Written and photographed by That Pink Girl: Hannah Price of Queen Riot Studios.

There’s a very specific type of dread that kicks in when you walk into a venue and instantly know the night is going to be difficult.

Pink Rooms at YES feels like it should be perfect for intimate gigs. Dark, cramped, sweaty, chaotic in the romantic “underground music scene” kind of way. But as a photographer, especially a female photographer, it was honestly one of the most uncomfortable venues I’ve shot in for a long time.

Before the bands had even started, the atmosphere already felt weird. Men standing far too close. A doorman making comments about how “awkward” it was seeing me because apparently I’d added him on Facebook during lockdown, despite me having absolutely no memory of who he even was. The kind of interaction that instantly puts you on edge. The kind where you suddenly become hyper aware of your drink, your surroundings, your body, your exits.

And then the smoke machine started.

And never stopped.

Not atmospheric haze. Actual lung-destroying levels of smoke. Thick enough that you could taste it. Thick enough that my camera, which is literally one of the best on the market for autofocus, was struggling to lock onto anything. Half the time you genuinely couldn’t see where the singer even was. Just red light, silhouettes and movement.

Everything about the venue setup made shooting harder. No pit. No barrier. No space. Just trying to weave through a packed room carrying thousands of pounds worth of kit while creepy old men stared at you like you were part of the entertainment.

At one point I got groped trying to move through the crowd to get a better angle. That’s the reality of gig photography people don’t really talk about enough. You’re expected to just deal with it. Smile through it. Keep shooting through it. Pretend it’s normal.

Then Calva Louise came on and the entire energy shifted.

The first thing I noticed was the bassist being distractingly handsome, which feels important to mention for journalistic integrity.

Then the singer appeared looking like some eerie Corpse Bride version of a frontwoman, floating around the stage in this shredded wedding dress looking thing while static, glitch visuals and fragmented footage flickered across the TVs behind the band. Red light bounced off smoke so thick the whole room looked submerged.

And then she started performing.

I’ve photographed a lot of live music over the years and every now and then you see someone where your brain genuinely struggles to process how many things they’re doing at once. Screaming, singing, switching instruments, controlling the room while somehow still feeling eerily whimsical the entire time.

At one point she was playing keyboard, guitar harmonics while singing and screaming in Spanish and my brain basically gave up trying to comprehend what was happening.

Ironically, this was also the moment I almost died.

Because there was no barrier, the only way to get certain shots was to physically lean around the side of the stage. I was crouched right at the end of her keyboard trying to frame a shot through the smoke with my fisheye lens when she suddenly launched the keyboard sideways across its sliding stand.

I had less than a second to duck.

Genuinely.

The thing missed my head by what felt like millimetres. The person behind me looked horrified. I couldn’t stop laughing afterwards because once the adrenaline wears off there’s not much else you can do.

Worth almost getting decapitated for though.

That pretty much sums the night up honestly.

Because despite all the frustration, the smoke inhalation, the creepy atmosphere, the lack of respect for photographers, the weird men, the crushing crowd and the feeling of wanting to put my hood up and escape the second the set ended… Calva Louise might genuinely be one of the most talented live bands I’ve seen in years.

Which almost makes it more frustrating.

Bands, photographers and audiences deserve better from smaller venues. Better lighting. Less smoke. Actual barriers. Safe storage for camera gear. Basic awareness that photographers are trying to document and promote the scene, not fight for survival in it.

People glamorise live music photography a lot, but nights like this remind you it’s mostly controlled chaos. You’re not standing outside the moment observing it from safety. You’re inside it. Breathing it in. Getting crushed by it. Trying to create something beautiful while your nervous system is actively telling you to leave.

And somehow, despite everything, I’d probably still do it again.