Nested between Millwall FC’s stadium and a junction of railway lines in south London, the Venue MOT, which accommodates 350 patrons and was once an actual MOT garage, has become a pivotal hub in the city’s underground music landscape. Every Tuesday, its proprietor, Jan Mohammed, convenes his team at the bar to discuss the financial losses incurred since the previous weekend.
Mohammed, a sculptor, began renting a nearby space as a studio over a decade ago. With no residential neighbors and relatively low expenses, he launched Venue MOT in 2018, driven by a straightforward belief: “I figured music could flourish here,” he reflects. Despite the ongoing deficits and his label of the venture as a “comedy of errors,” it has indeed thrived. Time Out recently declared Venue MOT as the finest nightclub in London, with Jamie xx describing it as “one of the last spaces in London that feels authentically free and DIY” following his 10-night residency with guests like Charli XCX and Daphni. Mohammed characterizes the club’s vibe as “DDS”—deep, dark, and sweaty. Stalwart figures like him are essential to a financially unstable landscape that must constantly navigate the challenges of licensing regulations and urban development.
However, there exists an alternative narrative within London’s underground club scene: many promoters, including those who stage events at venues like Venue MOT, hail from affluent backgrounds.
Several of the city’s most successful and enduring dance brands were established by individuals of considerable privilege: Krankbrother, renowned for its parties in Finsbury Park featuring acts like Four Tet and Solomun, is managed by Danny and Kieran Clancy, the heirs of the late construction tycoon Dermot Clancy. Blaise Bellville, the founder of dance music livestreaming platform Boiler Room, comes from English nobility, being the Marlborough College-educated offspring of Lady Lucinda Wallop (though he has remarked that he “had no money” as a child). Recently, newer initiatives like Figura, an ambitious project funded by Tetra Pak heir Magnus Rausing established last year, have emerged, while Ollie Ashley, the offspring of billionaire Sports Direct owner Mike Ashley, is among the latest to rent Venue MOT.
Ashley’s previous venture, the unprofitable Radar Radio, ceased operations in 2018 amidst a flurry of allegations, including sexual harassment among staff—though Ashley faced no allegations himself, he was responsible for managing a dysfunctional environment at a station criticized for cultural appropriation. (In a statement at that time, Radar acknowledged that while they didn’t concur with all allegations made, they recognized they could “make mistakes” and apologized “to anyone who felt unsafe or discriminated against.”)
Since then, Ashley has maintained a relatively low profile. However, he initiated a new club night called Virus last year, with a February lineup at Venue MOT featuring prominent names like Hudson Mohawke, soon after his performance supporting Justice at Alexandra Palace.
Some within the scene express concerns that wealthy promoters could inflate the market with excessive payments to top DJs, resulting in an unsustainable environment. “When there’s more money, it creates a bubble, and it takes time for things to stabilize afterward,” warns DJ, producer, and promoter Rob Venning, who began organizing events in his hometown of Watford in 2013 and only turned a significant profit last year. “There were times when I didn’t even break even,” he shares, revealing he had to compensate for losses with his savings.
The situation is exacerbated by the fact that, while nightlife is integral to British culture, it seldom receives the financial support that visual arts or theatre enjoy, nor does it typically garner public funding. The ongoing cost of living crisis places additional strain on clubs, increasing operational expenses while diminishing the willingness of potential patrons to go out. “We expect young people to frequent nightlife, but how many can afford it, and how often?” Mohammed asks.
This climate fosters an environment where individuals wielding personal wealth can exert considerable influence. It raises questions in the community: are individuals like Ashley and Rausing encroaching upon a grassroots culture, or are they the new wave of arts benefactors poised to create exciting opportunities?
When I encounter Ashley outside the Virus headquarters in east London, I anticipate a standoffish demeanor, yet he is amicable and open. A black circle tattoo on one arm conceals what was once the Radar Radio logo, while the opposite arm bears a black square that used to feature the emblem of underground dance label Night Slugs until a fallout with its founder, Bok Bok, occurred. The latter commented on an Instagram post about Virus, stating, “That billionaire money at work again.”
Virus operates out of the same building that previously held Radar, now home to several recording studios that Ashley provides to artists free of charge, with notable guests like Skepta and Fred Again having utilized the space. Most performers at Virus receive studio time in exchange for their sets—indicating that while Ashley may not be escalating DJ fees, he offers a rare resource in the community. Despite this advantage, he expresses a desire not to overshadow other promoters: “We’re not trying to compete or deter other organizers. We typically host pop-ups on unconventional days, like Tuesdays or Wednesdays, and prefer to announce events at the last minute.”
Prior to Radar, Ashley garnered experience at London radio stations Rinse FM and NTS and distributed flyers for the iconic, now-defunct dubstep night FWD>>. He presents himself as a passionate advocate for the scene, emphasizing, “The entire nepo baby crowd ought to engage in projects like this. We should be channeling our resources into the things we care about that bring joy to others.” While fully aware of his privileged status, he aims to leverage it to create opportunities that “inspire young individuals to DJ, produce music, or host a party, just as events like FWD>> inspired me at 18.” He has also collaborated with promoters like Genesys and Evian Christ’s Trance Party in his studios, stating, “We’re actively working to foster a sense of community among promoters.”
DJ and producer I Jordan canceled their Radar performance in 2018, reflecting, “We all gained so much from it, yet there was an overarching absence of accountability and responsibility that often arises when individuals from wealth disregard the consequences of their actions.” For his part, Ashley admits, “I had never managed a company before—this isn’t an excuse. I genuinely did my best, but I let people down. I’ve learned a great deal from that experience, and if given the chance to do it again, I would approach nearly everything differently.”
For Jordan, the disparity in the clubbing economy signifies a broader issue, stating, “We are all subjected to exploitative, unethical capitalism.” They and their agent must evaluate each collaboration and fee on a case-by-case basis. Recently, they accepted a lucrative gig, using the earnings to fund gender-affirming surgery; they argue it’s unrealistic to expect DJs like Jordan to consistently resist the temptations posed by affluent promoters. However, Jordan also questions, “How can we redistribute wealth or leverage it for positive outcomes?”
Cyndi Anafo, who organizes events alongside her husband Chris Ellis under the Handson Family name, is enthusiastic about facilitating wealth redistribution. For seven years, she has hosted free events at Brixton Market, supported by its owner, property developer Taylor McWilliams. She takes pride in utilizing his funds to organize nights that showcase Black artists and compensate them fairly, believing they provide McWilliams with something valuable in return. “Wealthy individuals currently face challenges regarding their brand image,” she asserts. “They want to profit—but they also desire their brands to align with positive social values.” Thus, dance music can serve as a means for the affluent to gain entry into a particular community, enhancing their cultural standing.
This is a proposal that Rausing, the Tetra Pak heir supporting Figura, seems uninterested in pursuing: “I’m not a fan of loud music, and I prefer to be in bed early,” he remarks. Nonetheless, he recognizes enough about London’s nightlife to believe in the potential for enhancement. “I simply wish for a better experience overall. For it to be an experience, a place for people to lose themselves in the music, the production, and the company.” He desires his financial backing to enable Figura “to celebrate art, and nothing more.”
Achieving this straightforward objective can be a challenge for underfunded promoters. Venning initiated his Watford events to spotlight artists who may otherwise go unheard; however, as his nights have developed and demanded more of his time and resources, he finds himself tempted to play it safe in his booking decisions, something he must consciously resist.
In contrast, the founder and CEO of Figura, John Becker, who began his journey at Berlin’s Tresor club before advising various nightlife brands, faces no such obstacles. He previously relied on booking artists he knew would draw crowds. With the financial backing from Rausing, however, Becker feels less urgent financial pressure on the project, allowing him to curate more avant-garde events. The upcoming Seeing in Dreams will feature boundary-pushing musicians such as Andy Stott, Crystallmess, and the Sun Ra Arkestra.
Becker denies the allegations of overpaying artists or unfairly competing with other promoters, positioning Figura as a collaborator that enables creative freedom, risk-taking, and artist-centered programming, rather than as a participant in a booking fee war. He believes Rausing’s support permits him to encourage artists to engage in less commercial ventures and performances. “We can afford to take a few more risks than our competitors,” he explains, “and if we don’t break even, that’s something we can handle.”
Figura is also facilitating a takeover from Accidental Meetings, an event series and label created by Lucien Calkin, who works at Venue MOT and organizes the free-thinking Bristol music festival Saccade. Accidental Meetings originated in Brighton, where Calkin depleted his student account to stage events. It still operates on the same account, currently showing a deficit of £1,000. “You constantly have to subsidize it from your own pocket, which has made me financially strained over the past few years,” Calkin admits. “It’s an endeavor fueled by passion.”
It is unjust that grassroots promoters need to finance their events through their limited savings, hoping merely to break even, while their more well-off counterparts navigate their operations with less pressure. In Ashley’s case, his wealth might be perceived as a cushion during controversies.
At the same time, the funding Calkin receives through Figura proves beneficial, as many of the most vibrant events struggle to turn a profit, and it is unrealistic to expect the entire scene to operate solely on the passion propelling individuals like him, Mohammed, and Venning. When asked what their plans for the next five years are, both Mohammed and Calkin share a laugh. “I can’t predict what will happen next week,” Mohammed shares. “It’s so delicate; we genuinely have no idea,” Calkin adds, laughing.
