I recently went to see my friends Albert play a gig at the Servant Jazz Quarters in Dalston, to launch their newly-recorded album Time Well Spent. The venue has become known for showcasing musicians’ musicians. After descending into the dimly-lit basement from the ground-floor bar, you’re met with an intimate stage, which sits beneath exposed timber beams. As you take your place in the tightly-packed crowd, it feels as though you’re about to see a gig below the deck of a crooked galleon.

Reid’s opening line was, “Thanks for coming, it’s not easy being an independent band these days”. It was a statement of intent from the band’s frontman. We were about to witness something as unfunded, as it was passionate.

There’s no money to be made gigging in London. But it’s been like that since I started playing in the ’90s. I remember being handed a tenner after a sold-out gig at the Borderline in Soho. That’s no old-man inflation comment, it was peanuts even then. Fees like that are bad for the breadline, but good for the art. Music is a guttural expression of something so primal that ‘the struggle’ is often its greatest asset. I liken it to a time when the professional football league was made up of butchers, factory workers and milkmen united in their passion for the game. Sunday leaguers who played only for the love of the sport, free of endorsement and trappings. That’s the spirit.

I’m not for a moment suggesting that entertainment shouldn’t be financially rewarded. It should, massively. How else can it exist? But, perversely, the hungry man can produce incredible things.

In the 2000s, thriving live music venues seemed so abundant that nightlife in London, to me at least, meant gigs. Less subculture, more culture. Wall-to-wall venues piping out raw, original music under some distant promise of a viable return. For 99.9 per cent of bands that didn’t happen. The lucky ones got to tour, grace a Glastonbury stage, and sample Texas’ South by Southwest festival. Yet they were still unable to give up their day jobs for lack of proper reward. But they’re all still here. Players with decades of experience, arguably more than many of the giants from the ’70s who inspire them, and with far greater exposure to prior influence.

I know musicians who can now technically outplay their heroes, but haven’t made the ‘big time’ only for lack of visibility. If you want to see the greatest musicians you’ve never heard of, head north from Dalston Kingsland station, dip below Bradbury Street, and stand among an eclectic crowd in awe of bands like Albert, playing music as informed and masterful as it is unique.

Does a falling tree make a sound if no one’s there to hear it? Well I was. And it sounded f**king perfect. My advice is spend more time in the forest – it’s time well spent.

Servant Jazz Quarters, 10A Bradbury Street, London, N16 8JN
Listen to Albert