Long Live the Scene: A Love Letter to Toronto’s Vanishing Music Venues

There was a time in Toronto when the heartbeat of the city pulsed through amps and cymbals, not condo drills and construction cranes. Back in the ’90s and early 2000s, you didn’t need a million followers or a Spotify campaign to be heard. You just needed a busted amp, a few chords, and a stage—any stage.

For Filipino bands in Toronto, those stages meant everything.

We called it Tinolapalooza—our own pocket-sized festival tucked into places like Rancho Relaxo. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was ours. Tuesday night open mics became therapy sessions. We nicknamed them Call in Sick Wednesdays because the hangover from the music—not the beer—was real.

It wasn’t just Rancho.
We slammed guitar strings at El Mocambo, played Adobo Fest at The Big Bop, and jammed raw, sweaty sets at Reilly’sduring what we called Brownout Sessions—no posters, no fanfare, just packed rooms full of energy and belonging. These weren’t just gigs. These were homecomings.

There, in those sticky-floored, dim-lit venues, Filipino indie bands carved their place in the city. For many of us, it was the first time we were seen. Not just as immigrants or outsiders, but as artists. As equals. Every show gave someone the courage to speak louder, to feel heard, to belong.

And then—bit by bit—they started disappearing.

Rancho. Reilly’s. The Big Bop. Cathedral. Silver Dollar. Hideout. And now, Phoenix is on the chopping block. Even El Mo, though technically back, doesn’t feel the same.

The culprit?
Gentrification. Rent hikes. Noise complaints. Zoning laws. A pandemic that wiped out more than just businesses—it erased entire scenes.

What hurts most?
No one seemed to fight for them. We let them go quietly, like background noise fading out. But every venue that closed wasn’t just a business—it was a beating heart. A story unfinished. A young artist silenced before their first verse.

This isn’t about clinging to the past.
This is about protecting the future.

Because not every band starts with a viral hit. Some start in a dive bar with a busted mic and a crowd of five. That’s where the real stuff happens. That’s where you learn to fail loudly, recover with a grin, and keep playing anyway.

Some venues are still holding on. Fighting to keep the music alive. If we don’t show up now—if we don’t care—they’ll be the next to go.

So here’s my ask:
Support the local stage.
Buy the ticket. Stay for the set.
Because these aren’t just places where music is played.
They’re where dreams begin.