When Rosalía invited fans into a darkened former bank in Williamsburg to hear LUX for the first time, the event felt less like a promotional moment and more like a contemporary art ritual. Phones were sealed into Yondr pouches. Guests sat in near-total darkness on stark white benches. Before the music began, a single question appeared on a blank wall: “When was the last time you were in complete darkness?” In the listening party environment, stripped of distractions, the music could be experienced in its purest form, and the shared focus of the audience became part of the performance itself.

The experience echoed similar listening sessions the global pop star hosted across Barcelona and London, staged inside museums and sculptural spaces rather than clubs or theatres. In place of hype came something increasingly rare in today’s music economy: stillness.

Rosalía is not alone. Listening parties have rapidly evolved from industry-only previews into a central pillar of modern album rollouts. Artists from Billie Eilish and Frank Ocean to independent collectives are increasingly favouring immersive listening experiences over traditional launches. In an era where listening to music largely happens via streaming services, these in-person events offer an alternative which demands time and attention – and, crucially, fosters community.

Streaming has transformed how music is consumed, but in doing so, many argue it has also flattened the album format. While access has never been easier, depth of engagement has become harder to sustain. Listening parties push back against this logic. They ask audiences to slow down, to sit with an album in its entirety, and to experience it collectively.

For fans, the collective element can be as powerful as the music itself. Lysette, who attended Rosalía’s LUX listening party the day before the album’s release, describes the event as a rare space for connection. Listening to the record together heightened that sense of shared experience. “We could see everyone’s reactions to each song. They’re all so different on this album, so it was really special to experience that collectively, then talk about it afterwards.” For Lysette, the palpable attention to detail – from the organisation to the atmosphere – only deepened the emotional impact. “It really built excitement for the album. It’s such a great way to connect, not only with the music but with other people who love that artist in similar ways.”

She also points to the scalability of these events. “It felt unique, but also doable. It’s not a long event, but it supports fan communities in cities all around the world — especially places that aren’t physically close to where the artist is based.” In that sense, listening parties offer global reach without sacrificing intimacy. And intimacy is increasingly important: for Gen Z especially, these events tap into a broader desire for ‘analogue’ experiences. Listening parties sit somewhere between a gig, a gallery installation and a communal ritual: they are less about performance and more about presence, mirroring the renewed interest in vinyl, film photography and spaces that prioritise tactility and intention.

This shift is playing out not among big stars like Rosalía, but within grassroots music communities too. Founded in 2024, London’s Shai Space was created as a response to digital overload and nightlife culture that centres alcohol and distraction. Co-founders Sami Hayes and Reuben McKenzie envisioned a hub where people could reconnect with each other, with themselves and with music. “When we had the idea of Shai Space, we were both working very much online,” Sami explains. “That fed into this yearning for a physical space.”

Inspired by late-night tea rooms rather than clubs, Shai Space hosts intimate listening sessions for around 50 people at a time. DJs are invited to explore the deeper and more personal corners of their collections – music that might not fully translate in a busy club environment. Audiences are asked to give the same level of attention they would at the cinema. “With no distractions, it’s easier to lose yourself in the sounds,” Sami explains. “So often music is in the background of daily life, but when you listen with full focus and on great speakers, you notice the intricacies and layers. Sometimes you hear a song you already love in a completely new way.” For many attendees, the experience becomes something closer to meditation than nightlife: “People often leave our sessions saying they didn’t know how much they needed it,” Hayes reflects. “It can feel like a healing respite from the chaos of London.”

Alongside Shai Space, Meet in the Midi has been lighting up East London with a free monthly series at the BBE Store. Founded by broadcaster Karim Bitar, the sessions focus on deep listening as both ritual and education. Each night dives into the music that shaped influential artists and genres, from Osunlade, to Skream to Cleo Sol, guided by Bitar with a DJ set to close. “I wanted to create live music events where people felt comfort, ritual, authenticity, and education,” Bitar explains. “We’re living in a microwave era of content and consumerism, and people are craving something with depth – something that actually connects.”

For DJs, listening-led formats open up creative possibilities beyond the pressures of peak-time club sets. For Tash LC – DJ, broadcaster and founder of Club Yeke – that shift is rooted in intention. Much of her work in listening-centric spaces, including the 180 Sessions, has been shaped by a desire to slow down and reconnect with music outside the pace and fatigue of nightlife. “The amazing thing about the 180 Sessions is that I can tell that people have come there just on a whim,” she says. “That’s the beauty of it. My favourite part of DJing has always been being able to introduce people to something; seeing someone have a formative experience with a genre, a song or an artist.”

There’s a real intimacy to it. Everyone’s face-to-face. You’re sitting together, sharing the same experience in real time

That openness, she suggests, reflects a growing appetite for listening environments that feel more deliberate than traditional club settings. “I think that’s what people are missing out on — that intentionality in a club space,” she explains. “Especially in a place we’re in now where there’s a lot more sober clubbing, and people are getting quite fatigued by late nights.” But rather than rejecting club culture entirely, Tash frames listening sessions as a counterbalance to it. “It feels like a nice antithesis to a lot of people’s exhaustion about club culture,” she says. “And a way of finding a third space that isn’t just being in a club all the time.”

For her, the impact is both communal and personal. “It allows me to slow down as a person, as a DJ, as a curator, as a music lover — and actually appreciate the music,” she says. In a listening-led context, that slowdown becomes the point: creating space for deeper engagement, shared focus and a more meaningful relationship with sound.

For electronic producer HAAi, listening parties sit at the intersection of sound, intimacy and necessity. A long-time admirer of high-end hi-fi, she sees these sessions as a rare opportunity to present music exactly as intended, away from the noise and pressure that often surrounds album releases. “As an artist who cares deeply about sound and experiential stuff, it’s really special to have an opportunity before the storm of an album release to just sit and listen to the record with people who are really interested,” she says. “There’s a real intimacy to it [...] Everyone’s face-to-face. You’re sitting together, sharing the same experience in real time.” For HAAi, that closeness breaks down the usual distance between artist and audience, turning listening into a shared, present-tense exchange rather than a one-way broadcast.

Listening parties also make practical sense in the current climate. “It’s important to talk about the times we’re living in,” she says. “Touring is extremely expensive right now – inflation, production costs, everything.” In that context, she sees listening sessions as a necessary alternative. “Listening parties fill a hole. They allow you to present the music properly without the huge financial pressure of live shows.” Making her sessions free was a conscious decision: “Instead of saying, ‘This cost me money, so it’s going to cost you too,’ it felt like offering something back.” That accessibility, she suggests, is part of what makes listening parties resonate so strongly – for artists navigating rising costs, and for audiences seeking deeper, more intentional ways to connect with music.

For artists releasing albums – increasingly sidelined by singles and algorithmically generated playlists – listening parties provide a way to reclaim narrative and intent. Brooklyn-born, London-raised artist Goya Gumbani has made them central to his releases. For his most recent album, Gumbani hosted an intimate session at Sweeties Upstairs at The Standard. He chose the venue for its elegance and atmosphere as much as its sound. The event mirrored the album’s world, complete with themed cocktails and a guided conversation led by creative director Harris Elliott. 

“I feel there’s a disconnection with streaming music. People don’t always understand what an album is meant to represent. Listening events create a space where that understanding can happen,” he says. “When I understand where an artist’s mind was, what they were trying to say, I feel more connected to them. Listening parties make that possible. They allow the listener to step inside the world the artist was trying to create.”

What links Rosalía’s museum-like sessions, grassroots spaces like Shai Space, Meet in the Midi, and artist-led events such as Gumbani’s is a shared rethinking of how music lives in the world. Listening parties are not about scale or spectacle. They are about depth, context and care. As the industry continues to grapple with oversupply and diminishing attention spans, these moments of collective listening point toward a future where value is created through presence rather than virality. Albums become environments rather than content drops. Listening becomes intentional again. In the darkness of a quiet room, surrounded by strangers who came for the same reason, music is no longer something to scroll past. It becomes something to sit with, to feel, and to share together.