I FIRST stepped out onto a dancefloor to the scorched vocal chords of shock-rocker extraordinaire, Marilyn Manson.

His cover of Sweet Dreams persuaded my 14-year-old self to gather her crushed velvet skirts and shuffle awkwardly onto the smoke-filled floor of Stockton’s Georgian Theatre. Prior to that moment, my forays onto the dancefloor had been almost nil, give or take the odd tipsy aunty trying to drag me up for a wedding-inspired hokey-cokey/Agadoo.

Aside from a strangely-enduring love for New Kids on the Block, 80s and 90s pop largely left me cold, I was a fairly shy kid and absolutely rhythm-less, unable and stubbornly unwilling to transform banging tunes into body-popping moves.

However, I was – and remain – obsessed with music, an early fascination with Buddy Holly quickly morphing to include his peers and pretty much anyone else who picked up a guitar in the 1950s. From there, to grunge, goth and a lot of weird sounds in between.

My musical education came in the form of cassettes from far-off penpals, records from boot-sales or scavenged from my parents’ collection and film soundtracks. It was largely a solitary pursuit until I stumbled upon the Georgian Theatre, a tiny venue hidden in Stockton’s Green Dragon Yard.

It hosted an under-18s rock night and was filled every Friday with Teesside’s most colourful young misfits and miscreants. DJ Malcolm was a hairy, 80s vision of a metal-ler – an elder of the scene there to guide new recruits through all things guitar-based.

Malcolm’s metal night introduced me to many, many tunes as well as the people I’d spend my adolescence with. Once I looked old enough, I took myself off to Middlesbrough’s Blaises for the weekly alternative night, saving up school dinner money to buy a covert Malibu and Coke and a taxi home.

Sweat dripped from its underground walls, but nobody cared when it was the only place to hear Pearl Jam or Paradise Lost. It was at Blaises that I launched my own club nights, a skint teen desperate to make others dance to The Sisters of Mercy.

I felt at home for the first time socially and it was those places that came to mind during the recent Independent Venue Week.

It was in such dark, sticky venues that I first heard the soundtrack to my life and it was in those venues and others like them that I saw a million and one sweaty, earnest young bands. It’s incredibly depressing to see venues like them dropping off the map, folding one after another across the UK.

Thankfully, the Georgian’s still there but hundreds like it have been lost to the mists of time and the corporate commodification of the music scene. The mainstream is well catered for and will be so long as people are willing to throw money at brand-owned arenas to see bands that made it big.

But those bands were probably born in places like The Georgian, introduced by an amateur promoter with no corporate backing, just a discount at the printers and crossed fingers. Gigs are at their best when they’re attended by fans who queue in the rain, pay at the door and rush to the stage.

The music scene should never be allowed to be represented by Bon Jovi and their golden circle of corporate-day-out gig goers, booking fees, VIP packages, £200 tickets or meet and greets.

Sadly, the venues and fans that form the grassroots are being neglected while all things corporate and soulless establish a firm foothold. Let’s flood the independent venues we’re still lucky enough to have before they’re swept away for good.