Sheffield’s longest running live music venue and nightclub has announced the date of its final event before it closes. The Leadmill, which opened in 1980, will host a farewell party on 28 June, after the operators of the city centre venue lost their recent appeal against eviction.

The Leadmill said it would be hosting a series of farewell events and told those holding tickets for future gigs that there were plans in place to continue at other venues in Sheffield. It said: “We are devastated but not defeated.

“This is not the end of The Leadmill’s spirit – it’s a call to action for everyone who believes in the importance of independent culture.”

Mark Hurst (aka Mark Miwurdz) wrote a fond farewell on Facebook.

Like many others, I’ve have recently been saddened by the demise of iconic Sheffield music venue, The Leadmill.

Though, long sequestered down south, I had not visited for many a moon, my personal memories of the place are many, mostly happy, wistful and lingering. Some of the best are from it’s early, ramshackle beginning. Part building site, part musical grogshop, that stood next to the postman’s pub, running on dodgy wiring, hippy aesthetics and goodwill.

It was there that, as a young tuning fork factory worker by day/ comic poet by night, I oft trod it’s makeshift-stage, making my bones as a performer. I will never forget gradually winning over the majority of an early 80s Cabaret Voltaire crowd there, a personal milestone. In those days, in Sheffield, it was actually illegal to smile in the same room as a synthesizer..
Then there was the, now folkloric, all day local bands festival that summer, when I recorded a fair bit of it on a little pocket Toshiba thing, forerunner of the Sony Walkman. I kept that tape or years, it had Pulp on and everything, till it regrettably got cobbed out in a cassette cull.

I eventually left the factory and turned pro. Whilst supporting my punk band pals, The Poison Girls, I was continously heckled by ‘Jesus The Anarchist’ for selling out and going on telly! I cancelled the stretched Limo that night, and plodded back to my mum’s in Broomhall on foot.. The venue got refurbished and thrived, and even promoted gigs elsewhere. (The late, great Martin Bedford’s individualistic stylish posters heralding each upcoming artiste..)

When I heard Leadmill Productions were putting on Gil Scot-Heron at the Top Rank, I marched purposefully into their office and said ‘I want the support slot, I have to have it’. Richard and Mog took one look at my face which said – Come on man, all the years of benefits, you owe me this one – and agreed in the spot.

But one of the most abiding memories for me was as a punter, one evening in 1983. Following a protest in Sheff that day, by the ‘The Thatcher Unwelcoming Committe’. Maggie was attending a posh feast at The Cutler’s Hall and the hoardes were out in force to voice their dissent.

It was a very long day (like a pompous rock band, she kept us waiting..) then late afternoon it went around that she’d been snuck in, straight from car to side door, and hardly anyone saw her. The chance to let her know how we felt, to her face, had been snatched away. People weren’t happy and slunk off to various pubs to kill time before the evening after-do, The Unwelcoming Party, at The Leadmill..

Cut to a few hours later, and the place was buzzing with disco music and discontent. People had been drinking and not had any tea. On stage was a large projector screen. At some point late into proceedings, they showed a recording of that evening’s main news, and it reignited the raw feelings from the earlier demo. The mood felt increasingly visceral.

When it got to the bit that most had not witnessed earlier, Thatcher actually arriving and getting whisked inside, well, people went nuts. In lieu of the real thing, cacophanous boos and pure rage were directed at the images, with pints being flung at the screen. That saying, ‘anger is a energy’ never felt so true as that night at The Leadmill.

It was left to local band The Mysterons to soothe the vexatious crowd who welcomed the distraction to let off steam and boogie to their enthused, fun beats.

The band finished off with a rousing cover of Stand Down Margaret. It went on for 45 minutes. I remember because when it started, I’d rushed onto the dancefloor for one final eff you, to Mrs T, and three quarters of an hour later, still bopping, looked at my watch. At that point my thighs had gone numb. The next day it hurt to walk.

I doubt the band had planned such a marathon version, they were just reading the room. No one wanted it to stop. They wanted to keep on keeping on, till their pique had peaked, the unwelcome complete..

From the early pioneers, Adrien, Chris, Rex etc, to all who played their part over the years, (and all those we have lost along the way, Fidler, Lilleker, Kirk, Featherby, Zelly, etc etc ) – I say, cheers for the gigs and giggles. The final song in the set is sung, legs are tired. Time to stand down..