The Breeding Ground

The Breeding Ground. Go on, say it again slowly. The Breeding Ground. A name that suggests either an arts venue or a documentary about bacteria.

Rhyl having an “alternative venue” isn’t exactly a revolutionary concept. We’ve had the Anti-Disco, The Gallery, Trotters, Def Con 1, The Stand… a proud lineage of brave little ideas repeatedly marching into the same brick wall. That wall is a double-edged sword. One edge is blunt and labelled Apathy. Everyone moans endlessly about the lack of alternatives to nightclub culture, yet when something actually appears, they vanish like vampires at sunrise. The other edge is equally blunt and largely made of… well, shit. Rhyl has always had a handful of people who insist on fouling the soup and then loudly complaining when it tastes funny. Thankfully, they remain a minority, albeit a noisy one.

In North Wales, everyone either plays in a band or has at least stood next to someone who once owned a guitar. Of those bands, about 10% are genuinely special, 60% are very good, and the rest are… on a journey. That’s not an insult — just a public service announcement.

Babakin sit comfortably in the “very good” category. Quick to turn the Foot & Mouth crisis into stage décor, they arrived in white culling suits with a big prohibition sign — just one inflatable sheep short of a full agricultural tragedy. I first saw them six years ago supporting Sons of Selina on a farm near Abergele, which in hindsight feels like method acting. They remain a power-pop band with a relaxed confidence and a bassist worth the entrance fee alone. Rhyl might be a lively sea of music, but Colwyn Bay has long resembled a stagnant pond dominated by heavy rock covers. Perhaps Babakin and Wild Mornings might finally give it a stir.

People join bands for many reasons. Yes, we all dream of adoring fans and leaving £1000 tips in restaurants, but most of us accept we’re far more likely to leave exact change at the bar. So it becomes about entertainment — for the audience and for the band. When TBG rejects a band for not being good enough, the correct response is not to form on Saturday, record a demo midweek, and expect a headline slot by Friday. Only terrible Welsh-language bands manage that and end up on S4C within a week — and even they get found out eventually. The real route involves graft: schools, pubs, colleges, youth clubs. The clapometer rarely lies.

Speaking of which, Bradford’s Goad would have registered somewhere below zero. Polite Easter applause quickly faded into disinterest. Maybe The Cardinals were right and North Wales is two years behind the times. Or maybe the “new indie” from big cities sounds suspiciously like dodgy Hazel O’Connor B-sides with complicated drum timings. Interest had died almost completely when Goad began their last song — which their singer abruptly stopped mid-verse, confiscated the guitarist’s instrument, and marched off. A bold artistic statement, if the statement was “we’re done here.”

The Bistro, for all its nostalgia and charm, showed what happens when good intentions meet the need to sell drinks: weekly gigs eventually turned an “alternative” venue into a pub-rock conveyor belt. Some brilliant nights happened there, but less really would have been more. Personally, I’d space TBG to every three weeks out of season and keep it fresh. So far, so good — the sell-by date remains comfortably distant, and booking bigger names like Spear of Destiny is a definite feather in the cap. Now the challenge is variety; you can only recycle the same bands so many times before the flavour fades.

So if you’re slagging off TBG right now, congratulations on having a mind both narrow and impressively small. You’re criticising people who are actually trying to create something — entertainment, community, a reason to leave the house. Of course, you could always return to the glory days of the occasional gig upstairs at the New Inn, if that’s more your speed.