It’s haunted, of course. Ask the staff and you’ll hear all manner of yarns about moving bar stools, random drops in temperature, even the odd apparition; and with its raised, pulpit-level seating and general air of Victorian eeriness, remarkable atmospherics are in no short supply.
But, then, what do you expect? It’s a de-consecrated church, after all, with, if legend is to believed, a space in the basement of just the right dimensions to lay out a corpse.
The Empire Music Hall on Belfast’s Botanic Avenue is a place that, over the years – in one form or another – has developed a marksman’s skill in targeting the hairs on the back of people’s necks. It’s somewhere that likes to make you question what you’ve just seen.
A few weeks ago Antony and The Johnsons filled its pretty, music-box stage and, within one or two notes, showed themselves to be perfectly in tune with the old joint’s soul.
Okay, considering the quality on offer, the band could probably have played in a games arcade in Smithfield and made a success of the gig; but such was the degree of sympathy between the music (dark, haunting, reverent, subtly choral) and the setting (dark, haunting etc etc), the night soon developed into one of those prickly skin occasions that you don’t want to end.
And it’s far from the first time that this has happened. Over the years The Empire has provided the perfect setting for the kind of acts who draw their power from persuading their audience to lean forward a little closer.
Lambchop have been twice (choosing to end their last European tour there) and both times, as they were being handed pints of Guinness by the punters, they quietly went about their business of being the best band in the world.
No-one who caught Sigur Ros will ever forget their show; ergo Joe Pernice, Yo La Tengo, Smog, Low, Wheat, David Kitt, Richie Haven and Roger McGuinn have all left indelible impressions, without ever having to raise their voices.
Which is not to say that The Empire can’t cut loose when the occasion demands it. When At The Drive In came to town, the venue played host to one of the most punishing and unhinged concerts in the city’s history.
Likewise, Therapy? took great pleasure in (sonically speaking) desecrating an old place of worship during their thunderous tenth anniversary show.
And guess where the first Fatboy Slim sorties to Belfast took place? There may be a few old timbers around the place, but some foundation-rocking nights courtesy of the likes of Death In Vegas, The Free Association, The Jungle Brothers and Jurassic 5 showed it could still cut a rug.
The Empire has also proven to be a vital resource for more than just music.
Now that the Tuesday club has long established itself as Belfast’s main comedy night, it’s difficult to imagine just how radical a development it was in the early-to mid ‘90s.
Post-Celebrity Love Island, the words “exciting” and “provocative” would only ever find themselves in the same sentence as the name Patrick Kielty if they’d been doped with Rohypnol and left to stroll around in a daze.
But back in his salad-days, as host of the splendidly boisterous gathering, Kielty was a stand-up of some substance – a baby-faced, tight-rope walker, eager to score in the open goals of the North’s sectarian divide.
His weekly slots (which soon far outstripped the time allotted to visiting big-name comics) offered a welcome alternative narrative at a time when ground-up developments were patently outstripping the intuitive capacity of our politicians.
He was brilliant. Or maybe it was The Empire working its magic again.
With the development and design of new venues and bars in Belfast apparently left in the hands of Big Brother producers (deviant-friendly, up-stairs glass floor – check), give praise for one place unafraid of showing its age. Give The Empire a chance if you can. You might find out why even the dead can’t keep away.