook posts or e-flyers was highlighted by Joe Mortimer when he discussed the difference between the distribution of physical and e-flyers: The issue is catching attention of the viewer. A member of a Facebook group may scroll past a flyer and not even register its content, whereas passing a flyer to someone in a queue at a show will have an increased chance of content registering. Even if it doesn’t, the opportunity to discuss, question or enquire instantly still exists. It’s easier and quicker to get more information

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in person without needing to be interested, while an e-flyer requires attention to get more information. (Mortimer 2020 personal communication)

Mortimer’s point is a salient one. While an e-flyer may have more reach, it exists within a richly mediated environment in which there are a multitude of other messages vying for our attention. As Kümpel illustrates in her study of news exposure and news engagement on Facebook, news content (whether that is about events or otherwise) is only part of a user’s rapidly evolving news feed, which is an “information environment in which news mixes with relationship status updates, music videos, or friends holiday pictures” to name just a few (2019, 168). Thus, although promoters, artists and fans can invite friends to events on Facebook and construct posts that update friends about such events, they cannot guarantee that they will garner attention within the seemingly constant flow of other users’ news feeds. Furthermore, as Kümpel goes on to note, “actual content flow is not under the users’ control and prone to be shaped by both algorithmic curation and social curation (i.e. curation processes performed by the (human) social network to which a user is connected)” (2019, 168, emphasis in original).

Doing It Ourselves? Social Media Use, Entrepreneurship and Co-creative Labour How should we conceptualize the types of work involved with this committed use of social media? Examining the online labour involved with the production of music by solo artist, Imogen Heap, Morris reveals how this is: “increasingly dependent on the complementary efforts of traditional media professionals and the eventual consumers of the content in question” (Morris 2014, 281). Drawing on the concept of co-creative labour, Morris argues that a consideration of these efforts makes established notions like “work” and “labour” slightly problematic. He writes how such terms do not adequately convey, “the complex meanings behind why people contribute, participate, and expend time and effort in projects that are not entirely rewarding in the classical economic sense (i.e. profit, compensation, etc.)” (Morris 2014, 281). To return to the social media sharing highlighted by individuals like Chris Furlong, it is clear that there were family members but also members of a global slam metal community expending time to share his band’s projects. The meanings behind this

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activity are variable—family and friends may take pleasure in helping Chris and his band, while other scene members may act on the understanding that they may receive similar help in return. Such sharing can be understood as part of gift exchange relationships taking place between artists and others. Baym (2018) argues that these “gift exchanges bind people together socially and even intimately by creating the feeling that having received, you must now give” (Baym 2018, 130). These sorts of exchanges, then, return us to some of the issues relating to emotional labour and the sense of obligation that it can engender, which were discussed in the previous chapter. The feeling rules fostered by these social media exchanges have some parallels with those we saw emerge during relationships between promoters and gig audiences. On social media, if fans or even friends or family share news or events concerning artists there may be a sense that the person involved is owed or due emotional respect (Hochschild 2003, 76). Baym makes clear that social media exchanges need to be handled in a delicate manner by the artist(s) and this may require a careful approach to what she terms “relational labor” (2018, 131). This is activity that involves “the ongoing, interactive, affective, material, and cognitive work of communicating with people over time to create structures that can support continued work” (Baym 2018, 19). Writers like Baym (2018), Netherton (2017) and Tessler and Flynn (2016) assert that this type of labour has become integral to the lives of artists. For all but the most elite of artists signed to major labels (who can choose to delegate such activity to various intermediaries), entrepreneurial activity has become a way of life for musicians. As Tessler and Flynn argue “musicians are no longer ‘only’ musicians but are necessarily required to be musician-entrepreneurs” (Tessler and Flynn 2016, 69). In order to understand how the production of metal music in Merseyside (and indeed beyond) may involve different types of co-creative and relational labour, this section focuses on the social media activities of Liverpool-­ based extreme metal act, Video Nasties. Extreme metal artists are interesting to consider in this regard because they are often at the intersection between two kinds of professional practice. On one hand, they are still invested in many of the “practices, expectations and conventions” that characterized the twentieth-century mainstream music industries such as entering into recording contracts and album tours (Netherton 2017, 371). At the same time, however, the “proto-markets” for extreme metal acts also employ a number of DIY production practices which “rely upon

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the artist engaging in much of the productive and promotional work” independently of record companies and other institutions (Netherton 2017, 371). As will be seen below, Video Nasties are an act that exists at this intersection and this means that they rely upon developing entrepreneurial skills and make use of co-creative labour. Furthermore, building on some of Morris’ (2014) concepts, this section of the chapter will examine how Video Nasties have used social media to construct an identity for themselves as artists. It will also consider the extent to which this has involved co-creation and processes that went beyond established notions of DIY. When they initially formed Video Nasties (see Fig. 6.2 below for a promotional image of the band) were considered as a kind of Merseyside metal music “super-group”. Formed in 2017 by members of the Bendal Interlude, Iron Witch, SSS and Magpyes, the band spent several years writing material for their debut album. Some of this material was showcased during early live performances in support of acts such as Cannabis Corpse, Horrified, Mammoth Weed Wizard Bastard and the Obsessed. Therefore, early in the band’s life span, they adopted conventional approaches to building a following. Their reputation as a new band consisting of members of who had become known on the local metal scene because of their affiliation with other bands enabled them to secure some early momentum on the live scene. For instance, a gig at Sound in Liverpool city centre in January 2018 in support of Horrified was notable for the large contingent of local scene members who specifically came to see Video Nasties play. Prior to that gig, the band released a debut single, Transvoltum, and they premiered the video in an online article for (now defunct) extreme metal magazine Terrorizer on 31 October 2017. The band eventually signed to a record label, APF Records, and their debut album, Dominion, was released in March 2020. However, in addition to releasing music and touring, curating an identity on social media has been central to the band’s activities. The notion of curation is used here to acknowledge, in line with Hogan (2010) and Davis (2017) that, although impression management still exists on social media, it is distinct from social performances in face-to-face situations (Goffman 1959). As will be revealed below, artists like Video Nasties make “curatorial decisions” when using social media platforms (Davis 2017, 772). In other words, they attempt to shape how audiences understand and engage with them by carefully selecting certain types of content, while excluding others. Although this productive curation is limited by the

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Fig. 6.2  Video Nasties promotional photo. (Photo credit: Lu Lowe)

affordances of specific platforms and is subject to algorithmic curation, as well as the consumption decisions of potentially unknown audiences, the analysis that follows reveals a range of attempts to define and consolidate a band identity (Hogan 2010; Davis 2017; Kümpel 2019). That analysis will focus upon the band’s use of Twitter, a popular microblogging site

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which “affords dynamic, interactive identity presentation to unknown audiences” in ways that are potentially more public facing than those afforded by a static Facebook page (Marwick and boyd 2011, 116). Video Nasties have had a Twitter profile since 14 August 2017. At the time of writing, they have 362 followers. During the period between 14 August 2017 and 25 July 2020, the band tweeted 1288 times. Although this figure includes re-tweets (the practice of re-posting tweets from other accounts), it indicates that the band have been highly active on the platform, averaging approximately 1.2 tweets per day. They have utilized the platform to accomplish a range of things. Primarily, Twitter posts have been used to raise awareness of the band’s products (recordings or merchandise) or live gigs. For instance, the following tweet was posted on 30 April 2018 prior to their gig as support act for doom metal band, The Obsessed: “Tomorrow we hit the stage supporting The Obsessed at @ RebellionMCR. Don’t miss out”. Also, posts have presented Video Nasties as an active band through tweets about the recording process for example, 8 September through to 10 September 2017 featured tweets about the basic process such as: “Recording drums today for our first single. #videonasties @Elevator Studios”. Other tweets also described the sound during the recording process such as: Mixing the sounds of Stockholm with the sounds of NOLA. #videonasties randallrg100es … Instagram.com/p/BY24LDoDTLQ/.

When this was taking place, it was clear that the curation was happening across social media, with Instagram images of the recording sessions able to be linked to via Twitter. While such posts also worked to establish the band’s style and sound via specific generic references (“Mixing the sounds of Stockholm with the sounds of NOLA” for instance refers to Swedish melodic death metal and US stoner doom metal act Down), other tweets accomplished this through references to bands they wanted followers to know they are interested in. For instance, on 26 September 2017 Video Nasties re-tweeted fellow Merseyside band Corrupt Moral Altar’s announcement of their impending tour with Venom Prison. As well as helping to raise awareness of another Merseyside-based metal band’s activities, this post served to reinforce Video Nasties’ association with other extreme metal acts (in this case the death metal band Venom

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Prison and grindcore act Corrupt Moral Altar). Moreover, such posts help to construct the band’s “audience invoked”; that is they constitute attempts to write the audience into being by giving them “textual cues” regarding the types of material they should be interested in (Marwick and boyd 2011, 128, emphasis in original). It is when we see photographs of the cover for their first single, such as the one depicted below in Fig. 6.3, where we first get a clear sense of the curation of the Video Nasties’ band image as one involving co-creation: When the band tweeted about this artwork on 30 September 2017, they said “cheers to Lu Lowe for the image”. In this instance, therefore, the band were relying upon an independent photographer to supply them

Fig. 6.3  Video Nasties artwork for debut single “Transvoltum”. (Photo credit: Lu Lowe, artwork by Rick Owen)

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with an image for the cover of their first single. Such examples emphasize the artists’ gratitude by explicitly naming an individual involved in the production process of a musical artefact. However, below we will see less obvious examples that can to some degree still be considered co-creation. The Video Nasties Twitter account is also used to re-tweet posts from various journalistic publications. This includes sharing reviews, feature articles, mentions or playlists that directly mentioned the band from established niche metal magazines such as Terrorizer, Distorted, Kerrang! and Metal Hammer. It also included sharing content mentioning the band by websites devoted to metal music including highly popular and long-­ established sites such as Metal Sucks, as well as newer fan created websites such as The Razor’s Edge. Alongside support from metal magazines, Merseyside specific publications have assisted the co-creation and curation of Video Nasties’ band image. For instance, the band featured regularly on Getintothis, a Merseyside-based music webzine that I wrote for until its closure in June 2020. One of the feature pieces that I published for the webzine was re-­ tweeted by the band as follows: “We spoke to the guys over at @ GetintothisHQ about our upcoming plans and our favourite John Carpenter films. What’s everyone else’s favourite Halloween films?” (31 October 2018). Getintothis was read by approximately 200,000 people each month and had social media followers of 49,000 across Twitter, Facebook and Instagram (personal communication 2019). Thus, this writing had the potential to raise awareness of the activities of those involved with metal music in Merseyside to a wider audience. My work for this webzine was motivated by my ongoing ethnographic research and so the coverage of Video Nasties formed part of that agenda. However, regardless of my personal motivation for this writing, it could be suggested that this journalistic writing could be understood as co-creative labour in the sense that my reviews or interviews with Video Nasties helped to sustain and curate the band’s image and maintain the “buzz” in relation to the band. For instance, when I reviewed the band’s debut album, Dominion, in the February 2020 edition of my Getintothis metal column, I was already acutely aware of the image that they had been nurturing on social media. Indeed, within press releases prior to the launch of this album the PR company, For the Lost, which handles Video Nasties and a range of other metal acts, had chosen to select a quote from one of my previous articles

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about the band. The quote they had selected was: “Purveyors of John Carpenter inspired death metal.” Consequently, I was also highly aware of the (albeit small) role I had already played in assisting with the construction of the band’s identity. John Carpenter is an influential cult film director who has made several seminal horror films since the 1970s. Video Nasties explicitly referenced Carpenter’s 1987 film Prince of Darkness in their debut single Transvoltum. Therefore, it is clear that the selection of my quote in the press release was designed to reinforce themes that the band was already emphasizing within their aesthetic. In my review I found myself writing in a style that continued to construct Video Nasties as connected to themes of horror, for example I wrote that: “This is a thrill-ride of a debut album; the sonic equivalent of a runaway ghost train controlled by maniacs” (Hassan 2020). When the band re-tweeted the review, it was indeed this quote that they choose to highlight and underneath the quote they wrote that: “The first album review is in courtesy of @ned_hassan at @GetintothisHQ and it’s a stonker. Thanks for the kind words, mate”. While my positive review and my willingness to write words that cohered with their aesthetic were motivated by my personal tastes in music (and horror films), reflecting upon this process several months later prompted a realization of the potential role that journalists play. Writing in a way that complements a band’s aesthetic felt somewhat like an act of faith. It was written testimony to their style and music, as well as to my tastes. When other positive reviews of the album started to emerge from a range of publications, including major print publications like Kerrang! and Metal Hammer, this felt like an affirmation of that faith and my tastes. Moreover, in one sense, it felt like my writing had been part of the creative process. Obviously, I had nothing to do with the performance or recording of the music or the devising of the band’s aesthetic, style and so on. Yet, by choosing to invest time in writing about the Video Nasties’ music—not just for an album review but for previous gig reviews and news items—I became aware of how I too had a role in assisting with the construction of the band’s audience invoked (Marwick and boyd 2011, 128). I had felt part of the co-curation of the band’s identity but, in turn, felt connected with the construction of the imagined audience that the Video Nasties were also “writing into being” through their Twitter activities (Marwick and boyd 2011, 128). In addition to the sharing of content from specific print publications or websites, using Twitter also enables the band to share mentions of their music by fans, including mentions by fellow artists. For example, on 26

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April 2020 the band re-tweeted a post from Matt Heafy, the vocalist of internationally established metal band, Trivium. This post appeared to be designed to partly promote awareness of Trivium’s new album, but also to raise awareness of new music from other metal artists. Heafy wrote that: “Our new record is out now, but so are a ton of other astonishing albums. Get all these saved and spinning in your streaming service of choice. Let us all rise up together!” Underneath Heafy’s words were a series of images of album covers, including the cover for Video Nasties’ debut album, Dominion. Such posts by fellow musicians exemplify the way that metal artists often rely upon the gift exchange relationships referred to earlier. Although Matt Heafy and Trivium may not expect other artists to directly reciprocate by promoting or mentioning their new music, this type of post indirectly acknowledges the reliance that such artists have on others “spreading the word” if they are to “rise up together” and enjoy the benefits that may arise from more people hearing their music. However, in addition to the sharing of mentions by high profile artists, Video Nasties ensure that they regularly re-tweet content from fans who are engaging with their music. Whether this is posting comments from fans who are listening to their album, or re-tweeting photos of fans wearing merchandise, the band’s Twitter feed regularly features this type of content. While such posts do not straightforwardly constitute the kind of co-creation that Morris (2014) describes when considering how fans become involved with production, they affirm the way that fans can play a central role in maintaining an awareness of a band and its products. Given how frequently Video Nasties re-tweeted such content, this role appeared to be something that was highly valued by the band. In addition to raising awareness of their music, Video Nasties use Twitter as a way of directly showing their appreciation for their fans. For instance, after their gig on 13 January 2018 at Sound, a tweet was posted the following day that said: “Last night was amazing. Nice swan to everyone that made it down”. Other tweets thanking the fans also served to underpin the Video Nasties’ status as a band whose popularity was growing. For instance, a tweet from 19 May 2020 thanked people for listening to their debut album Dominion on the streaming service Spotify, indicating that the album had “surpassed 50,000 streams” on the platform. By including direct links to their music on Spotify, such posts also have the dual purpose of potentially garnering new listeners. In addition, to give fans insights into their tastes and to further foster a sense of subcultural capital for the band and their audiences (Thornton 1995), the band

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tweeted about their use of Spotify to create playlists. Sharing a link to a playlist they had created on 30 November 2018 they wrote that: “we thought we would give you an insight into what makes us tick musically”. Although they were relatively rare, there were some direct invitations by the band for fans to participate in discussion. For instance, fan participation was invited in relation to the band’s merchandise on 2 August 2018 when they tweeted that: “We’re currently brainstorming new merch ideas. What do you want to see us do next? Let us know” (2 August 2018). While more recently on 25 March 2020 they wrote that: “We’re running a Q&A on our @instagram story. Let’s make it interesting” (25 March 2020). Twitter was also used to directly communicate with followers in other ways. This could be in relation to the celebration of specific occasions— Christmas or New Year messages for instance. Some of these messages are also used to thank the fans, as with the following message from December 2018: “2018 is almost over. Nice swan to everyone that’s put us on/ caught us live/bought our merch/shared our music this year. We’ll see you in 2019” (19 December 2018). Although they were less frequent, other posts of this nature celebrated occasions in a more personalized way and did not address audiences directly. For example, on 29 March 2020 the band tweeted about a party on the video conferencing platform, Zoom, which enabled the members to celebrate the birthday of guitarist Stu Taylor. This simply read: “Decided to have a @zoom_us party last night for Stu’s birthday! Happy birthday, Stu. Hope the head is okay today” (29 March 2020). Staying on the theme of what may be deemed slightly more personalized tweets, there were occasional posts that demonstrated support for certain causes. For instance, with the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic preventing live music events from occurring at this time, on 2 July 2020 Video Nasties tweeted about UK Music’s Let the Music Play campaign, which sought financial support and other measures from the UK Government for all the businesses and artists affected. Furthermore, the band consistently raised awareness of Bandcamp’s support for artists affected by COVID-19 through its “Bandcamp Friday” concept. This involved the platform (which is primarily designed to enable artists to stream and sell their music) waiving their revenue share during every first Friday of the month during 2020 and Video Nasties provided a series of posts to make their fans aware of this. Additionally, Video Nasties demonstrated their support for the Black Lives Matter movement by running an

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online raffle for their music and merchandise via Twitter and Facebook. The proceeds from raffle tickets were donated to the George Floyd Memorial Fund and the Reclaim the Block fund, which were both set up in the aftermath of the demonstrations that swept across the US and the rest of the world in protest at police brutality of the type that saw the murder of George Floyd in Minnesota, Minneapolis during 2020. We have seen, then, that social media platforms like Twitter are a central means through which a band like Video Nasties mediate their activities and curate an overall set of meanings in relation to them as artists. The above examples illustrate how the band balances tweets that constitute self-promotion with those that are primarily designed to share the music of others, show appreciation for their fans, raise awareness of causes or occasionally convey personal circumstances. Furthermore, we have seen that mediation is not a unilateral process; rather it is one that involves co-­ creative labour. Although this co-creation is largely engendered by the band who have utilized Twitter to create an environment in which people can contribute to the construction of their brand, we have seen also that intermediaries like webzines and music magazines have still maintained a crucial role in this construction. Publications like Kerrang! and Getintothis were effectively gatekeepers in that they provided the band with exposure to larger audiences beyond those who follow the band on Twitter, Facebook or Instagram.

Cultures of Collaboration and the Co-curation of Impression Management Overall, the type of cultural entrepreneurship exemplified by the work undertaken to promote the Video Nasties’ projects can be considered as indicative of a new type of do-it-yourself (DIY) culture. In fact, Morris (2014) argues that the term DIY here is insufficient. This is because it suggests that we are considering work that derives from a lone artist or band. Rather, Morris (2014) posits the notion of “do-it-ourselves” (DIO) as a term that more accurately captures this culture. This is because, “DIO strategies extend the network of supporters beyond the support of a small group of friends or fans to a much wider network of possible contributors” (Morris 2014, 284). We saw above that, although Video Nasties were the primary driving force and owners of their creativity in that they made the music and that they worked with crucial gatekeepers such as a record label

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and PR company, they still partly relied on the co-creative labour of others. This included fans, journalists and other artists who were sharing their music but also in some cases effectively working to co-construct their band identity. Furthermore, the uses of social media by a band like Video Nasties are also symptomatic of broader changes to the nature of music making and music industry. They illustrate the ways in which “aspiring recording artists are increasingly encountering a greater number of market-oriented, non-music tasks” in order to access audiences and accumulate revenue (Netherton 2017, 373). Moreover, perhaps, they are indicative of the way that this turn towards entrepreneurial practices is, as Netherton argues, “introducing a new narrative whereby the achievement and maintenance of success (or alternatively, the ‘blame’ of failure) are increasingly dependent upon the entrepreneurial capacities of recording artists” (Netherton 2017, 374; Tessler and Flynn 2016).

Conclusion The notion that musicians are not sole workers and that they rely extensively on the sorts of networks considered in this chapter is nothing new. Scholars have long recognized that the creation of music involves a “web of interconnected people” and that we cannot examine the artist in isolation of such connections (Baym 2018, 73). However, as Baym suggests, what has changed, is that distinct roles within the production process have “broken down” or at least become blurred (Baym 2018, 73). Artists can take on roles that may have been traditionally confined to PR companies or record labels, but, as we have seen, other intermediaries can become involved with production processes, albeit often indirectly. Furthermore, within this DIO culture we have seen that it becomes incumbent on the musicians and promoters to forge the links and drive this process. At least in part, we have seen that this can be accomplished by fostering social media environments and establishing routines within which they can afford “multiple mediations” of their music, events and brand identity (Born 2005, 13). Yet, this is still a process that is unpredictable and vulnerable. Algorithmic curation and the consumption decisions of unknown audiences can mediate communication in ways that may arrest or at least minimize artists’ and promoters’ attempts to productively curate their identities (Hogan 2010; Davis 2017; Kümpel 2019). However, there is another factor discussed

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above that contributes to this vulnerability and unpredictability. That is, the very reliance upon co-creation and what may be more accurately termed co-curation that characterizes impression management on social media platforms. Although writers like Hogan (2010) have urged caution when straightforwardly applying Goffman’s (1959) influential theories on impression management to the types of curation we see on social media, the above examination of the mediation of metal music illustrates the importance of not wholly abandoning them. From the outset of his book Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, Goffman emphasizes that impression management is inherently social in the sense that it is not merely the responsibility of the performer (the person communicating) but also the participants (audiences) for helping to define social situations (1959, 24–25). While interactions on social media do not constitute social situations in the same way as face-to-face interactions, as we have seen, they often “exert a moral demand” upon others (Goffman 1959, 24). Whether this is a band like Exhumation asking family members or relatives to share their posts on Facebook or whether this is a band like Video Nasties tweeting links on Twitter about their music or forthcoming events, these are acts that are made in good faith. There is an underlying expectation that their attempts to garner shares, likes, re-tweets and so on will be reciprocated. Yet, there is no guarantee that this will be the case. This moral and emotional dimension to communication that may take place across contemporary media is acknowledged in Madianou and Miller’s (2012) influential theory of polymedia. Rather than emphasizing the constraints imposed by singular social media such as Facebook, the concept of polymedia is an attempt to stress the “social and emotional consequences of choosing between […] different media” (Madianou and Miller 2012, 170). To an extent, this chapter has affirmed the value of their theory when it considered the different social implications of sharing flyers in a face-to-face manner as opposed to sharing e-flyers on Facebook. We saw that the risks of using e-flyers were that they could be easily lost within Facebook news feeds or browsed past. Physical flyers, on the other hand, could facilitate more sustained social interaction but they are finite resources that can be easily lost or damaged. However, there is clear potential for such an approach to be extended to consider the choices that musicians, promoters or fans make across media. While Rick Owen, the bassist for the Video Nasties and individual responsible for a good deal of their online communications, indicated that

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they “try to get the same information out on all three platforms [Facebook, Twitter and Instagram]”, this study was unable to fully consider the implications of this (Owen 2021 personal communication). Future research on the work of digital intermediaries may wish to examine the consequences of communication within an evolving polymedia “environment of communicative opportunities” (Madianou and Miller 2012, 170). At the same time, such work will need to recognize that this environment is not one within which communicative choices are made on a solitary basis but rather within a complex web of co-creativity and communal practice.

References Arriagada, Arturo, and Paz Concha. 2020. Cultural Intermediaries in the Making of Branded Music Events: Digital Cultural Capital in Tension. Journal of Cultural Economy 13 (1): 42–53. Bayer, Gerd. 2019. Introduction: Metal Studies, Visual Culture and Popular Consumption. In Heavy Metal at the Movies, ed. Gerd Bayer, 1–16. New York: Routledge. Baym, Nancy K. 2018. Playing to the Crowd: Musicians, Audiences, and the Intimate Work of Connection. New York: New York University Press. Bennett, Andy, and Richard A.  Peterson. 2004. Introducing Music Scenes. In Music Scenes: local, translocal and virtual, eds. Andy Bennett and Richard A. Peterson, 1–16. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. Born, Georgina. 2005. On Musical Mediation: Ontology, Technology and Creativity. Twentieth Century Music 2 (1): 7–36. Brennan, Matt. 2006. The Rough Guide to Critics: Musicians Discuss the Role of the Music Press. Popular Music 25 (2): 221–234. Brown, Andy R. 2003. Heavy Metal and Subcultural Theory: A Paradigmatic Case of Neglect? In The Post-Subcultures Reader, ed. David Muggleton and Rupert Weinzierl, 209–222. Berg: Oxford. ———. 2007. Everything Louder Than Everything Else. Journalism Studies 8 (4): 642–655. Brown, Andy R., and Christine Griffin. 2014. ‘A Cockroach Preserved in Amber’: The Significance of Class in Critics’ Representations of Heavy Metal Music and Its Fans. The Sociological Review 62 (4): 719–741. Costello, Leesa, Marie-Louise McDermott, and Ruth Wallace. 2017. Netnography: Range of Practices, Misperceptions, and Missed Opportunities. International Journal of Qualitative Methods 16 (1): 1–12. D’Silva, Kabir. 2019. Unpublished Interview with Kabir D’Silva. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 14 January 2019.

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Davis, Jenny L. 2017. Curation: A Theoretical Treatment. Information, Communication & Society 20 (5): 770–783. Davis, Jon and Chris Fielding. 2017. Unpublished Interview with Jon Davis and Chris Fielding. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 8 September 2017. DeNora, Tia. 2000. Music in Everyday Life. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2015. Music Asylums: Wellbeing Through Music in Everyday Life. Farnham: Ashgate. Furlong, Chris. 2017. Unpublished Interview with Chris Furlong. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 15 December 2017. Goffman, Erving. 1959. The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. Harmondworth, Middlesex: Pelican Books. Gray, Jonathan. 2010. Show Sold Separately: Promos, Spoilers, and Other Media Paratexts. New York: New York University Press. Hassan, Nedim. 2020. Dysgeusia 59: Loathe, Video Nasties and the New Wave of Merseyside Metal. Getintothis. Accessed 10 December 2020. https://www. getintothis.co.uk/2020/02/dysgeusia-­59-­loathe-­video-­nasties-­and-­the-­new-­wave-­ of-­merseyside-­metal/. Hennion, Antoine. 2012. Music and Mediation: Towards a New Sociology of Music. In The Cultural Study of Music: A Critical Introduction, ed. Martin Clayton, Richard Middleton, and Trevor Herbert, 249–260. New  York: Routledge. Hochschild, Arlie Russell. 2003. The Managed Heart: Commercialization of Human Feeling. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Hogan, Bernie. 2010. The Presentation of Self in the Age of Social Media: Distinguishing Performances and Exhibitions Online. Bulletin of Science, Technology & Society 30 (6): 377–386. Hughes, Andy. 2017. Unpublished Interview with Andy Hughes. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 14 February 2017. Hutchinson, Jonathon. 2021. Micro-platformization for Digital Activism on Social Media. Information, Communication & Society 24 (1): 35–51. Jones, Simon. 2018. Kerrang! Magazine and the Representation of Heavy Metal Masculinities (1981–95). Metal Music Studies 4 (3): 459–480. Kahn-Harris, Keith. 2007. Extreme Metal: Music and Culture on the Edge. Oxford: Berg. Kümpel, Anna Sophie. 2019. The Issue Takes It All? Incidental News Exposure and News Engagement on Facebook. Digital Journalism 7 (2): 165–186. Madianou, Mirca, and Daniel Miller. 2012. Polymedia: Towards a New Theory of Digital Media in Interpersonal Communication. International Journal of Cultural Studies 16 (2): 169–187.

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Marwick, Alice E., and danah boyd. 2011. I Tweet Honestly, I Tweet Passionately: Twitter Users, Context Collapse, and the Imagined Audience. New Media & Society 13 (1): 114–133. Morris, Jeremy Wade. 2014. Artists as Entrepreneurs, Fans as Workers. Popular Music and Society 37 (3): 273–290. Mortimer, Joe. 2015. Unpublished Interview with Joe Mortimer. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 17 July 2015. Negus, Keith. 1996. Popular Music in Theory. Cambridge: Polity. Netherton, Jason. 2017. The Entrepreneurial Imperative: Recording Artists in Extreme Metal Music Proto-markets. Metal Music Studies 3 (3): 369–386. Rampton, Mike. 2018. Inside The World Of Extreme Metal Logos. Kerrang! Accessed November 14 2020.  https://www.kerrang.com/features/ inside-the-world-of-extreme-metal-logos/ Roach, Catherine M. 2014. ‘Going Native’: Aca-Fandom and Deep Participant Observation in Popular Romance Studies. Mosaic: A Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature 47 (2): 33–49. Shuker, Roy. 1994. Understanding Popular Music. London: Routledge. Straw, Will. 1990. Characterizing Rock Music Culture: The Case of Heavy Metal. In On Record: Rock, Pop, and the Written Word, ed. Simon Frith and Andrew Goodwin, 97–110. London: Routledge. Tessler, Holly and Matt Flynn. 2016. From DIY to D2F: Contextualizing Entrepreneurship for the Artist/Musician. In: Music Entrepreneurship, eds. Allan Dumbreck and Gayle McPherson, 47-74. London: Bloomsbury. Thornton, Sarah. 1995. Club Cultures: Music, Media and Subcultural Capital. Cambridge: Polity Press. Turner, Sal. 2016. Unpublished Interview with Sal Turner. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 13 July 2016. Unitt, Chris. 2014. Arts Companies Must Adapt to Changes at Facebook, Report Reveals. The Guardian. Accessed November 14 2020. https://www.theguardian.com/culture-­professionals-­network/culture-­professionals-­blog/2014/ jul/18/arts-­companies-­changes-­facebook-­posts. Vestergaard, Vitus. 2016. Blackletter Logotypes and Metal Music. Metal Music Studies 2 (1): 109–124. Walser, Robert. 1993. Running with the Devil: Power, Gender, and Madness in Heavy Metal Music. Hanover, NH: Wesleyan University Press. Weinstein, Deena. 2000. Heavy Metal: The Music and Its Culture. Boston, MA: DaCapo. Wikström, Patrik. 2009. The Music Industry: Music in the Cloud. Cambridge: Polity Press. Williams, Raymond. 1983. Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society. London: Fontana Press.

CHAPTER 7

Conclusion: Standing in the Shadows of Beat City

Amidst the turmoil and uncertainty that arrived in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, an image circulating on Twitter and Facebook in November 2020 became emblematic of the existential threat to Liverpool’s live music scene. It featured the interior of the Zanzibar club on Seel Street, which had announced its closure earlier in the year. In place of the seating area, bar, lighting and renowned sound system, there were now bare walls, concrete flooring and exposed metal roof beams. The stage where many fledgling rock and metal acts had braved their first gigs as part of showcase events was now a solitary raised grey and black rectangle. In the foreground of the photograph was rubble, discarded metal piping and wooden boards. Reacting to the image, Daniel Moran, lead vocalist and guitarist for Merseyside thrash metal band Reaper, posted the following in his Facebook news feed: I grew up in my mid teens playing in this place. This was Reaper UK’s frequent, every long standing iteration of this group has played here for a major event of ours. It is where I met […] so many friends I would later share projects with. […] To see it like this is so harrowing. This was the building block for so many local acts and, like it or not, the place was crucial to the Liverpool music scene […] I truly hope, when this calms down and shows return, that we can come back to something, someone, or somewhere © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 N. Hassan, Metal on Merseyside, Palgrave Studies in the History of Subcultures and Popular Music, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-77681-7_7

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that can fill the massive shoes this place left. Cause if not, to run the risk of sounding a bit dismal, the move to surrounding areas for shows isn’t going to be a heavy preference. It’s going to be essential.

Moran’s message highlighted several key themes that have been explored in this book. Most obviously, the importance of key venues willing to accommodate emerging bands is affirmed in such a statement. Yet, once again venues were also revealed as far more than buildings that house live music. For Moran, the Zanzibar was a place where he met close friends and future band mates. It was an incubator for the sustenance and development of metal music scenes within the city (and beyond). The prospect of losing the venue, therefore, was raised alongside the spectre of losing a local live music scene for metal altogether. While the reference to seeking out venues in surrounding areas was indicative of the translocal dimensions of metal scenes, the preservation of local sites remained a strong principle. In addition, the implication of Moran’s message cohered with another of this book’s main arguments. Namely that the live music circuit for hard rock and metal in Merseyside was perceived to be in a fragile state long before COVID-19. The shifting environment for live rock and metal especially since the dawn of the new millennium, when coupled with the loss of other gathering spaces and wider changes discussed in Chap. 3, fostered the impression that metal scenes are a somewhat endangered species. However, if the threat of scenic extinction or erosion looms large in the minds of some scene members, then this was outweighed by the various kinds of labour documented throughout this book. Despite the risks, numerous people continue to work to build and sustain metal music scenes within Merseyside. For instance, at the time of writing Andy Hughes, whose promotion work has been examined within this book, had recently announced a new venture. Speaking to Mark Cooper on the Spoken Metal Show podcast, Hughes outlined his plans to open a new venue in Liverpool, which has the provisional title of “The Way of the Axe”. In the light of the precarious position of live metal music in the city that had been exacerbated by COVID-19, he stated that a new independent venue was no longer simply something “nice to have” but had become “essential” (Hughes to Cooper 2021). Consequently, Hughes was willing to invest a significant amount of his own money and was also seeking support from crowdfunding as well as exploring other funding streams.

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Although this book has exposed the ways in which there are varied understandings of Merseyside’s metal and hard rock scenes, the notion of the scene as an ideal continues to have resonance. The metaphors used in association with the concept by key scene members continue to emphasize growth. Thus, when reflecting on the importance of the annual “Bloodstock Metal 2 the Masses Merseyside” battle-of-the-bands style competition that he runs, Andy Hughes described it as a “catalyst for the scene” in that it inspired bands to form and this, in turn, was a “sign of a good scene” (Hughes 2018). Musician and manager Tom Ghannad also drew on metaphors of growth in a different context to identify what the Liverpool metal scene should be. Comparing the dance music scene with metal, Ghannad stated that: I guess if you look at Cream, how long Cream was around for, it was around for a good ten years solidly. There was a dance community, it would cultivate and grow and get bigger and bigger, compared to Liverpool’s metal scene, [in] which you had venues around for three years and then it closes and there’s nowhere to cultivate. And if you can’t cultivate anything, you can’t grow anything, so it ends up as a lot of separate people doing their own thing because you lose contact with each other. (Ghannad 2016)

Scenes, then, were often understood in aspirational terms. They were an ideal goal and driving force for fuelling a range of activities and cultural labour. However, as this book has documented, in Merseyside this ideal has often collided with forces of socio-economic and urban change. As new developments and visions for Liverpool and Merseyside’s culture continue to emerge in coming years, they will be balanced by stark socio-­ economic realities. Even prior to the effects of COVID-19, then city Mayor Joe Anderson indicated that Liverpool was set to endure a £470 million real term loss between 2010 and 2020 (cited in Pennington 2017, para 7). This book has shown that, despite their relatively marginal status within heritage narratives and existing histories, hard rock and metal scenes have endured and remained resilient within Merseyside for over 40 years. Such resilience will undoubtedly be called on in the years to come. Yet it will also need to be met with a concomitant willingness on the part of stakeholders outside of such scenes to appreciate that Liverpool’s music heritage is much richer and more complex than it is frequently portrayed in historical grand narratives. The shadows of Liverpool as the “Beat city”

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of the 1960s still linger and benefit the region, but this narrative should not be at the expense of eclipsing the activities of the many dedicated people continuing to produce artistic work that does not cohere with the myths consistently perpetuated about this “city of music”.

References Cooper, Mark. 2021. The Spoken Metal Show [Podcast] Episode 101. Accessed 10 March 2021. https://soundcloud.com/user-­732549415. Ghannad, Tom. 2016. Unpublished Interview with Tom Ghannad. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 5 October 2016. Hughes, Andy. 2018. Unpublished Interview with Andy Hughes. Interviewed by Nedim Hassan, 9 May 2018. Pennington, Craig G. 2017. Liverpool, Music City? Live Music Exchange Blog. Accessed 10 March 2021. https://livemusicexchange.org/blog/liverpool-­ music-­city-­craig-­g-­pennington/.

Index1

A ‘A’ and ‘B’ markets for live music, 92 “Aca-fan-writer,” 18, 19, 169 Accessibility, 48 Affect, 57, 121, 138, 152, 153, 171 Affordability, 79 Algorithmic curation, 182, 185, 193 Alternative shopping and retail, 47, 64, 87 Architecture, 39 Arenas, 14, 90–93 B Back stage, 68, 70, 80, 146–150 Bandcamp, 191 Belonging, 14, 68, 94, 102, 109n2, 118, 121, 123, 129 Black metal, 40, 62, 83, 84, 89, 112, 114, 123, 127, 128, 147, 152

Brutal death metal, 12, 16, 67, 68, 119, 143, 176 Built environment, 5, 93, 107 C Camaraderie, 14, 127, 149 Co-creative labour, 173, 182–193 Co-curation, 189, 192–194 Cohesion, 102, 109, 121 Collaboration, 15, 127, 152, 192–193 Community, 14, 18, 26, 30, 34, 35, 38, 40, 42, 43, 45, 46, 48–50, 56, 58, 58n1, 75, 85–88, 91, 93, 94, 102, 105, 105n1, 107, 109, 110, 112–115, 121, 122, 125, 127, 129, 144, 150, 161, 162, 169, 171, 175, 180, 182, 201 COVID-19 pandemic, 89–90, 191, 199

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

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INDEX

Creative labour, 14, 138, 160, 162 Culture-led regeneration, 48 Curation, 182, 184, 186–188, 194 Curatorial decisions, 184 D Death metal, 3, 7, 8, 13, 40, 45, 46, 60–64, 69, 82, 89, 101, 102, 111–115, 117, 118, 121, 123–125, 127, 137, 146, 147, 155, 161, 172–176, 179, 180, 186, 189 Death metal band logos, 178 Diachronic and synchronic approaches to the study of history, 26 Digital cultural capital, 168, 180 Digital intermediation, 168, 180 Diminished community, 109 “Do-it-ourselves” (DIO), 192, 193 Do-it-yourself venues, 81 Doom metal, 3, 46, 69, 70, 119, 121, 124, 125, 127, 128, 171, 186 “Do what you love,” 140, 160 E Ecological perspectives on live music, 24, 56–58, 93 E-flyers, 180–182, 194 Elitism, 116, 118, 122 Emotion, 138, 142, 144, 146, 148, 150 Emotional labour, 14, 122, 138, 141, 145, 147, 148, 150, 183 Entrepreneurship, 14, 173, 182–192 Ethnographic research, 17, 19, 109n2, 188 Ethnography, 15, 19, 114 Extreme metal scene, 45, 46, 69, 102, 103, 112–120 divisions, 115–118 elitism, 116, 118, 122

F Facebook, 15, 45, 65, 86, 112, 119, 126, 141, 146–148, 151, 166, 169, 173, 175, 179–182, 186, 188, 192, 194, 195, 199 Facebook news reach, 194, 199 Fandom, 14, 17, 18, 60, 95, 110–112, 121, 129, 137, 138, 140, 141, 143, 156, 158, 160 Feeling rules, 142–145, 151, 183 Flyers, 16, 65, 108, 146, 147, 166, 169, 173–181, 194 Front region, 144, 146 G Generational continuity, 111 Generations, 63, 111, 116, 129 Genre expectations, 117 Gentrification, 4, 14, 83–89, 91 Gift exchange, 183, 190 Goth, 43, 45–47, 87, 88, 104 Grindcore, 3, 8, 46, 48, 71, 118, 122, 123, 155 H Hardcore punk, 45, 47, 71, 125 Hard rock, 2–6, 13, 17, 24, 26, 32, 33, 42, 44, 49, 60, 66, 67, 90, 95, 102, 117, 170, 171, 200, 201 Head banging, 40, 68, 77, 79, 103, 142 Heavy metal music, 3, 13, 32, 44, 58 Historiography, 3, 25, 26 I Ideal community, 109 Identity, 2, 10, 14, 17, 90, 91, 104, 105n1, 117, 119–124, 184–186, 189, 193 Imaginary community, 109, 129

 INDEX 

Insider’s perspective, vii, 15, 154 Instagram, 68, 71, 166, 186, 188, 191, 192, 195 Intermediaries, 195 International metal scenes, 103, 125 Intimacy, 69 L Live music, 5, 15, 24, 30, 43, 48, 50, 55–95, 107, 113, 135, 136, 141, 191, 199, 200 Live music circuit, 25, 57, 200 Live music ecology, 56, 93–95 Live music venues, 4, 11, 18, 25, 39, 64, 71, 75, 81, 83–90, 93, 107 Liverpool, 1, 2, 5–15, 23–25, 27–28, 34–40, 55, 57, 58, 58n1, 60, 79, 102, 103, 106, 107, 112–115, 119–128, 137–139, 143, 144, 166, 171, 173, 174, 176, 177, 183, 184, 199–201 Locality, 5, 10, 11, 94, 101, 103, 104, 109, 115, 129, 137 Loss of live music venues, 90 M Manchester, 7, 8, 14, 90–93, 106, 113–115, 126, 127, 147, 157 Marginalization, 4 Mediation, 165–169, 171, 173, 175, 192, 194 Melodic death metal, 110, 117, 118, 147, 186 Merseyside, vii, 1–20, 23–50, 56–60, 63, 64, 75, 76, 79, 83, 88–91, 93, 101–104, 106, 110, 112, 117, 122, 124, 126, 128, 129, 135–162, 165–195, 199–201 Metal magazines, 169–172, 184, 188 Micro-media, 166, 169, 173, 175, 176 Mods, 28–31, 43, 87

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Momentary interaction, 149 Moshing, 77, 80, 103 Music heritage, 2, 3, 6, 7, 10–12, 201 Music scenes, 2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 19, 24–26, 31, 34, 46–48, 55–95, 105, 107, 108n2, 110, 111, 124, 126, 128, 136, 150, 151, 160, 166, 169, 199–201 Music worlds, 105, 106 N National metal scene, 103 Neo-tribe, 105, 105n1 Netnography, 169 Niche media, 16 P Paratexts, 176–179 Participant observation, 15–18, 136, 168 Places to ‘hang-out,’ 67 Polymedia, 194, 195 Presentation of self, 138 Promotion, 2, 7, 11, 12, 33, 34, 44, 60, 61, 63, 95, 104, 122, 123, 128, 135–138, 140–151, 154, 155, 157–162, 172, 173, 175, 179, 181, 200 financial losses, 14, 137, 154–160 problem-solving, 14, 158 Proximity, 67, 68, 77, 79, 80, 93, 114, 175 Punk, 1, 33, 35, 37, 40, 43, 45, 47, 58n1, 66, 71, 86, 105, 106, 125, 147 R Redevelopment, 4, 11, 13, 74, 75, 84, 86n3, 92 Regeneration, 4, 11, 14, 48, 74, 75, 83–89, 91

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INDEX

Relational affordances, 80 Resilience, 102, 112–115, 201 Rock press, 170 S Scene as ideal, 129, 201 Scene beginnings, 110–112 Scenes as emergent, 107 Shadow labour, 151, 152 Skinheads, 29–31, 43 Sludge doom metal, 119, 125, 171 Social capital, 168 Social media, 15–19, 65, 166–168, 173, 179, 182–194 Solidarity, 40, 101–129 Spatial aspects of scenes, 57 Subcultural capital, 102, 116–118, 190 Subcultural tensions, 28–33, 43 Subculture, 15, 29, 30, 43, 47, 58, 87, 88, 103–110, 170, 173 Sub-genres, 3, 7, 14, 102, 112, 117–119, 123, 124, 149, 167, 170 Sustainability, 24, 56, 58, 93, 94, 155

T Temporality, 108 Thrash metal, 40, 83, 102, 109, 115–117, 123, 139, 199 Translocal scenes, 127, 128 north west, 127 Transmutation of emotional systems, 142, 150 Troggs, 23–50 Twitter, 15, 166, 185, 186, 188–192, 194, 195, 199 U Urban change, 13, 201 Urban deprivation, 12 V Venue closure, 88 W Webzine writing, 16, 18 Well-being, 56 Working consensus, 150