I used to go to Barbarellas

People and bands and music and sticky carpet make places 

I've been working up a few posts for Time Out Brum of late. Some of them are on local music history, including this one on lost venues. It's had a big reaction, and I'm now looking at more stories that have come my way. Thank you! And keep them coming. 

We've lost a lot of venues over the years. It's sad to seem them go, of course; hardest on the people who made a particular place what it was. There was a great book published last year about JBs in Dudley. There's memories aplenty scattered around on websites. But there really isn't enough about one place I spent lots of time either DJing or sticking to the carpet: the primo 70s and 80s Rock venue in Birmingham... Barbarellas.

Hey, where did Cumberland Street go?

Barbs was great... until it wasn't. Times changed, and the place staggered on through those changing times, the death of Classic Rock and the rise of Disco, until the end of the 80s. The place was finally flattened around 2000, as Birmingham's Broad Street Brindley Place redevelopment began in earnest. The club was at the bottom end of Cumberland Street, which at the time looked remarkably like bits of Digbeth look now – old beat-up Victorian houses, smashed into workshops and warehouses. It was, essentially, a light industrial area at the time. And that meant you could make a lot of noise.

'Cumberland Street' in 2015. No loon pants in sight.

Now? Cumberland street still exists – in a way. It's two pedestrianised bits around a central square with aspirational posh eateries, Free Radio at one end and the Ikon Gallery at the other.

I DJd there on Sunday nights, when it was 50p in and the place put on local bands. By the time I started, Barbs had long switched from being an upmarket (ish) late night supper-club to a rock venue. But the black and white pictures of old big bands and crooners still lined the walls. Most nights, Patti Bell was on the door. You then walked up a wide corridor, lit in garish red, and came into the main room at the raised bar level, where the carpet was especially squidgy, and you could look over to the stage on your right. The DJ booth was across the room, next to the stage. And there was another raised area at the furthest end of the room, with its own bar. Total capacity? I have absolutely no idea. But I do know that whatever it was, it was exceeded, regularly.

A roll-call of Classic Rock. And Punk

It was one of Eddie Fewtrell's many clubs. John Tully booked the bands . But it also happened to be the place to watch UK up and comers and US bands who were breaking big. The roll-call was jaw-dropping: a literal Who's Who of classic rock and early punk. Dire Straits, UFO, AC/DC, Thin Lizzy, Horslips, Judas Priest, The Police, The Steve Gibbons Band, The Clash, Talking Heads, The Stranglers, Sex Pistols, Generation X, Deaf School, The Sensational Alex Harvey Band, Blondie, Steve Miller, The Fabulous Thunderbirds, XTC, Chris Rea, Slade, Osibisa, Manfred Mann's Earth Band, Buzzcocks, The Ramones, Lindisfarne, Queen, Siousxsie and The Banshees, Simple Minds... The list goes on forever. This is a heavily edited selection. If it was a major or particularly interesting gig, you'd find rock royalty up at the top bar – Plant and Bonham were regulars.

When Punk came in, they opened up a separate room. It became a second home for mohicans, extravagant make-up and piercings. You'd have prog-rock and mainstream on the big stage, and plastic bag dresses and gobbing round the side. 

The night Priest blew the place up

The night Judas Priest did their last Barbs show, I was down there DJing. The band had finally gained traction after a sluggish start and an iffy first album. Next stop would be the Odeon, and then the big arenas. But that night, it was Priest and a packed room of pumped rockers. So I rolled out the headbanger faves – Quo, Free, Black Dog and Rock and Roll from Zep, Starfucker from the Stones, Paranoid. The room was cooking when I stepped out from the booth, walked centre stage and brought the band on.

BOOM.

Oops. Priest had rigged up a few too many smoke bombs to herald their arrival on stage. I could hardly see to get off stage. In fact everybody could hardly see. It took about twenty minutes for Barbarella's creaky ventilation system to fix things.

People make places

Barbarellas staff were brilliant. Alongside Patti on the door, and the New Wave and later New Romantic crew who clustered around her, Barbs had a regular DJ, Wayne Hughes, who could not have been more helpful. His wife Christine worked behind the bar. Happy days: for me, it was hours of DJing in your face rock to an up for it head-banging crowd, topped off by a solid band. Sunday nights meant a late arrival home, half-cut (Southern Comfort was my choice at the time, I'm sorry to say), my ears ringing, after catching the best of the Birmingham 70s scene. That one weekly gig paid me pretty much the same as my weekly salary at BRMB.

Of course, it's gone, along with dozens of others. Cities continually reinvent themselves, and Birmingham is no exception. Sadly, as rents go up, places like Barbs are squeezed out. it's sad to see venues disappear – at least two more have shut down this Spring. But it's inevitable. And as venues close, others open. There's a new venue on Broad Street, for the first time in years, and the Fiddle and Bone is back as well, which is excellent news.

It's always the way. We miss the loss of a facility, and we regret the shrinking number of city centre venues, which is more serious. 

But what we really mourn when a place like Barbs goes is the loss of a part of our lives. 

Links 

While they're still there, check this really interesting set of very iffy bootlegs on YouTube, of major acts at Barbs. And here's my list of lost and historic venues on Time Out Brum.

See more on venues on Radio To Go

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