Meet PBKL, The Space That Says No To Gatekeeping & Yes To Tom Yam

By Lara Kramer  •  25 Apr 2025 in Features

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You know a venue’s going to be good when it’s named after a tom yam shop.

That’s not even a joke. Petai Belalang KL (PBKL) got its name from a spicy haunt near the founders’ high school in Alor Setar, and honestly, it tracks. But why name a gig space after that? Because it’s funny, duh.

Equal parts homage, inside joke, and chaotic neutral energy, PBKL is very much a space “for the people, by the people who used to bunk math class to play gigs in someone’s garage”.

Founded by Aqmal and Thoriq (who also play in the post-everything band Pasca Sini), PBKL isn’t just a venue. It’s a love letter to the underdog. A protest against creative gatekeeping. A breathing, sweating, half-soundchecked space for the misfits, emos, punks, hardcore heads, synth weirdos, and everyone in between.

Born out of years in the trenches of Malaysia’s underground music scene, the venue was their response to a very specific pain point…

Why are the best shows always in the worst conditions? Horrid sound, cramped corners, no fans, no green room, no idea who’s even playing.

Aqmal had enough. “Any studio could pass as a venue,” he says, “Even if it’s only for 10 pax. Haha.”

But PBKL is not that. Located in a building they’re subletting in Kampung Attap, it’s right in the beating, sweaty heart of KL. Fully air-conditioned, it comes with proper sound engineering, a dedicated FOH table, a green room, and space that’s been intentionally designed by musicians, for musicians. And unlike corporate venues like [redacted], PBKL doesn’t exist to milk money out of art—it exists to nurture it.

The space even has a small lounge that doubles as a rest zone and hangout spot—where fans can decompress, and bands can scream into the void off-stage if needed. They’ve got a solid PA system, backline options (most of it their own gear), and a layout that considers the crowd, merch flow, and stage movement.

And no, there’s no bar. Because they’re not trying to be a club. They’re trying to be a home.

PBKL opened its doors for the first time on 18 January 2024.

The event? Jenuh Kampoi, a small Thursday night gig featuring Pasca Sini and Akta, announced just a few days prior. Only about 40 people showed up—and frankly? That was perfect.

“It was chaos,” Aqmal laughs. “We only had an 8-channel analog mixer, as we couldn’t get our digital mixer on time. But it worked, it was far more raw and intimate.”

Since then, they’ve scaled fast. Festival Kuala Lopek, for instance, pulled over 130 people one sweltering Saturday. It was meant to be a soft mid-year fest. It turned into a full-blown sweaty rite of passage.

And then there’s the yearly Raya Gig, now a growing tradition.

“The first one had a full baju Melayu crowd,” Aqmal remembers. “And people brought duit raya. We just wanted to see what would happen if we threw a gig during Raya—and now, it’s a thing.”

KL, once rich with affordable creative corners, has been gentrified to oblivion.

Independent artists are either being priced out or forced underground. Meanwhile, venues are either inaccessible, overpriced, or totally disconnected from the culture they’re hosting.

Petai Belalang pushes back against that. And they do it intentionally. The venue is a reflection of everything they wished they had coming up in the scene—affordable rental rates, proper stage layout, safety, and a sense of community.

“We want to be the first venue a band plays at,” Thoriq says. “The place where someone goes to their first ever local show.”

They’ve designed it so a whole lineup can load in, soundcheck, sell merch, and decompress—all without feeling like they’re in the backroom of someone’s vape shop. “Even if you only bring 10 people, that’s still 10 people who got to experience something real.”

The slogan—All for music, music for all—isn’t just a tagline. It’s their lifeblood. And unlike other “DIY” venues that mysteriously charge RM2k for five hours and expect bands to bring their own cables, PBKL is sustainable without bleeding bands dry.

“We don’t make much,” Aqmal says. “Just enough to survive and keep the lights on.”

Let’s be real: Malaysia’s DIY scene, especially in the indie/emo/post-hardcore space, can still be pretty Malay-centric.

It’s not gatekeeping; it’s just inertia. Aqmal is the first to point it out: “To our non-Malay friends—Chinese, Indian, Sabah/Sarawak kids—you’re invited. Pull up. Respectfully.”

The venue isn’t genre-specific either. As long as you’re good and not an asshole, you’re welcome. That said, PBKL has had their fair share of divas.

“Some bands come late, skip soundcheck, then complain about the sound. Bro… who told you not to check your mic?” Aqmal sighs. (You know who you are.)

The Future of PBKL? Clone It.

Running a venue isn’t glamorous. Aqmal and Thoriq wear multiple hats—booking agent, FOH engineer, janitor, mediator, sometimes even crowd control. “I didn’t expect to be booking this many shows,” Aqmal admits. “But the scene needs it. And I’m always down to help anyone run a gig. Just hit me up.”

Their dream is simple: Clone themselves.

“We want more spaces like this. Not necessarily PBKL franchises—but similar energies. Whether in KL or beyond.” If you’re someone with a space, a PA, and a dream, they want to talk to you.

They also want more people involved—especially those who’ve been feeling like they don’t belong. “You don’t need to have a punk band to be part of this. You just need to care. And show up.”

Speaking of bands…

You can’t talk about PBKL without talking about Pasca Sini.

The band is their anchor—emotionally and logistically. With roots in early 2010s MySpace-core, the iconic quartet from Damansara has grown into a full-fledged emo/post-hardcore staple. They’ve opened for Mayday Parade, toured Bali and Japan, and helped book and mentor younger acts like Porcelane.

They’ve got two new releases dropping this year: A split EP with Singapore’s Iman’s League and their long-awaited second album. It’s been five years since their first one dropped. “We want this to feel like a proper next chapter,” Thoriq says.

And just like PBKL, Pasca Sini exists to make space. “We were given chances. So now we give chances.”

TL;DR: Pull Up

Petai Belalang KL is a reminder that with enough grit, rage, and RM5 tom yam, you can build something sacred. It’s messy. It’s sweaty. It might not always run on time. But it’s real. It’s yours.

So start a band. Book a gig. Buy a shirt. Just show up and scream your lungs out from the back. Idk, maybe even take a photo under the big ass chandelier. PBKL will still be here—lights on, mics hot, doors open.

Stay tuned for more cool spaces on JUICE!