Is London nightlife so back?

It’s a little after 1am in February, and things have escalated. I had no intention of going to Lost, London’s most talked-about club of the last six months, but a convincing friend swayed my course. Other friends will be there, but I may never find them inside: my phone will be locked in a pouch on entry, as per the club’s no-phones policy. 

The door person holds out a card machine: £30. Jesus, I think. But here I am, in W1, so I reluctantly pay and duck inside the vast building – formerly an Odeon cinema – and begin to navigate the endless dark, labyrinthine corridors that give Lost its name. The security is hands-off, the music intoxicating. I stay until 5am, the gift of Lost’s late license.

Lost has continued its run on Shaftesbury Avenue, despite rumours it was closing after New Year’s Eve (new rumours suggest it will be closing its doors at the start of June). Over the months, I’ve heard varied takes. There have been groans about the cost of getting in (but I can expense my entry now that I’m writing this, right?) and the familiar disillusionment: “It was better in the beginning when it was more feral.” Mostly, though, the response has been positive; Lost brings together London’s fashion, music and club scenes under one roof, the unreleased lineups lowering preconceptions, the absence of phones and social media another big draw. 

“We’ve become so used to one-room warehouses, because that’s all we’ve had access to,” says Bambi, one half of club night-cum-collective Opia. “Lost is more curated – a night with story.” Films like Gaspar Noé’s horror Climax play in the club’s cinema rooms. An eclectic roster of authors, writers and poets read there as part of Soho Reading Series. There have been karaoke nights, courtesy of Anthem Karaoke Club.  

When I first went, Mark Ronson played a late 2000s-inspired set at what turned out to be a launch party for his book. In some ways, Lost feels like a time machine back to a more analogue era of clubbing, less about content, more about connection. “It lets a queer girl who’s a club classic feel her oats,” jokes Boludo, the other half of Opia.

To read the headlines is to be met with a disappointing story about UK club culture in 2026. Recent reports show that more than one in four late-night venues have closed across the UK since 2020. The future of Rowan’s in Finsbury Park is murky thanks to a new housing development, cult venue Moth Club is under serious threat of closure, and drag karaoke bar K-Hole recently closed its doors. 

Yet it seems that as soon as you hear of a venue closing, another door opens. Take Gaffe, which recently relocated from Wandsworth to Tottenham; Club Cheek, an independent live venue and club in Brixton, and the once-grotty Palais, on the corner of Rye Lane, which recently returned after nearly 15 years of closure – less ketamine den, more cocktail bar this time around. Along with Lost, the proliferation of parties across the city has come to stand for something greater: intrigue, spontaneity, and optimism about London’s nightlife. There are murmurs that London is “so back”. 

According to DJ Oluwa MP.4 – who, at 20, is already a familiar face in the city’s queer scene – there’s an almost overwhelming amount of choice. He moved back from Paris last year, where “most of the queer underground parties have been there a long time, whereas in London, there’s always something novel or niche to go to.” He namechecks trans-run parties Michelle’s Party and Arize, the intimate 40-person gatherings when he plays at Reprezent radio, or illegal parties and squat raves. “I played at Riposte the other day, and people were shakin’ ass from the first set,” he says, suggesting that the state of nightlife might be more than a numbers game. “People in London are going out to dance and sweat, not chat or smoke a fag. They want to let loose their emotions from the week.”

The thought that London could be “so back” did not first occur to me at Lost, but at a smaller night at Ormside Projects in December. At The Landing Strip’s first edition, a pole was erected in the centre of the club under a single spotlight, and dancers improvised to a live set from Klein and one of Mica Levi’s bands, Spresso. The night felt emblematic of the kind of experimentation – musically and atmospherically – happening in London right now, especially in the so-called “Bermondsey Triangle”, home to Ormside, Venue MOT and Avalon Café.

At MOT, new lesbian pop-up The Baroness recently held its inaugural event, erecting a life-sized inflatable lesbian pub in a car park. Around 250 people passed through. Co-founders Sel Elwen – who also started the night Switch Rising – and Phia Bowden pulled friends in to work the makeshift bar. “It was kind of a comical thing,” Sel says. “I think the blow-up made people lighthearted – the mood was silly.” But the idea behind Baroness is more serious: to create a lesbian space (for all ages) south of the river, which currently doesn’t exist (the inflatable is a commentary on this fact). 

If five to ten years ago, it felt like the queer scene in London was splintering along identity lines, the signs point to a resurgence of fluidity across the queer scene. Several of London’s most popular queer raves – like Riposte, Club Are and Playbody – are focusing on how you connect with others rather than how you identify. Oluwa agrees there has been a shift back towards concept rather than a strict demographic: “It’s more mixed – although you generally know the vibe from who’s running it or the line-up.” 

This isn’t limited to the queer scene. Wolf Gillespie started cult club night Post Party to reflect how he and his friends actually listen to music: “I think of it as a show, with music that doesn’t go together and people that don’t go together.” You might find a drill artist, an indie band and electronic music on the same bill. Previous live acts include the Femcels, rapper sinn6r, and punk outfit Jeanie and The White Boys. “There’s an issue of isolation of groups, [it’s like] a self-protective thing,” he says, explaining why Post Party deliberately brings together genres and subcultures. “There’s strength in being with your people, but there’s also something important about [coming together] when the world is getting scarier.” 

At Adult Entertainment, poet and musician James Massiah names a similar impulse: line-ups are varied, there’s no security, you come, sit on the floor, listen to readings. It’s free and there’s no hierarchy. In turn, he says, people feel respected and respect each other. At a recent event, 300 people packed into Dalston’s Café OTO to hear 30 readings over three hours. Who knew we had the attention spans?

“Hedonism is important, but I think people are looking for something more intentional right now. I think we’re entering an era that’s less about losing yourself and more about finding yourself” – James Massiah

“The more you read about AI, it feels like a race to the bottom, the news feels closer than ever.” In disconnected and divisive times, “the point of life is to have your people and share experiences, but also to develop and gain new insights, to be around people who haven’t come to the same conclusions.” Poetry and music are a nexus point, he says, pointing to nights and collectives like Minus Pink, O Performance, and Life Is Beautiful. All of these nights, like those above, are about more than escapism, more about discovering something new, connection, and presence. 

“Hedonism is important,” says James, “but I think people are looking for something more intentional right now. I think we’re entering an era that’s less about losing yourself and more about finding yourself.” 

Intentions are one thing, but access is another. According to statistics, 68 per cent of young people say that they have stopped going out so much as a result of the current economic climate. Venue owners are grappling with rising rents, spiralling overheads, and being pushed further and further out of the city. The website Is My Pub F*cked? tracks how rising costs, particularly business rates, are threatening some of London’s longest-standing pubs. These costs drip down to those trying to organise nights, as well as those of us attending. 

“People complain, including me,” says Sel from Baroness, “but running nights myself, it’s almost impossible to make tickets cheap if you want to pay everyone fairly. It’s hard to put on a night because profit margins on drinks are crazy, which is why they’re so expensive.” Wolf feels similarly: “I talk to friends in New York or LA and venues are actually giving them a budget for their event,” he says. “In London, every venue wants loads of money up front; it doesn’t help young people coming up. If the [cost] is a grand-plus, I don’t even reply to the email. Who could pay that?”

When I ask the Opia girls how feasible it is to sustain a career in nightlife, there’s a tumbleweed moment. They’ve built an identity through their meta-ironic hosting style and collaborating with fashion brands. But while working with brands gets you paid – and dressed – it isn’t necessarily sustainable. “After brat summer we were on a high – like, literally high,” laughs Boludo. “But then it went silent. Last year was the driest Pride season ever. What I will say is I don’t think there’s a way for raves to exist without some sort of external endeavour, whether that’s merch, brand collabs, or [partnerships with] cultural institutions. You have to do something to live off.”

Last year, the London Mayor convened a Nightlife Taskforce: a group drawn from across the sector, aiming to tackle decreasing footfall and closures, as well as to democratise the conversation and move away from top-down policymaking. In February 2026, they published a report, recommending the need for a shift towards a 24-hour city through later licences, transport, and late-night food options – especially as bars and clubs holding a 24-hour alcohol license have fallen by two-thirds in two years. Relatedly, just under 70 per cent of young people feel as though better late-night transport options would encourage them to stay out later. 

Dan Beaumont, who owns the longstanding queer venue Dalston Superstore, sees the report as a step in “changing of the dynamic between authority and nightlife, this infantilising relationship they have with us – it recognises nightlife as a cultural force.” Deregulation, he notes, is often (and rightfully) framed as a Tory idea – but in the current climate, removing barriers to music and nightlife by improving licensing is one of the few levers left. A pan-London approach matters, he says, so owners and promoters aren’t at the whim of local councils. But more important is the report’s suggestion to create a Nightlife Future Fund, which would support innovative nightlife projects – especially those led by underrepresented communities, which could help sustain parties like those above.

“You don’t get a Mowa or a Fakemink without people partying” – Wolf Gillespie

While the report is currently just that – a report – its recommendation to move London towards a 24-hour city would not only boost the nightlife economy, but practically make things easier for people who work in nightlife, like Oluwa. “I find it so annoying when parties start at 9pm and finish at 2 or 3am – how am I getting home? I’m not about to pay £30 to get around right now. I live in Croydon.”

On balance, nightlife is an optimistic place right now, says Beaumont. “But I think it’s worth being cautious about the influx of private equity capital that’s inflating bits of the nightlife economy and is creating a bubble. The grassroots aspect needs to be protected, because nightlife is where much of UK culture is born.”

“That I can do Post Party in different places says something: that people want to listen to our musicians, they’re looking to British fashion and culture again, that the kids in these cities want to come to a London party,” says Gillespie. “You don’t get a Mowa or a Fakemink without people partying. The best moments at Post Party are when you know the person on stage is so talented, and there’s a 100 per cent chance there’s another one in the crowd too.”

As for Lost, maybe the hype existed precisely because it offers more than a dancefloor – performances, readings, screenings, and a phone ban to encourage presence. In 2026, it feels like London nightlife is reaching for something that feels spontaneous, eclectic, and grounded in human connection. But the same old challenges still exist. The name “Lost” will soon take on a new irony when the current venue closes its doors and is redeveloped. A common story, when many of the capital’s bigger clubs are now in buildings or on land owned by property developers, always intended to be temporary. By the time Lost reopens elsewhere, there may well be a new club everyone’s talking about.