The rise and fall of the Dorothy Pax

Richard Henderson has always wanted to run a live music venue. Now 52, he put on his first festival at the age of 18 and has spent much of his life since playing music or promoting it. In the 1990s he was in a Grateful Dead cover band called the Cosmic Charlies that toured festivals in Europe and held a residency in Amsterdam. Back home and in his mid-40s, he finally found a place where he thought his dreams of opening one might actually come true.

Living on a houseboat moored just a short distance down the Sheffield and Tinsley Canal, he walked past the arches at Victoria Quays for years. At the time, the area was largely empty. A previous attempt at regeneration in the ‘90s had foundered, and in 2017 there was just one sandwich shop in the area. It was perceived to be uninviting, dangerous and a bit scary. Back then, Unit 17 was a derelict dental surgery.

We’re speaking in the cave-like interior of that former dental surgery, which over the last eight years Henderson has turned into the Dorothy Pax, a bar named after one of the last barges to sail on the canal, which has become one of Sheffield’s most highly regarded grassroots music venues. The arched ceiling is covered in photos and posters, and the faint smell of beer still lingers even though the taps have been turned off for more than two weeks. On March 5, the Dorothy Pax announced it was closing. In an emotional statement posted on social media, which has now been viewed more than 250,000 times, they said they had “exhausted every avenue” to try to stay open. It was no longer possible.

The announcement led to an outpouring of emotion. Fans spoke of their “sadness” and “devastation”. The word “gutted” was used liberally. Some even refused to accept the news at all and started brainstorming ideas to save it. “This is not ok,” wrote one. “Fundraiser?” Now that the dust had settled, I wanted to find out whether Henderson thinks the Dorothy Pax was always ultimately doomed, or whether anything could have been done to save it. I also wanted to know whether this was really the end.

Richard Henderson cuts a unique figure: a bit disheveled with a slightly squiffy smile. He looks much the same today, but he’s more downbeat than I’ve seen him in the past. He chain smokes throughout the 45-minute interview, and on several occasions he pauses for some time before answering questions, as if he’s trying to compose himself before speaking. He’s thought long and hard about whether to speak to me and has been advised not to by several people. “I don’t mind admitting I’m a little bit embarrassed. I feel like a charlatan,” he says. Why on earth would you feel like that, I ask. He looks around for a few seconds like he doesn’t want to catch my eye. “Because I haven't managed to make this business succeed.”