I’m working a shift behind Barrowland’s main bar, Kitty’s Bar, as I have done for nearly a year. Clearwater Creedence Revival (a tribute band — see what they did there?) are well into their set. It’s a friendly crowd and I’m pouring ciders and Jack-and-Cokes and a fair bit of alcohol-free too. A man with slightly sweat-drenched hair, wearing jeans and a polo shirt, strolls up to the bar. Instead of asking for a drink, he smiles, puts his hand in his pocket and takes out a mouth organ. He holds it to his mouth at a jaunty angle and, still looking at me, plays a few notes. Then, he turns around and saunters away, back into the crowd. He doesn’t order a drink. He doesn’t say a word. I never see him again.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Barrowland Ballroom.
It’s Glasgow’s jewel on the Gallowgate, the pride of Scotland, a venue beloved by audience members and artists, famous for its neon sign, sprung maple wood floor and decorative stars that band members traditionally steal as souvenirs and which maintenance man Thomas replenishes using a selection of coloured spray paints and latex moulds made by a student from the Glasgow School of Art.
It’s a venue made special not only by the calibre of bands who have played on its stage but for the interactions between gig-goers, artists and staff which helped create the Barrowland legend.
For every moothie-playing man at the bar, I could introduce you to one of Barrowland’s own staff members. There’s Linda, who answers the phones in the office. She’s a direct descendant of Maggie McIver, the woman who had the Ballroom built as a venue for her Barras traders’ Christmas dances. She’s the longest serving staff member and remembers the dancefloor being built in 1960. There’s John, the Hank Williams-loving bar manager who keeps three cowboy hats on a hook behind the downstairs Revue Bar. He is king of the pun or the daft joke and has the best banter in the East End but admits he finds the changes in atmosphere from gig-day to day-after disconcerting.
“It gets to the day with a build-up to a concert. It’s a bit of a buzz, you’re on the go. It’s almost as if the place is alive,” he says. “And then you come in the next day and, bam, dead, it’s eerie. It’s hard to explain but there’s a sadness comes over you, believe it or not. It’s all away. All the cheering.”
Sometimes I’ll see John in an ironed shirt, cowboy hat on head, walking past the bar. He no longer pulls pints as he’s in charge of all three of Barrowland’s bars now and goes between them on the night. But sometimes, if it’s busy, he’ll jump on and help. I worked beside him once. “You’re a great crowd,” he told the woman he was serving. “Really friendly crowd. So much better than last night.” “Who was on last night?” the woman asked. “Nobody,” John said.
It’s an extraordinary view from where I stand behind the bar. I can see a night at the Barrowland play out in front of me. I can see house photographer Gareth Fraser, after the first three songs are sung and the photographers kicked out of the pit, walk with his camera to the accessibility platform at the back of the hall to take pictures from there. (The pit below the stage is where photographers get their best close-up shots, but traditionally they’re only allowed in for three songs to reduce the likelihood of unflattering images seven songs in and to avoid distracting the audience or artist.) Sometimes Gareth will come to the bar for a soda water and lime, other times he’ll give me a wave and head to get his hands-in-the-air shots.
I can see audience members bob heads or jump about or respond to heavy metal band Avatar’s challenge to beat another group’s number of crowd surfers. Up they go, the intrepid crowd surfers. In the pit I know there’ll be security stewards like Eireann who love catching them as they come over. The stewards have pit training and work in pairs — there’s a particular way you have to handle the crowd surfers back down to earth. “You can control it quite easily. You encourage the crowd surfer to come towards you. You grab a belt and you try and get them over, not legs first — so the legs don’t hit you in the face.” A colleague stands behind her to support her, and once the crowd surfer is down, “you usually hold them by the arm and escort them out. Because sometimes people will be like ‘Oh, I’m in the pit! I can get up on the stage now!’”
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