Berlin: Is the party finally over?

Berlin’s club scene has always been intertwined with the city’s identity – a messy but functional ecosystem built in the gaps left by history. Abandoned buildings as dancefloors, weekends blurred into Mondays, and nightlife evolved into something closer to cultural infrastructure. For years, the city has drawn ravers from across the world, supporting thousands of jobs and shaping Berlin’s global reputation as a nightlife capital.

Now, that ecosystem feels increasingly fragile. Rising rents, redevelopment, and post-pandemic financial strain have pushed venues to breaking point. In recent years, institutions like Watergate and Renate have shut for good, while others like Busche Club are fighting to survive. Each closure lands like another aftershock, feeding the wider sense that something fundamental in the city’s club culture is slipping away.

That tension runs through Danced Out? Berlin Clubs Under Pressure, a new 30-minute documentary from ARD Mediathek, directed by Friederike Schlumbom and Alix François Meier. Rather than pushing a single story of decline, the film moves between DJs, promoters, activists, and venue operators, tracing how Berlin nightlife is being stretched, reshaped, and quietly reimagined. Its emotional centre is the closure of SchwuZ — the city’s oldest queer club — which filed for bankruptcy in August 2025.

Alfonso Pantisano sees the pressure most acutely through the erosion of queer spaces. As Berlin’s first Queer Liaison Officer, he’s watched decades of LGBTQ+ venues rise and fall. “In 1929, Berlin had nearly 200 queer clubs, bars, and restaurants. Today, we are far from that. If more people went to the clubs built for us, they’d still exist.” He explains that everything changed after Covid. “Younger generations aren’t as keen on clubs, tickets are expensive, and some of the safe spaces we needed before weren’t used as much during the last few years. Now we are facing a backlash and trying to reclaim those safe spaces.”

Pantisano points to how digital culture has reshaped nightlife. “Before, you went to clubs to meet people,” he says. “You went to bars, cafés, restaurants – especially clubs. That’s how you found partners, dates, sex. Now people go on apps.” He’s blunt about what that means economically. “Bars are closing because people buy drinks from shops and sit outside. Younger kids meet under bus stops when it rains. That’s reality.”

But the pressures are more than just economic. Violence against queer people is rising in the city, and it’s changing how people move through nightlife. “20 years ago, people dressed up at home and went straight to the club,” Pantisano says. “Now people change in the cloakroom. Why? Because they don’t feel safe walking through the city in party outfits.”

Subculture will always find a way. It might not look like it did 20 years ago, but it’s still what makes us live now

Social media has also had a detrimental impact, according to Mademoisel, a DJ, promoter and artist based in the city. “The pressure to sell tickets is enormous. The DJs who have the most followers on social media are the ones who get booked over talent. You end up seeing the same lineups repeatedly because that’s what sells. Smaller promoters and underground nights are often discouraged from taking risks on up-and-coming DJs.” She points to how this distorts participation. “People think they’re participating by liking posts online, but that’s maybe 0.03 per cent of the real scene,” she says. “The real scene is the floor, the club, the event. Social media creates an illusion of participation. We need to go back to being present in these spaces physically. It’s our responsibility as a community.”

For Berlin-based DJ and curator Laure Croft, the crisis is visible. “Many clubs are closing due to increased rent, demolition, or being pushed to the city’s outer curbs,” she says. “Subculture is being moved aside to make space for housing and expats. It’s a challenge, and we have to fight for places that allow us to be free in any way.” Croft, who runs Sexy Recs, approaches programming through intuition rather than metrics. “Programming is a fascinating game,” she says. “What will work? What will sell without becoming performative just to sell? Who fits the vision and the vibe? I rarely book people I haven’t met in person. Energy is everything. If I like someone, I like them. If not, I don’t. Money isn’t everything. Experience is the real currency.”

She’s careful not to position herself as an authority on Berlin’s past. “I’ve been visiting Berlin for over a decade and moved here four years ago. I’m still new — the people from the 90s have the real stories,” she says. “But subculture will always find a way. It might not look like it did 20 years ago, but it’s still what makes us live now.” She still believes in the physical magic of the club. “A good soundsystem, a strong door policy, no photos or videos, a free crowd — and pants off,” she laughs. “That energy will always exist and keep evolving.”

Crucially, the pressures facing nightlife aren’t limited to Berlin. In Dortmund, Luisa Paolini, a club manager and booker at Tresor West, describes facing many of the same economic realities, underscoring that this is a regional issue, not just a capital city one. “At the beginning of last year, we were in a very tight spot,” she says. “To continue operations and prevent closure, we capped DJ fees as part of our #SaveTheUnderground campaign. Costs are rising — energy, staff, travel — and it would be impossible to operate without this measure. Luckily, many artists are willing to support us. Transparency is key.”

Paolini is clear that Dortmund operates differently from Berlin. “Here, no name — no matter how big — is a sure shot,” she says. “The community is growing, but it’s not big enough to keep us afloat.” Tresor West also introduced Community Nights, prioritising local DJs and crews over headline bookings. “We wanted to see if people were even interested in what we offer,” Paolini says. They were. “We invest in the community, not just the name on the flyer.” For her, sustainability is generational. “Resident DJs earn their stripes in local clubs. Local communities come for them. That’s how culture is built sustainably. Touring DJs are amazing, but without local roots, you lose continuity. We want to encourage the next generation to make the scene resilient.” Since then, Tresor West has shifted between free-entry nights, small-fee community events, and headline shows.

Berlin is like a flower. Sometimes it’s dead or in a coma, only to bloom again after downtime

Back in Berlin, Mademoisel notices loyalty replacing novelty. “Even with fewer people going out, loyal crowds return,” she says. “We become regulars at parties we trust, that resonate with our energy. It’s harder for new promoters to break through, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. It means the community has to show up differently, more consciously.” Paolini sees the same dynamic in Dortmund. “We test new formats, communicate transparently with our community, explain costs, and involve people in the process,” she says. “People care when they understand the struggle. It creates a sense of ownership and connection. That’s what keeps the scene alive.”

Croft sees creativity emerging in the pressure. “The beauty is hidden in the dirtiest cracks,” she says. “Berlin is like a flower. Sometimes it’s dead or in a coma, only to bloom again after downtime.” This chimes with Mademoisel. “The Berlin scene isn’t dying. It’s nuanced, complex — but it’s still alive.”

SchwuZ’s closure doesn’t mean nightlife is over. However, it does starkly highlight who shows up when cultural spaces are under threat. “Clubs aren’t just businesses,” Mademoisel says. “They’re communities, histories, experiments in freedom. We have to participate, support, and respect that. Show up, not just online.” Berlin’s club scene is being reshaped by a mix of rising costs, shifting social habits, digital life, and fading infrastructure. What comes next isn’t fixed. Under these pressurs, the scene could just as easily contract — or unfurl into something new, unexpected, and genuinely transformative.