In Nottingham, punk’s UK revival rumbles

“You’re a freak!” shouts Lucas Mannion. ​“You’re a slag!” Jae Gottlieb fires back. The room bristles with tension as Mannion inhales, lips curled, ready to hurl another line. But the buzz in the air isn’t anger – it’s feedback from the amp. And the insults aren’t part of a fight, but the lyrics to ​‘Fishnets > Cishets’, one of Gender Envy’s boldest songs celebrating trans self-expression and sexuality. 

“I’ll bite your lip and / Feel you press against my hips, his / Taped chest, her latex, their fishnets / How could I resist this?” Behind the drum kit, Ella Ferrin flicks her pink mullet in time with the snare and Sam Christelow’s fingers blur across the neck of his electric guitar. 

In a (mostly) soundproof garden shed at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in Beeston, Nottingham, the quartet are mid-rehearsal, fine-tuning their setlist ahead of their mini UK tour in November. Breezeblock walls are plastered with old band posters, and shelves are stacked with tangled cables, battered pedals and a well-thumbed copy of Home Recording For Musicians For Dummies. The DIY recording studio was built by Dave Carlill, a 43-year-old property manager and music enthusiast who rents out the rehearsal space at just £12.50 an hour.

Due to the growing inaccessibility of the music industry, these sorts of small-scale music spaces are why Nottingham has become a burgeoning epicentre for punk in the UK. In the last five years, a growing contingent of bands are finding success as a result of Nottingham’s thriving DIY circuit and supportive network of art and music collectives. Among them are bands such as PASTE., who recently featured on a BBC Introducing live session, and local scene heroes Bored Marsh.

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It’s come full circle, given the history of music resistance that runs deep through Nottingham’s cobbled streets. As punk travelled across the pond from New York to Britain during the mid ​’70s, the new genre became a flashpoint for controversy due to its crude language and anti-establishment message. The Sex Pistols’ fiery, canonical debut Never Mind the Bollocks was banned by several major retailers around the UK, but in Nottingham, a Virgin Records store manager refused to take the album out of the shop window, and was charged under the Indecent Advertisements Act of 1889. Although he was ultimately found not guilty, the case made national headlines, capturing punk’s growing role of disruption and its natural home in the Midlands.

Over the years, punk splintered into new subcultures that pushed boundaries further. In the ​’80s, queercore challenged the scene’s early blind spots around gender and sexuality, reclaiming punk as a safe space to explore queer identity. By the ​’90s, riot grrrl was making noise of its own, fusing feminist politics, DIY zine publishing, and lo-fi sound into a movement that championed marginalised voices.

Today, punk is experiencing a resurgence among Gen Z, with the #punk amassing over 12.8 billion views on TikTok, the pop-punk fashion aesthetic reappearing on catwalks, and zine culture making a visible comeback. And in this context, Nottingham is providing fertile ground. ​“Nottingham has a disproportionately large music scene for how small it is,” says Christelow during a rehearsal break. ​“With so many students and strong music schools, the city naturally draws in creative, musical people.”

That creative gravity is what brought Gender Envy together in 2021. Guitarist Christelow, guitarist and vocalist Mannion, and bassist and vocalist Gottlieb first crossed paths through the University of Nottingham’s long-running Punk Society – a group with roots stretching back to the ​’80s. ​“Punk Soc was a great way to meet like-minded people,” says Mannion, a former president of the society. ​“It introduced a lot of us to the DIY music scene and was genuinely inclusive, thanks to that accepting punk ethos.”

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The city hosts two major universities and three specialist music institutions, drawing in over 73,000 students. That’s helped nurture a buzzing creative culture, where bands are formed over pints and zines are sketched out in uni halls. And what do students love more than rebellion? A good night out.

Such demand for a bustling nightlife has helped sustain a thriving ecosystem of pubs, clubs and music venues across the city, earning Nottingham the Purple Flag award for 15 consecutive years – an accreditation given to cities for creating a safe, inclusive, and vibrant night-time economy. From legendary institutions like Rock City to grassroots hubs like JT Soar, there are varied stages catering to every taste and subculture.

That diversity of venues is vital to keeping alternative music alive. Without big arenas monopolising bookings, DIY and independent spaces remain the beating heart of Nottingham’s live music scene. ​“I think the absence of a large venue like the O2 has been really helpful,” says Gottlieb of Gender Envy, adjusting her black bandana. ​“It means bands can actually book gigs, keep things affordable, and support grassroots venues too.”

Despite having played Rescue Rooms – one of Nottingham’s larger venues with a 450-person capacity – the band’s favourite show to-date took place at The Grove in May, a small, independent venue tucked inside Sneinton Market. Once a derelict wholesale district, Sneinton Market was revitalised in 2014, transforming its disused units into a flourishing hub for creative start-ups, artists and grassroots venues.

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The Grove allows for just under 100 punters, offering a more intense and intimate atmosphere – one that drummer Ferrin admits made her the most nervous. ​“It had sold out and was absolutely packed,” she recalls. ​“I was like, ​‘Oh no, this is actually quite scary.’ But then we started playing and it was great.”

Amid a sea of multicoloured hair, patch jackets, and black lipstick, the energy in the room was electric. Crowd-surfing broke out within minutes, and the air buzzed with infectious laughter and defiance. For the band, it was a reminder just how important the queercore scene is in creating safe, celebratory spaces for the city’s LGBTQ+ punks. ​“No one felt out of place,” adds Mannion. ​“It was amazing that all these queer and trans people came together to enjoy our music. It was so wholesome and friendly and gave me a feeling of belonging.” 

Across the road from The Grove is The Carousel, a multi-use event space, art studio and co-working hub. Co-founded by Martin Rayment in 2019, it’s become a vital part of Nottingham’s grassroots creative infrastructure, hosting gigs, exhibitions and workshops. Rayment believes the success of Nottingham’s DIY culture is largely down to the supportive community. ​“In the past year, five new venues have opened because the people have come out in force and spent hard-earned money to keep the lights on.”

At a time when sky-high bills and rents are making cultural spaces increasingly rare, Rayment sees the DIY ethos as an antidote to despair. ​“DIY means literally that – do it yourself,” he explains. ​“It’s easy to feel powerless, but DIY culture can give you a positive mindset and encourage you to create what you think is missing.”

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Still, in an era of toxic culture wars and mounting financial pressure, being a young punk in the DIY scene today feels more radical than ever. The challenges facing 21^st-century artists are stark, and for Finlay Carr-Hopkins, they’ve recently come to a head.

The 28-year-old acoustic guitarist and vocalist of Cheap Dirty Horse, one of Nottingham’s most prominent queer punk bands, is also the founder of the Art and Crime Collective. They rely on the affordable art space provided by The Carousel to make merch for other local bands including Gender Envy, helping to sustain the rapidly growing scene.

Alongside them, DIY outlets like GREEBO – a punk zine amplifying the voices of local writers, poets, and artists – help stitch the community together, while the irreverent Dirty Filthy Sexy collective blurs the lines between drag, punk, and performance with free art parties, queer makers’ markets, and gloriously unhinged punk drag shows. Bands such as Retina, who fuse emo, grunge, and punk, Sofftness, with their lo-fi crankwave experiments, and SKITZ, merging groove and hardcore punk, expand the texture of Nottingham’s diverse underground.

Drawing on his background in busking, Carr-Hopkins is responsible for organising many of the city’s punk DIY shows, staging free gigs in unconventional places, which have included the local skatepark and the entrance of Nottingham’s famous City of Caves. With support from local art institutions like the Nottingham Contemporary, which supplied power and provided stewards, those nights became a cornerstone of the grassroots music culture. ​“It’s such a loving, supportive community here,” he explains. ​“The music is amazing, and everyone genuinely builds each other up.”

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After Cheap Dirty Horse went viral on social media in 2024 – thanks to politically confrontational posts and chaotic live performance clips – Carr-Hopkins quit his job and dropped out of a maths degree to pursue music full-time. But the toll of leading the DIY community has been heavy. 

“We were working constantly and making no money, which has been tough on our mental health,” Carr-Hopkins says quietly, scratching his buzzed head. ​“We’re not trying to get rich; we just can’t make rent.”

Now grappling with burnout, his collective has paused merch production and Carr-Hopkins is taking a step back from parts of the DIY scene. He’s signed up for Universal Credit and is searching for a teaching job in music. But despite the exhaustion and financial uncertainty, he’s still driven by one thing: ​“No matter what, the band will never get tired of playing shows. There’s nothing like connecting with people through live music.”

For older punks like Dr Matt Grimes, general secretary of the Punk Scholars Network and a music lecturer at Birmingham City University, who came up in the punk scene during the ​’80s, this is a quintessential punk struggle that he knows well. ​“If you want to create, produce, and distribute music independently outside of the capitalist machine, it’s incredibly difficult,” Grimes explains. ​“Back then, I could fall back on unemployment benefits, and I spent a lot of time squatting, which meant I didn’t have to worry about rent. But now, that’s illegal.”

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He acknowledges how today’s young punks face a harsher reality but believes the subculture will continue to adapt and resist. ​“It’s hard, but punk has always been about queering the norm and building inclusive spaces. That spirit of mutual support is what keeps the scene alive. Working collectively has always been one of punk’s greatest strengths.”

As rehearsal winds down, Gender Envy start packing up their gear – sweat still clinging to their foreheads, vapes being passed around, and jokes flying about snapped G‑strings. Watching them laugh and make plans for the pub, I ask if they’re ever worried about the band’s future, or the pressures of trying to make it on punk terms, without compromise.

They shrug, almost in unison.

“Ultimately, we’re being the publicly queer people we needed when we were younger,” says Gottlieb, the rest of the band nodding in agreement. ​“We’re writing the songs we wish we’d heard growing up, and proud to be creating the kind of safe spaces we didn’t have.”

Hannah Bentley is a freelance journalist. Follow her on Instagram.

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