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‘Like a naughty, massively inspiring Petri dish’ … Wag Club regulars in 1983.
‘Like a naughty, massively inspiring Petri dish’ … Wag Club regulars in 1983. Photograph: Courtesy of Chris Sullivan
‘Like a naughty, massively inspiring Petri dish’ … Wag Club regulars in 1983. Photograph: Courtesy of Chris Sullivan

The end of the night – in the 80s, the Wag Club was glorious but it could never happen now

This article is more than 7 years old

Starting in 1982, the Wag Club was the destination for cutting-edge kids and superstars, but changes in London are killing its nightlife, says the club’s founder

As the march of gentrification and greed transforms London – as well as many of the UK’s other inner cities – one great British institution that has fallen foul has been the nightlife business. In London, the area that has suffered the most is Soho. Once a naughty, massively inspiring little Petri dish from which the likes of David Bowie, the Sex Pistols, Francis Bacon and Lucien Freud emerged, it is being rapidly reshaped into something resembling a homogenised shopping mall.

One of the first institutions to fall foul of the evisceration of Soho was the Wag, the club Ollie O’Donnell and I founded in 1982 and which ran until 2001. When we began, Soho was really rather seedy and rundown, which was exactly what attracted the young, the groovy and the inventive. The Wag – a nightclub that catered, in the main, to a gang of non-conformist mavericks – was thoroughly appropriate to that crowd. Ollie and I started by packing out the Whisky a Go Go in Wardour Street every Saturday night with our own crowd, then the club’s new leaseholders asked us to run it with them full time. So we lowered the drinks and the door price (which was possible because rents were fair back then), pulled in DJs who played underground music, and the place took off.

Come hither … the invitation to the opening night of The Wag Club. Photograph: Courtesy of Chris Sullivan

We were young and aware, so we knew what was happening and approached the running of the club with a zeal that at times dropped us in the proverbial. In November 1982, we hosted the first ever hip-hop club event in the UK, The Roxy Road Show – featuring 25 artists who flew in from New York, including Afrika Bambaataa, Grand Wizard Theodore (who invented scratching), Jazzy Jay and Fab 5 Freddy, rope skipping stars the Double Dutch Girls and legendary breakdancers the Rock Steady Crew. It was complete and utter mayhem, but in a good way. The club was absolutely packed when, at my behest, then unknown graffiti artist Futura 2000 did his live spray-can art on stage and more or less asphyxiated everyone. We later made a name for ourselves by booking all the major rap acts – De La Soul, Jungle Brothers, Queen Latifah, Eric B and Rakim, Kool Moe Dee, Grandmaster Flash, Doug E Fresh. It’s been said that we were responsible for breaking hip-hop in the UK but, for me, it made sense in every way: the acts had never played London before, and it was relatively cheap to bring them over. All it took was two or three discounted flights and a couple of nights in a friend’s dad’s hotel in Bloomsbury. Simple economics.

Because I’d been in a band it was my job to source, book and promote the live acts. Sometimes they worked and other times they did not. Even though we all knew of Shane MacGowan’s proclivities I booked Pogue Mahone just as they were starting off. The third time they played, MacGowan was so drunk I was surprised he could stand, never mind sing, but it made no difference because the show stopped after 20 minutes when he tried to hit bassist Cait O’Riordan over the head with his guitar. Then there was the legendary jazz maestro Slim Gaillard, who sold out the club but, rather in his cups, retired to the bar after two songs, fell asleep on it and woke up two hours later, his backing band and the crowd having long departed. I turned down a Prince afterparty/jam session because I’d already booked Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry on the same night. He cost us a packet, but the club was crammed so all was OK until Perry, somewhat chemically enhanced, sang the same song (his new single) 15 times and emptied the club before midnight. We lost our shirts. But there were bigger losses – Bobby Womack’s show was cancelled an hour before it was due to start because of a bomb scare round the corner in Leicester Square; Gil Scott Heron’s gig was called off when he was arrested at Heathrow for possession of cocaine. Both had sold out and we had to refund all ticket holders, leaving us with the cost of the flights and hotel rooms.

Of course, other acts were simply magnificent. I recall the surprise on Georgie Fame’s face as he looked out at the crowd of immaculate mods, dressed just as they would have when he played the Flamingo (in the basement of the Whisky a Go Go) in 1962. James Brown’s backing band the JBs were gobsmacked that the crowd (many in 70s kit) knew all their numbers by heart. New acts thrived, too: Sade, Fine Young Cannibals, Curiosity Killed the Cat, the Pasadenas and Swing Out Sister were all signed after shows at the Wag.

Good times … At the bar of The Wag Club. Photograph: Courtesy of Chris Sullivan

The Wag was synonymous with what was happening on the street. We played a huge role in kick-starting the acid house movement by hosting sets from Marshall Jefferson, Tony Humphries, Frankie Knuckles, Todd Terry and Masters at Work, among many others, while Paul Oakenfold, Pete Tong and Andy Weatherall established their reps at the Wag.

But it wasn’t just about music. It was also about meeting people and showing off. Diehard regular Jonathan Ross met his wife Jane Goldman at the Wag. Designers such as John Galliano paraded their designs here; Leigh Bowery strutted his magnificent stuff; future Turner prize winners Tracey Emin and Grayson Perry were regulars; Boy George, Joe Strummer and Neneh Cherry came every week for a little dance.

All the attention meant global superstars came to our little ramshackle venue (with no VIP area) for a look: David Bowie (who came a lot and filmed his Blue Jean video there), Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Prince, George Clinton, Stevie Wonder, Robert De Niro, Brad Pitt, Karl Lagerfeld and Jean Paul Gaultier. George Michael had a fight with our DJ Fat Tony and Grace Jones had to be physically restrained after laying out an irritating bloke with a single punch. Some have said that at one point the Wag was the grooviest club on the planet, but I couldn’t tell. I was too busy trying to fill a Tuesday night.

None had this would have happened had we not been in our mid-20s, not that different from most of our patrons, and brave (or stupid) enough to take chances and, most importantly, had the rent not been cheap enough for us to experiment. Today, not only would I not be able to run a West End club, I wouldn’t even be able to hang out in Soho, because landlords and developers have priced the young and not-so-well-off out of inner London.

It has been suggested that London should follow Amsterdam, Paris, Zurich and Toulouse and appoint a night mayor to protect our after-dark businesses and the people who use them. Certainly, unless something is done we will lose the talent that has traditionally risen through our night-time economy – graphic designers, artists, DJs, entertainers writers, photographers and musicians of every kind who hone their skills and develop by working with clubs and promoters. I don’t think its possible to overestimate just how important this is for any city or country, and that is why Amsterdam, Paris and Zurich are protecting their nightlife. We have to follow suit before it’s too late.

  • Chris Sullivan presents The Wag Club is available now on Harmless Records.

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