Who books what: the kinds of room and their three clocks

The same email, sent on the same Monday to a pub landlord, to the programmer of a funded venue and to the director of a civic theatre, was read at three different moments, for three different reasons, and produced no date at all. Not because it was bad. Because it was early for one, late for another, and beside the point for the third.

"Venues" do not exist. There are people, with different jobs and different calendars, and in this country the one who books is often not in the building at all. Let us take them one at a time, and look at their watches.

Pubs with a back room. The landlord, or a promoter who hires the room on Thursdays: one person, reachable, snowed under. They want a night that does something for the bar; your crowd counts as much as your music. One to three months ahead. A door split after the sound costs, sometimes a small fee, nearly always a drink and a plate of something.

Grassroots venues. A few book in-house; most of the calendar is hired by promoters who put the bill together. They want a fit with their nights, an idea of your crowd in their city, and a local band on the bill. Their regular nights (new band night, monthly all-dayer) are the real door. Two to four months.

Arts centres and funded venues. A team, a season, often a brief to develop artists from the area. At tier 2 you get in as a support, on a showcase night, on a development scheme, and you say so in the email.

Student unions. An ents officer who changes every year, term-time only, decisions in September and January. They want a night that fills the bar on a weekday.

Village halls, community centres and social clubs. Well equipped, everywhere, and they book almost nothing: they host. We come back to them in two screens.

Theatres and civic halls. Season locked very early, show bought at a fixed fee, seated crowd.

Festivals. A team that is often volunteers, an application form with dates. Respecting it counts for more than the quality of your email.

Monday, 10 am, Priya sends the same email, "available in spring for a date at yours", to three addresses.

Dave, on the tram, reads it at half eight on Tuesday. Spring, for him, is in three weeks or in three months, he does not know. He tells himself he will look in March. He forgets.

Sam, programmer at a 450 cap funded venue in Leeds, reads it on Tuesday. His season has been locked since last May, the spring headliners came through agents. What he notices most is that the email does not ask for a support, the only thing he could have given. Polite reply, negative.

The director of the civic theatre in Chesterfield reads it in March, with the 140 other applications in the inbox. He is programming the season after next. No reply.

Three rooms, three clocks, one email: zero dates. With three different sentences and one target fewer, Priya would have had a "send me your April dates" from Dave and a "come back for the autumn supports" from Sam.

Forget "venues book ahead". There are three clocks, and your email has to say which one you are reading.

12 to 18 months: theatres and civic halls. Season locked in spring for the following autumn. In November, you write for the season after.

3 to 6 months, and 4 to 10 weeks: arts centres, funded venues and student unions. Showcase nights and schemes get decided by rolling term or half-year; supports get slotted in four to ten weeks out, once the headliner is confirmed.

A cancellation gap gets filled in a week, and that is often how a local band gets in. The magic sentence: "if a date opens up, we're forty minutes up the M1".

1 to 3 months: pubs and promoters. Plenty work month to month. February for April, perfect; February for October gets you a "come back in August". Summer festivals, on the other hand, read from September to February: by April, the line-up is at the printer.

Theatre, in November: "We're writing about the 2027-2028 season, as your choices for next year are no doubt made."

Funded venue, in January: "Your March and April programme isn't announced yet; if you're looking for a support for a punk night, we're forty minutes away and available on weeknights."

Promoter, in February: "We're after a Friday or Saturday in April; are you still putting nights together for then?"

Pick the months you want to play, then two kinds of room, not six. The wheel tells you whether the window is open, too early or already shut, and sets the date of your first wave of emails.

The village hall in the Hope Valley has a stage, a PA, 250 seats and nobody who books. It is the most numerous kind of room and the least understood: in nearly every village, a well-equipped hall that hosts, and does not book. The night is put on by a committee, a charity, the parish council's events group.

On the parish council website, Priya finds the what's on: eight gigs a year, all signed "Hope Valley Live". On the group's Facebook page, a number. She rings.

Priya: Hi, it's Priya, from Wet Pavement, we're a band in Sheffield. Is it you who puts on the gigs at the village hall?

Jean: Yes, well, there's four of us, all volunteers.

Priya: We're garage-punk, we play around Sheffield. Are you still booking for this spring?

Jean: We've got a Friday in May where the band's pulled out. How many of you are there? Have you got a video?

Priya: Three, and yes, I'll send it over within the hour.

Zero competition, an equipped room, a crowd that turns up to anything that happens in the village. Emails to "the hall" would never have found Jean.

Variation: offer a full night yourself to a village committee or a social club, with a band from the area opening and your own PA if needed. It is negotiated as one fee for the whole bill, £500 to £1,000 ballpark.

The rule does not move: one person, one calendar, one email written for them. The first-contact reflex, though, changes with the country.

At home. Most rooms do not book: promoters hire the venue and put the night together, bills of three or four bands, door split after costs. Finding the active promoters (on the posters, on the venue's page) beats writing to the venue.

Email first, a short Instagram message to the promoter afterwards; they size up your crowd from your past events. Steer clear of nights where the band has to sell tickets. Say no to pay to play, by name.

Germany. A network of socio-cultural centres, student clubs and volunteer-run venues right down to the small towns, often with a decent fee. Many state "Bandbewerbungen nur per E-Mail oder Formular, keine telefonischen Anfragen". So you fill in the form to the letter, short and factual, then follow up by email. Ringing is read as not being able to read. Du in clubs, Sie with an institution until told otherwise.

France. A dense network of funded venues and cultural centres, with a real culture of artist development (residencies, competitions). The phone works, for bars and town halls: early afternoon, never during service, twenty seconds to get a first name. Vous in the first email.

You know the kinds of room, their clocks and the three countries. You know the hall in the Hope Valley has a Jean, that Sam is after a support for March, and that the theatre in Chesterfield is not for this year. Time to choose.