Hammersmith Apollo

Listen for a moment. Traffic hums on the flyover above, and buses swing around the gyratory in a slow, endless loop. Then you turn, and there it is. A long, pale facade with clean vertical lines, rising calmly out of the noise. This is the Hammersmith Apollo. For nearly a century, people have queued on this pavement in the cold and the rain. They came to see films first, then music, then comedy. Many say it was the best night of their lives.

The building opened in 1932 as the Gaumont Palace, a cinema. That fact surprises many visitors who know it only as a concert hall. In the early 1930s, Britain was building enormous picture palaces. Going to the cinema was a weekly ritual for millions of people. A ticket bought you a few warm hours away from the economic hardship outside. The aim was simple. Make ordinary people feel like royalty for the price of a seat.

The architect was Robert Cromie, who designed many cinemas in that era. He worked in the Art Deco style. Art Deco was the fashionable look of the interwar years, built on bold geometry, smooth surfaces and a feeling of machine-age optimism. Look at the facade in front of you. Notice the strong upright bands and the flat, sculpted planes. There is very little fussy ornament here. The effect comes from proportion, rhythm and the play of light across stone-coloured surfaces.

Inside, the auditorium is vast. It holds several thousand people, which places it among the largest theatres of its kind in London. The space sweeps wide rather than climbing steeply, so the stage feels close even from the back. Cinema designers wanted every person to see the screen clearly. That same quality helps concerts today. Performers often say they can feel the whole crowd at once. The building is protected today as a listed building, recognised for its special architectural interest.

Here is a detail many visitors miss. Like other great cinemas of its time, the theatre was fitted with a Compton organ. Before sound films became standard, and for years afterwards, organists entertained audiences between screenings. These instruments could imitate drums, bells, birdsong and whole orchestras. The organ rose into view on a lift, often bathed in coloured light. For audiences in the 1930s, the music was as much part of the evening as the film itself.

In 1962, the cinema took a new name — the Hammersmith Odeon. That name would soon travel around the world. Through the 1960s and 1970s, live music took over. Rock and pop were growing into a huge industry, and bands needed large indoor rooms. This old picture palace was ready. Its size, its sightlines and its location in west London made it a natural stop on almost every major tour passing through Britain.

One night stands above the rest. In July 1973, David Bowie played here as his character Ziggy Stardust. Near the end of the show, he told the crowd that this would be the last show they would ever do. Fans gasped. Even some of his own band did not know it was coming. Bowie was retiring the character, not himself. The concert was filmed, and that footage still lets you see the moment a rock legend ended on this stage.

In 1975, a young American named Bruce Springsteen played his first shows in Britain here. According to a story often told by fans, the venue was covered with posters announcing that London was finally ready for him. The hype reportedly made him uneasy, and he is said to have pulled some posters down himself. Whatever the exact details, the recordings from those nights later became much loved. They captured an artist on the edge of enormous fame.

The heavy metal band Motörhead also tied themselves to this address. Their 1981 live album was titled No Sleep 'til Hammersmith. The title made this building a symbol of the end of the road, the final night of a hard tour. There is a small irony here. Much of that album was recorded at other stops on the tour. But the name stuck, and for rock fans, Hammersmith became shorthand for the place where the journey finally arrives.

In the early 1990s, the venue became the Hammersmith Apollo. Since then, it has carried the names of different sponsors, so you may see a company name on the signs and tickets. Many Londoners simply call it the Apollo, or still the Odeon. Around the same time, comedy found a home here too. The BBC series Live at the Apollo was filmed on this stage. Comedians who once played small rooms above pubs now faced thousands of laughing people at once.

In 2014, Kate Bush returned to live performance here with a residency called Before the Dawn. It was her first run of concerts in decades, and tickets vanished almost instantly. Fans travelled from across the world. The shows were theatrical and ambitious, mixing music, film and staging. It felt right that they happened in a building designed for spectacle. Before that, a major restoration had brought back many original Art Deco features inside the auditorium and the foyers.

Step back and look at the setting. The Hammersmith flyover, built in the early 1960s, carries traffic just beside the theatre. The road system swirls around it. Yet the building still holds its ground. A short walk south brings you to the River Thames and the green ironwork of Hammersmith Bridge. Before and after shows, the nearby pubs and cafés fill with fans in band shirts, comparing setlists and arguing about the best song of the night.

So take one more look before you move on. Watch the light settle on that long, pale facade. Imagine the 1930s audiences arriving in hats and coats, eager for a film and an organ recital. Then picture the crowds of 1973, glitter on their faces, unaware of what Bowie was about to say. The same doors have opened for all of them. As you walk away, listen. Somewhere inside, a sound check may be starting.