Gig Review: RIP My Favourite Venue

The Freebutt used to be my favourite gig venue in Brighton. Then it shut for refurbishment. Now, what used to be a warm and inviting dive is just a dive.

The old church pew is long gone. I shed my tears for that pew many years ago. Now, gone with it is the circular bar; the bar that I used to sit on for the best view in the house. No more is the cosy charm that once united us all.

I have many happy memories courtesy of the Freebutt. My ears got their first taste of Sodastream and Misty’s Big Adventure there; bands that I discovered and then fell in love with, in a space so tiny that it felt like home.

In 2004, I stood with my foot resting against the stage whilst Doherty, with no Libertines or Babyshambles to call his own, played a shambolic, but alluring, solo set. At the end of the performance, people only had to walk forward to touch him. They did. While it was horrible to see the greed of the super fan, Doherty handled it with good spirit. We are all one. An inch of stage height is all that we need.

Now, with a tall, but ill-shaped cage, sorry stage, the venue looks like a smaller version of The Brighton Barfly. It’s a space that aims for functionality and functionality alone. It fails.

Everything that made the venue special has been wrenched out and discarded. Gone are the days of walking into a room where the audience sits in a warm mass of cross-legged harmony. Now people stand impatiently and move irritably from foot to foot. The new floor threatens to glue its guests down permanently and to hold them there forever. A lager trap has been set.

I am glad that Jacob’s Stories, the support act last night, agreed. He voiced my thoughts between his sweetly crafted songs. The Freebutt was great and now its shit. Finito.

Admittedly, the eight-piece ensemble, Hjaltalin, could never have squeezed - even with extreme anorexia - onto the old stage; but they could have played half on and half off, no problem. Instead, last night, a large imposing pillar served to block two band members from almost everybody’s view. With an audience of just 14, I moved and shut all thoughts of the venue from my mind. I had a band to watch.

The bassoon transfixed me. What a stunning instrument that is. I could have watched it forever had the expression on the drummer’s face not caught my eye. The poor fella proceeded to suffer my hypnotised stare for the next thirty minutes. What expressions. I have never seen a drummer more involved, passionate and demented. As Hjaltalin prepared for their last song, the band announced that it was the drummer’s first live performance; he had stolen the show.

My eyes found a new friend for the final fling. My childhood fascination with the accordion has not dampened with age.

I have no doubt that the sounds of Hjaltalin were deliberately chaotic. When chaos transforms itself into something sentimentally beautiful, beauty stands tall. Hjaltalin are the new big thing; well, the new big thing from Iceland. Of course, they are very weird; they were grown in the Lava Fields of Reykjavik.

The album, as produced by Múm, was offered to us for £10 and then £5. The pound is a hard currency to work with. When I found myself a little short, the frozen volcanoes sold it to me for all the pennies in my pocket: £3.80. Bargain! The album is called 'Sleepdrunk Seasons'.

I left Hjaltalin to smoke their cigarettes, be ‘moved on’ by bouncers, and receive invites from an overconfident beard. I will not be rushing back to The Freebutt.

Fabpants Recommends: Nina Nastasia ‘Dogs’. I missed this in 2000, and again on its rerelease in 2004. Instead, I heard songs from albums that, quite frankly, are nowhere near as good. ‘Dogs’ is a stunning album. My opinion of Nina stands revised.