Dirty. Manky. Sweaty. Seedy. There’s also a bit of scum on the wall.Yep; welcome to the Astoria. The interior is black, covered in posters and assorted clippings, and there’s a really sneaky step hidden just inside the standing entrance, making sure you trip over and hurt your knees. Or even worse, knock a bearded, bawdy metaller’s pint out of his hands. Yes, siree: I love this place. It’s real.
And now it’s gone. More planning works for London are the culprit. Whatever they put in its place, simply will not be as awesome as the Astoria. It was a residence where bands cut their teeth just starting to emerge as big acts, and also for huge groups to come back and play resonant, intimate shows. There’s a heap of memories attributed to the place. I know it’s up to the band really to create the atmosphere, but playing in a gritty little shit-hole like this does help.
I shan’t go on anymore about it, because you probably have the same feelings as I do. Plus, I swear I'll start bawling if I continue.
So farewell! Au revoir! I wave my figurative white handkerchief. There are still venues of this authenticity around, a lot of those disappearing too; but this is definitely one we’ll remember.
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