A Warehouse for Warmth: All My Friends in Hackney Wick

By Rafi Mercer

New Listing

Venue Name: All My Friends
Address: 53 White Post Lane, Hackney Wick, London E9 5EN, United Kingdom
Website: allmyfriends.uk
Phone: Not publicly listed

Hackney Wick has a habit of hiding its best things in plain sight, behind shutters and under the hum of old industrial bones. All My Friends is one such find—a big, generous warehouse space that could have been anything, but has been turned into somewhere you want to stay all night. Not just because of the sound, though the sound is reason enough, but because it’s the rare place that feels like the living room of a city that’s been scattered too thin.

Step inside and you get the sense of it straight away. The air is warmer than the canal wind outside, but not stifling. Light pools in corners, leaving the centre open. The layout isn’t cramped—long tables for groups, low seats near the bar, a section in front of the booth where you can choose to stand and lean in. The ceiling is high, the beams exposed, but somehow the sound doesn’t disappear into the rafters.

That’s deliberate. The sound system here is a clever compromise between scale and intimacy—big enough to fill the room, tuned enough to feel close. Bass lines come through with a rounded punch, mids are clean without being clinical, highs sparkle without harshness. You can sit at the far end with a plate of food and still hear detail in the percussion; you can stand by the booth and feel the air move.

Speaking of food, it’s no afterthought. All My Friends has a kitchen that works in rhythm with the records—dishes arrive unhurried, in portions meant for sharing. The night I visited, the plates leaned seasonal and hearty: charred vegetables with smoky edges, slow-cooked meats, breads still warm. Nothing shouts for attention away from the music, but everything makes you want to stay.

The record store section is tucked to one side, easy to miss if you’re not looking. It’s more than a gimmick—it’s a real digger’s corner, with local label pressings, second-hand surprises, and a smattering of global finds. I watched a guest pick up an LP mid-evening, ask the selector if it could be spun, and twenty minutes later it was on, filling the room with horn stabs and the rustle of a live rhythm section from Lagos, 1974.

Programming here is democratic but curated. One night could lean into dusty soul 45s, the next into deep house 12s, and somehow it works. There’s a generosity in the name—All My Friends—and in practice it feels true: the booth is open to a network of selectors who share an ethic of care for the music and the room.

The bar is long enough to hold its own crowd, and while drinks here skew towards craft beer and natural wine, there’s a considered cocktail list too. Nothing too elaborate—just good balance, fresh ingredients, and a sense of match to the mood of the night.

By ten o’clock, the space is in full stride. Groups at tables lean in, the sound is just loud enough to draw you out of your own head without making you shout, and there’s movement in the open space by the booth. Not a dance floor, exactly—more like a zone of expression, where you can choose your own level of involvement.

What makes All My Friends different from some other large listening spaces is that it doesn’t try to force reverence. You can talk here. You can laugh here. The listening is strong, but it’s social listening—shared between people who came together, not imposed on strangers in silence. That doesn’t make the music less important; if anything, it means it reaches people in a way they’ll carry outside.

When the set breaks for a moment, the murmur of conversation doesn’t feel like a disruption—it feels like part of the mix. A selector changes a record, cues the next, and the hum of the room folds back into rhythm. It’s an ebb and flow you don’t notice unless you’re looking for it, and that’s the point: it works because it’s natural.

The name comes to mind again. All My Friends isn’t about exclusivity; it’s about the idea that you can gather, listen, eat, drink, and not have to choose one over the other. In a city where nights out can feel like boxes to tick—bar, then dinner, then club—this is a place where all three happen at once, and you don’t have to move.

By the end of the night, I found myself lingering in the store corner, flipping through a crate of reggae reissues, still half-tuned into the last track on the system. It was an easy fade back into the street, but I carried the room with me—a reminder that sometimes the best nights are the ones where nothing shouts, yet everything speaks.