Nestled into the heart of South London, Brixton’s fusion of people and collision of cultures has created an epicentre of dynamism, energy, and revolution. For some, Brixton is tied to memories of conflict. In the early 1980s, riots over racial divisions and economic hardships led to some of the most unsettling cases of civil unrest in English history. The following decades would see much improvement and regeneration for the area as the high streets were revamped, and commercial success provided space for creatives and businesses to settle. However, tensions with the police force had not been resolved, and gentrification with rising rents caused resident frustrations to simmer. After the murder of Mark Duggan (by the police) in the summer of 2011, riots once again reduced the high streets of Brixton to rubble. 

However, for many others, before the violence, Brixon was an area associated with partying and music. It seems obvious that this bubble of vitality naturally yielded Brixton’s infamous music scene. For decades, the sound waves of block parties, festivals, sound systems, and market stalls have echoed through Brixton from dawn to dusk. For communities full of vigour and tension, music is more than entertainment—it is a release, an expression of resilience, and a way to communicate what words alone cannot. The heavy beats of drums, soothing strums of guitars, and powerful swells of voice are often outlets for an intensity of life. And few places in England have an intensity of life that rivals Brixton. 

Growing up two streets from Brixton Hill, this intensity of life was a norm. Walking home from primary school was an observational practice—an education on the role of police in a volatile community, the world of drug dealing and addiction, gentrification and inequality, and a line between hope and hopelessness. I was exposed to a roster of fascinating characters at this time, the most notable being Simon Parkes, a one-armed, eccentric personality who later became my neighbor. I remember him more for his ‘larger than life’ character and only later discovered his fascinating story. 

In 1983, Simon Parkes founded ‘The Brixton Academy.’ Purchasing a derelict old cinema for a single pound, he renovated it into a music venue that would host the likes of The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, the Sex Pistols, and much more. The story of how he established the venue while navigating a world of gangs, racial tensions, corruption, and the police is illustrated in his book Live at the Brixton Academy, which he gifted to me for my 18th birthday. He discusses succeeding in a business venture that appeared fated to fail but ultimately losing control of the venue due to corruption. It’s a story of resilience in chaos, which perfectly captures the essence of the Brixton I knew.

While working as a dishwasher under the train tracks in ‘Rosa’s Thai Brixton,’ I spent every minute of every break reading his book, wooed by the unfamiliar story of this familiar character that I had known my whole life. I was desperate to experience firsthand this venue that I perceived as an emblem of success in a community wrought with a history of struggle. And so, as soon as I received my first paycheck, I booked tickets to a Slowthai concert at the Brixton Academy with my co-worker. It was a wintery Friday night, and after a long shift, we headed over. Excitement bubbled out of the iconic dome as a beacon at the top of Brixton Hill, lighting up the cold London air. I came armed with Simon’s book, a joint, a lighter, and an eagerness to experience this historic monument. After hours of queuing, I put my backpack in the cloakroom in return for a numbered tag. I was slightly disappointed to find our tickets were for the seated balcony section, not below in the main crowd next to the stage. 

“We can’t just sit up here while we watch everyone having more fun below,” I complained to my friend. This concert meant a lot to me. It was more than music. In his book, Simon makes clear how much he hates seated live music. Being sat down, watching the whirlwind of chaos and energy unfold below us, didn’t feel right. The energy in the main crowd reflected a microcosm of the energy and chaos in Brixton, the neighbourhood I know and love, a venue established by a man I know and love. I so desperately wanted to be part of it. And so, we left with a plan to try and get into the main crowd or leave entirely. After explaining the situation to the bouncer, he replied with a quick, “Slip us a tenner and yer in.” As simple as that: the doors were opened before us, and we were released just below the stage into a disordered array of bodies. 

The energy was contagious, the crowd buzzing, the lights blinding. We pushed through the audience, determined to get as close to the stage as possible. I was enamoured by the colosseum-style pillars, the tall domed ceiling, and the flurry of people of all descriptions snaking in with drinks in hands or packets in pockets. Then the music started. 

We were thrown around for an hour and a half of pure ecstasy, presence, and joy, mosh-pitting and dancing in exuberance with 2,000 strangers to an artist whose songs we cherished. I think the bliss I was experiencing was strengthened by my proximity to the story and the history of the venue. The concert flew by far too quickly, and the time came to retrieve my rucksack. However, once I reached the front of the cloakroom queue, I realised in the velocity of the crowd, I had lost the tag number I needed to retrieve my backpack, sitting atop a pile behind the cloakroom assistant’s desk. 

“I’ve lost the tag, but that’s my bag behind you,” I pleaded in frustration.

“How do I know it’s your bag?” the worker answered.

“There’s a book inside it.” The worker rummaged inside the bag, withdrew a book, and inspected it pensively under the desk. He looked up at me, then down at the book again. “Well, what’s the name of the book?” He asked.

“Live at the Brixton Academy,” I answered, “by Simon Parkes.”

He gave me my bag, and we exchanged a smile. I wondered how much he knew about Simon and the history of the venue. Perhaps he had read Simon’s book too. The night was about more than music. It was an experience of a historic place and a changing culture. An expression of anger and energy that music transformed into dance and beauty. A fractured community coming together under one house, one sound, and one love.
The Brixton Academy is now closed following a crowd surge that killed two people. Its future is uncertain, and it no longer stands as that strong beacon of hope it once was. While my memories of the venue are held with deep reverence and fondness, corruption and disorganisation are central to the story (as I experienced firsthand when I bribed the bouncer to get into the main crowd). Brixton straddles between stories of success and togetherness and stories of danger, tragedy, and division. It strikes a balance where togetherness has led to powerful demands for fair policing, striking back against racism, and empowerment, yet that same energy has also manifested itself in crime, violence, and general neglect of the community. In the face of being completely estranged and ignored by mainstream politics, Brixtoners have felt a need to release that bottled-up, vigorous frustration. While music provides an avenue for release, it is not a sufficient solution to deep-rooted problems. Now, living miles away from my hometown, I can only hope from a distance that government figures can acknowledge the beauty of Brixton and raise its people’s voices. But if not, those voices will still sing loud and clear, if not from the Brixton Academy, then from one of its many other music venues. I just hope that those music venues channel Brixton’s vitality into positive expressions of energy that bring people together but not to the point of asphyxiation.