Heavy Metal Mental Health: Why saving live music might just save us all

Here's a wild thought: What if the solution to our mental health crisis isn't another app or algorithm, but actually just showing up at a dive bar on a Tuesday night?

I'm currently writing this from my studio above a live music venue, where the bass frequencies are currently rattling my coffee cup in a way that would drive most people crazy. But after almost two years of watching the same ritual play out below, night after night – the setup, soundcheck, and steady stream of people emerging from their isolation into something larger than themselves – I'm starting to think we're all missing something obvious.

Two Sad Songs, Getting Louder

First, there's the decimation of our live music scene. Since the pandemic, we've lost over 1,300 venues for small to medium gigs – that's one-third of our cultural infrastructure gone in just three years. The Corner, The Forum, The Croxton, Revolver – places that were more than just venues, they were cultural lifelines. Even the festivals are falling: Splendour in the Grass, Groovin the Moo, and countless smaller events cancelled for 2024.

Then there's the other crisis – the one so many of us can feel, yet struggle to talk about.

A generation drowning in isolation, as remote work shifts from pyjamas in paradise to our own personal prison and AI threatens to make human connection optional. The economy keeps demanding more while offering less certainty in return.

The Corporate Squeeze

Let's talk about what's really happening here. While Live Nation gobbles up venues and festivals, jacking up ticket prices and "convenience fees" that are about as convenient as a kick in the teeth, our local scenes are dying. Recent ABC investigations have exposed how this corporate stranglehold is reshaping our cultural landscape – and not in a good way.

Think about it: We're watching the same pattern that killed small bookstores and local shops play out in our music scene.

The big get bigger, the small disappear, and somehow we end up paying more for less.

I didn't set out to study this. But when you spend 4-5 nights a week above a live music venue, patterns start to emerge.

You notice things that the statistics miss.

Like how the guy who showed up alone, looking uncomfortable as hell, ends up in an intense conversation about guitar pedals with a complete stranger. Or how the band that seems terrible to you might be exactly what someone else needed to hear tonight.

Of course this isn't just about the music. It's about what happens when people show up.

When we put ourselves in the path of possibility.

The Twenty Bucks Theory

So here's what I'm thinking: What if we created a monthly ritual? One night, one venue, twenty bucks max (including a beer). Maybe it's metal, maybe it's folk, maybe it's someone's nanna playing jazz flute. The point isn't the genre – it's the gesture.

Because here's what nobody tells you about mental health:

Sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is show up for something bigger than yourself.

When you buy that ticket, you're not just treating your own isolation.

You're helping keep the lights on at venues that have been cultural lifelines for decades.

You're supporting artists who might be the next Midnight Oil or INXS (even if they sound terrible right now).

You're investing in the kind of city you want to live in.

And most importantly, simply by showing up, you might just help someone else feel slightly less alone.

The Real Safety Net

We talk about social safety nets like they're something governments build. But maybe the real safety nets are the ones we build together, one cover charge at a time.

Think about it: What's the real cost of losing another venue? According to industry data, the average ticket price for contemporary music has only grown by 2.7% annually from 2004 to 2023. But that statistic hides the real story – the disappearance of the small, weird, wonderful shows that don't make it into the official numbers.

To be clear: This is not just about heavy metal (though let's be honest, sometimes screaming along to distorted guitars is exactly the therapy we need). It's about creating low-stakes opportunities for high-value connection.

The research is clear: social isolation increases the risk of premature death by about 30%. That's roughly the same impact as smoking 15 cigarettes a day. But here's the thing – you can't solve loneliness with an app. You can't swipe right on community.

Maybe you hate the band. Maybe you stand in the corner nursing your free beer. Maybe you don't talk to a single person. That's fine. You still showed up. You still chose possibility over Netflix. You got out of your head for a bit and did something that resonated far beyond your own four walls.

The Movement

I'm starting this on the Gold Coast because you if have to start somewhere… So why not start downstairs?

One show, one venue, one month at a time.

But imagine if it spread – a network of venues and communities, each creating their own version of this idea.

Not another mental health app. Not another LinkedIn post about reaching out if you're struggling. Just people showing up, supporting local culture, and maybe finding something they didn't know they were looking for.

Because sometimes the heaviest thing isn't the music – it's the weight of trying to sort your shit out, all by yourself.

And right now, as both our venues and our mental health hang by a thread, maybe saving one might just help save the other.

Who's in?