The Future of Nightlife

The past decade has blessed (cursed) us with many safe spaces, nightlife being the prominent one. Many social establishments now have extensive manifestos whereby they host events ‘catered’ to specific communities. The twinks vs dolls cigarette smoking competition or emo night: hijab edition—the list goes on and on. In the ruins of a saturated and fractured economy, business bros claw onto any social interest and repackage it as a club night that has zero tolerance for any discrimination, of course. 

Do we really need a crocheting circle at a techno party? There is an accelerated transformation of nightlife that we all are witnessing and, now, a night out for some reason has to include 74 different rooms for it to be marketable. Maybe the dolls just want a dance floor sans chasers and security that actually spends energy on making sure no assaults happen? It really is that simple to promise safety and extend solidarity to people, so all identities feel like they can strut across these rooms with their chins held high. 

In a time of constant revival of ‘third spaces’ that, more likely than not, are a response to rampant commodification, I look at nightlife and the dance floor as a liminal space. To an extent, it offers transformation, salvation, and liberation to many, but also serves as a tokenised gesture that further others and separates. A lot of nightlife feels like a hallway; it has become a transient experience that squeezes identity juice out of individuals and turns it into merch, which the status quo can consume to satiate their ‘good person, very liberal, very tolerant’ aesthetic. 

The club is maybe not a safe space, after all. Perhaps, music itself is not quite the divine vibration we assumed it to be. There are cracks on the dance floor, full of corporate jingoism and consumption. So how can we mend these cracks before the whole dance floor collapses into a capitalistic underworld? 

The rise and loss of the third space 

The idea of the ‘third space’ is especially interesting to me in the context of the club, as it suggests a place that exists outside of the mundane boundaries of work and home, a realm of possibility where people can temporarily step out of their societal roles. Historically, nightlife spaces have served as refuges for marginalised communities, places where gender and sexuality can be fluidly expressed, where cultural and social hierarchies momentarily dissolve. 

I was recently rewatching Paris is Burning, a documentary-type film that traces the history of ballroom culture in New York. The ballroom was not just a celebration, it was a radical act of community and care that extended direct material support to some of the most vulnerable people at the time in forms of housing, nutrition, access to medicine and, most importantly, family. Recently, the aesthetics of the documentary have been co-opted by many commercial outfits that evoke Paris Is Burning aesthetics, but in forms of US$200 VVVIP tickets, with you getting a branded bandana and the luxury of a drinks token instead. 

The very act of commodifying these spaces – through corporate sponsorships, ticket sales, or branding – has led to a loss of their original, subversive power and turned the whole experience into something further pushing away the very communities that nurtured nightlife as holy transgressive spaces. 

The term ‘safe space’ is now nothing more than a false prophet. To me, it is the equivalent of a nutritional label found behind an ‘organic’ snack, which, upon closer look, is full of additives and empty calories. The label that once served as an anthem of resistance or connection can now become part of a larger system of consumption, and the safe spaces’ that modern-day clubs promise can start to feel more like curated spectacles where only certain privileged bodies or performances are truly welcomed. The promise of “safe space” has become a kind of performative gesture, much like the carefully curated line-ups, the glow-in-the-dark stickers, and the neon lights that plaster the walls. Safe spaces, marketed as havens for marginalised people, often come at a cost—the cost of exclusivity and commercialisation. 

In a city where the club scene has become more about luxury experiences than rebellion, where the DJ booth is just another stage in a curated experience, what remains of the radical energy that once pulsed through the underground? The term ‘safe space’ wasn’t birthed in a marketing meeting or a wellness retreat. It emerged from the gritty, urgent need for refuge during the AIDS epidemic. In the early 1980s, amidst the chaos and fear, groups like ACT UP and the Shanti Project created literal sanctuaries for non-heteronormative and marginalised individuals. These weren’t just places to hang out under the guise of a sonic retreat; they were lifelines, offering care, community, and survival in a world that had turned its back on those most vulnerable. 

Fast forward to today, and the term has been hijacked. Now, it’s plastered on rainbow flags outside clubs and bars, marketed as inclusive sanctuaries. But let’s be real, how safe are these spaces when the same old dynamics persist? The dolls are still at risk, the they/thems are still getting misgendered, and the other members of the alphabet mafia are still fending off unwanted advances. It’s like slapping a “safe space” sticker on a leaky boat and calling it unsinkable. So, before you buy that overpriced ticket to a “safe space” event, ask yourself: Who’s defining safety here? And, more importantly, who’s still left out in the cold? 

This tension is not merely theoretical; it’s a lived experience. More and more, we find ourselves standing at the edge of the dance floor, asking, “Who is this space really for?” The heavy beats that once served as a release now feel like an advertising tool, the body’s catharsis now a marketed product (I kid you not, there’s a club in London that offers an electrolyte drink which costs more than an arm and a leg). And when the lights flicker and the music still thumps, but the floor feels different – less like a platform for transformation, and more like a performance for consumption – is the nightclub still a safe space? 

Social hierarchies and identity politics 

I also want to highlight the constant reapplication of societal hierarchies that somehow always find a way in commercial club spaces, no matter how progressive they are. What I mean by that is even if the whole club is non-heteronormative affirming, there is still a large majority of people who would be at these events feeling insecure about their identity because, now, it has become a product—an identity politics to identity is a product pipeline. Or in recent times, the white feminist movement that has suddenly declared a war on the dolls would use the label of safe spaces to hide their terfism. Deleuze and Guattari have an excellent analysis of such co-optation that they call ‘territorialisation’, referring to the process of establishing and maintaining boundaries, structures, and systems within a space, often associated with power and control within a ‘safe space’. 

The club, like many other spaces of transformation, has always been a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it’s a space of liberation, a sanctuary for those on the margins, a place where identities can be fluid and community can be forged. On the other hand, it’s always been vulnerable to the forces of commodification and exclusion. As we move into a future where nightlife becomes increasingly branded, corporatised, and commodified, the question we must ask is: can the club ever reclaim its radical potential? Or has it already become just another part of the capitalist machine? Is an in-person online party a recession indicator? 

I think of the online in-person party hosted by Zeobat (an Instagram trinket and meme lore account) in London, where the dance floor served as an online meme exchange of sorts. It was a safe space without the label, a subversive use of the nightclub—Ursula K. Le Guin would have been very happy at this meetup. The activation also reminded me of the 90s LAN and gaming party cultures where dwellers of these servers would partake in very creative multiplayer games, and the interfaces they were playing on were like their versions of nightclubs. Mountain Dew was their Vodka Soda Lime, and Red Bull their stimulant of choice. 

Where do we go from here? 

The cracks on the dance floor are growing wider, but they are not irreparable. Perhaps what we need is a reimagining of what nightlife can be, a futuristic return to its roots as a space of true transformation—one that resists commodification and embraces its original purpose as a site of solidarity, reinvention, and liberation. Misery comes to mind.

The London-based, community-led gathering is a sober safe space for non-heteronormative people to party in ways not driven by consumption of any kind—be it music, substances, or socialising. It is a gathering that centres DJs on some occasions and, on other days, they just sit around Bethnal Green Nature Reserve and talk about what plants can make for the best herbal tea blends. This is what a safe space looks like, devoid of any expectations and full of intentional intimacy, which we all long for.

What makes nightlife, club culture, or any social gatherings for that matter a genuinely bountiful experience is when it feels DIY and community-owned. When, instead of a curated line-up, your friends who have some great music hop onto the decks to offer their musical treasures from obsessive overnight bandcamp digging. Or when partygoers do espresso shots and pick up trash together after hours of synced dance movements and escapism.

Agency in forms of the smallest tasks gives us a sense of belonging, which is far greater than any hip underground safe space night that often induces catharsis and a negative bank balance. Being able to host a small JBL music jam with friends in the park is far more rewarding and safe than a basement club full of mediocre untz untz house music and a drinks menu named after activist and drag queen Marsha P. Johnson. Maybe a true safe space in the context of nightlife is about agency reclaimed by people who have been always told their existence can only be seen within a safe space?

A safe space cannot be sold, it can only be cultivated by the people who currently feel unsafe. The dolls should be able to hang out in Wadi Rum without it being a Telegram top secret, pinned geotags-type hangout. Similarly, the alphabet mafia should be able to hangout at Wetherspoon without being hurled derogatory remarks by geriatric DL gammons.

Until then, we’ll continue to navigate the liminal spaces, whether they’re on the dance floor, on a hike, at a meme group meetup, or in the quiet corners of our everyday lives, seeking moments of connection and freedom in a world that increasingly tries to sell us the illusion of both. Is nightlife a spectacle or a safe space? Should life only be safe at night?