Are clubs becoming classic again?
By Milly Moore
I remember face timing my mum at the end of fresher’s week of first year, describing the sweaty, static mass of students that crowded Jimmy’s, that stand swaying predictably to the recycled club tracks and TikTok remixes. Her response was ‘ooh dear’ in a tone of voice that appeared as if she felt sorry for me, sorry that I may not ever experience a now mythical experience. As I reflect upon my expectations of clubbing as a vibrant community of varying people and new exciting music where we actually dance, it becomes obvious how this is so far removed from Jimmy’s on a Friday night. My mum always spoke about the 90s club scene with a sort of reverence about raves that lasted until sunrise, underground nights fuelled by discovery, not social performance. Her youth seemed to have an electricity that ours somehow lacks. When I hear that my generation is “leaving the clubs,” so many explanations come to mind.
A BBC article titled ‘End of Hedonism, Why Britain Turned its Back on Clubbing Culture’ captures what I see every week in Durham – clubs full, but lifeless. It discusses the decline of nightlife identifying mounting financial pressures, shifting social habits and an overall hangover from Britain’s once-thriving nightlife. Over the last decade, hundreds of clubs have shut down, from rising costs, stricter licensing, and the growing preference for nights in. But there’s also a deeper cultural fatigue. Clubbing, once a symbol of liberation, has become predictable and commercial.
We, the ‘Covid-generation’, missed out on this formative experience of clubbing, and when clubs did reopen, we were left underwhelmed. Instead of the promised freeing musical experience we were met with over-priced drinks and music that feels algorithmically chosen and repetitive. Instead of a community of people, these clubs are isolating. This isn’t true of all clubs, but speaking from the perspective of a Durham student, this is our nightly reality.
Over lock-down, social media was the plaster over the wound of lack of social community. But the plaster will not come off, instead it blocks the creative flow of nightlife and clubbing, drowning out individuality and character with soulless, monotonous media. TikTok has replaced clubs as our space for discovering DJs who emerge from 15 second trends rather than dark basements.
Yet clubbing is something we still desire. Fantasising of the 00s/90s aesthetic shows a deep nostalgia and mourning for the ‘old clubbing’, the resurgence of hits from those decades reflects this; how many times did we hear Kate Bush’s anthems last year?! Although the clubs may play these tracks, the atmosphere and euphoria of the night is not the same. Trends don’t last long enough to form communities. Thus, we are always lost, looking for our shared ‘for you page’ to form our friendships. Maybe it’s the rise of the digital age. Can someone really let loose in a club and pull out an outrageous dance move without the fear of judgement and even potentially getting recorded? Maybe we haven’t fallen out of love with the music, just with the spaces that once brought it to life.
Clubbing culture today is now seen as something we ‘should’ be doing. We go out less to dance and more to prove that we have been out. Especially in university culture it’s an integral part of the student experience – study hard, play hard. However, the perpetual posing in a club, the posting about partying may have set up this expectation of fun that is simply unattainable in today’s nightlife.
Clubbing is now a routine, not a passion
It seems as if the legalisation of raves has resulted in them filling the space of the ‘old clubbing’. Here, instead of partaking in some strangely modern mating ritual and posed rigid fun, raves attract people who go for the music, they present DJs and new up-and-coming artists. Although not as feral as the underground raves of the 80s and 90s, they fill the space that ordinary clubs cannot. Another potential motivator for this shift is the decline in alcohol consumption by our generation. The BBC reports that 39% of Generation Z don’t even drink alcohol at all! Raving is less commonly associated with drinking culture and so this shift may form some parallels.
Despite all of this, Jimmy’s still has a queue up the high street, and Babs tickets sell out fast. So, does this mean clubbing is back? No. It is not back, its just not quite gone. When we go to these clubs, we know what to expect, the same old chanting to familiar tunes and an excuse to justify drinking for the night. But this hint of clubbing’s former life is not a resurgence. Clubbing is now a routine, not a passion. A last resort to have fun when there is nothing better to do, a last-age effort to socialise by stumbling into Jimmy’s smoking area.
So, when I talk to my mum and I say ‘well, I don’t really like clubbing’, and she goes ‘what would you want to do to have fun?’, and I describe, dancing, energy and community with new music, she exclaims, ‘well darling, that is clubbing.’ What can we do to get back to this type of clubbing? The familiarity of the 2025 night-out doesn’t cut it for me anymore. Going out can be about drinking, but the club is supposed to be about so much more. Instead of half-heartedly playing re-runs of 90s classics, why doesn’t Durham step up its game and bring in DJs from across the UK that can add novelty and excitement? Why don’t we as students normalise dancing instead of just singing along? Clubbing isn’t back just yet, and that’s on us.
Image: Bob Richard via Stock Snap
