DIY or Die
- 16 hours ago
- 6 min read
Cleveland’s do-it-yourself music scene is holding on through care, community and commitment from members who need it most.
Written by Nicole Wloszek-Therens
Beyond the Ticketmaster fees and overcrowded stadium shows, a more authentic live music scene exists in Cleveland’s underground. Powered by musicians fueled by the love of the game, the do-it-yourself scene demonstrates what’s possible with just a few necessities: an open space, a power source and a few equally enthusiastic comrades.
“We want to curate our own community,” Sabri said. “This community has not always been super supportive to our blackness or girlness or queerness.”
After anarcho-punk band Crass declared in 1978 that “punk rock is dead,” it’s echoed throughout commentary that the movement had been taken over by the mainstream music industry. But it feels more alive than ever – right here in Cleveland. In the DIY places increasingly shaped by people who were once historically sidelined, like women, POC, and members of the LGBTQ+ community, the anti-establishment and anti-bigotry culture is thriving.
Nia, a 2019 graduate of Cleveland State University, plays the drums in Skwerm, a self-described “punkersomething” band that combines sounds from punk rock and hardcore to funk. The group’s identity shapes their existence in DIY as three Black, femme musicians, part of something built from the ground up. For Nia, an important part of this existence is the very ethos of DIY: doing it yourself.
“It means trying to do everything yourself, to the best of your ability,” Nia said about what DIY means to her. “Make that poster. Make that merch. Try to depend less on the evil pillars of the world.”
The self-sustaining anomaly is a direct rejection of the “evil pillars.” It means exactly what it says – an attempt to genuinely “do it yourself” every step of the way, from finding a venue to hand-drawing promotional materials. Although the budget isn’t often high, pure passion and intention have fueled its existence for years.
Cleveland is no stranger to the homegrown music scene. Speak in Tongues, a creative space that operated on Cleveland’s West Side from 1994 to 2001, hosted shows that never cost more than $5. Collectively, residents and supporters worked together to book and organize events outside of the mainstream concert circuit – even hosting emerging bands that would later go on to amass fame and success. Modest Mouse was the unofficial “house band,” playing at the venue several times in their early career.
In recent years, the DIY scene has increasingly shifted to serving as a safe space for marginalized communities, but it wasn’t always this way.
Segregation has long existed in Cleveland’s music scene. According to Case Western’s Encyclopedia of Cleveland, local participation in jazz originally developed along racially segregated lines. Black musicians were forced to play in segregated clubs and until 1962, Black jazz artists were separated into a different union local than white musicians.
The city’s early rock and punk scenes were reflective of these continued divides, plagued by white male-dominated lineups and gatekeeping that pushed marginalized artists away, rather than welcoming them in. Nia said that divide even still exists within some dark corners of the underground, but artists and bands like Nia are fighting against its presence to protect the sanctuary that matters to them.
“We want to curate our own community. This community has not always been super supportive to our blackness or girlness or queerness,” Nia said. “We know [bigotry] isn’t right. If we want to be about it, then let’s be about it.”
Challenges and Change
Nia met her bandmates at a now-shuttered DIY venue in 2019 called Blk Punx Press, a POC-run cooperative that prioritized supporting marginalized artists. Skwerm was born out of an understanding that what they had was rare and worth preserving.
“It was mostly like, ‘Oh my God, we’re three girls. We’re three black girls. So who plays drums, who plays guitar and who plays bass?’” Nia said.
Skwerm’s existence has persisted, but Blk Punx Press has not. It closed its doors due to the financial complications that grassroots places so often face. While traditional concert venues are licensed businesses with occupancy permits and tax obligations, collective-run places often exist in more of a gray area.
DIY doesn’t often come in a neat package that’s easily digestible to outsiders. Like most unvarnished corners of the world, full of folks that are used to being pushed to the sidelines of society, there can be unrulyness.
Nia said the occasional substance abuse and violence can make the concept an even more difficult pill for the uninitiated to swallow, but this doesn’t mean it’s inherently bad. She thinks it’s just misunderstood. Bodies covered with bruises earned in mosh pits aren’t necessarily a palatable sight.
“People in the hardcore scene, they get such a negative rap or negative outlook from people who don’t understand,” Nia said. “I think a misconception is that people in the scene don’t care. But it’s like, I care so much.”
Because of these perceptions and regulations, it’s not uncommon for DIY locations to go as quickly as they came. Rent increases, noise complaints and city enforcement can see a venue shut down overnight.
In February 2026, the city of Cleveland temporarily shut down a DIY space called Purple Door that hosted both local and touring bands in a warehouse in the Cudell neighborhood.
Lizzard, a 32-year-old Cleveland native and veteran of the DIY scene, said it served as an accessible place for musicians regardless of genre or performance history to do what they love – share music with anyone curious enough to listen. Lizzard had worked as part of the team of organizers at Purple Door since its conception, helping run shows and keep operations going.
“When I get off work, I am stressed to hell. The only thing that’s given me that break or that joy is being at Purple Door, booking shows, getting everybody together,” Lizzard said. “That’s my peace in a way.”
This fight to exist as a place of community has persisted throughout DIY’s history, and Lizzard has seen the scene shift as it fights to be a safe space for marginalized groups in the world of mainstream music and city intervention.
“It’s definitely a little awkward pulling up to a show and being one of three black people,” they said about their past experiences as a concert goer. “Now, I feel like you see every type of person participating in the space and engaging with each other. It feels more cohesive. It feels more welcoming than it did before.”
To Lizzard, the shift represents a broader change in how the new generation entering the DIY scene understands the world around them.
“I think that this generation is so acutely aware of how awful the world is,” Lizzard said. “They do take those extra steps to be more open, more conscious of the things they say and more protective of the people in their spaces.”
The protection comes in sometimes small but consistent gestures, like making sure that people are comfortable to show up as themselves, or calling out behavior that doesn’t align with the scene’s values.
“I am so much more comfortable within this space because I feel as though I don’t have to be anything other than me,” Lizzard said. “And as long as I bring me to the table, then we Gucci.”
Whether organizing shows or playing them, the scene serves as a lifeline for both Lizzard and Nia. They both think that despite the fact that there’s more room for the culture and support surrounding it to grow, it’s something worth holding onto.
Sitting in a warehouse art studio looking out at the skyline of the city that serves as an industrial playground for the underground, Nia reflects on where the scene is headed.
“I’m hopeful. I guess there’s no other way to survive, honestly,” Nia said. “I mean, yeah, DIY or die.”
