But it still has the power to push forward. More recently, I think of R&B revival party Work It, at Visions Video Bar in Dalston, which was responsible, in my mind, for kicking off the ’90s throwback trend in the 2010s and a renewed appreciation for slow jams that absolutely filtered its way down to pop. Or Hattie Collins and Chantelle Fiddy’s Straight Outta Bethnal at 333, one of the few live settings for grime MCs, which helped to knot a scene together before the Met Police’s Form 696 policy almost stamped it out, and Butterz, who carried the torch for grime with their instrumental nights long after, laying the groundwork for its recent renaissance.
Bradley Zero’s Rhythm Section, meanwhile, a party and label that started in a pool hall in Peckham, uplifts where jazz intersects house – a sound that has undeniably defined young London for the past few years.
Size is absolutely not everything when it comes to assessing nightlife’s cultural value: consider the vast number of stars who have emerged from Plastic People, a former pitch-black boom-room in Shoreditch, including so many of the DJs you hear on NTS Radio or see play on Boiler Room. Many of those clubs have now closed but we have The Cause, Oval Space, Corsica Studios, Dalston Superstore, Mick’s Garage, Bussey Building, many more – in any one of these, the sound, or look, of the 2020s could be waiting to pop.
The funny thing was (not funny, not funny at all) that I hadn’t been out for ages when the pandemic hit. The reliability of weekly parties has morphed into the odd monthly blow-out. Maybe there were drinks beyond tinnies. Perhaps there was air-con (thank you, The Pickle Factory), or chairs (I miss Giant Steps).
I’d be lying if I said that the landscape didn’t feel a little different; frivolity has become more frugal. Sunrise raves seem to be what other people do in other places, with more space and less Prets. They happen in woodland clearings. Aircraft hangers in the middle of nowhere. Festivals. Or in Printworks, before the last Tube home. Perhaps that’s all an excuse. Perhaps I took it for granted.
Now I dream of lost cloakroom tickets and too-tight wristbands. I long to be at a Sofrito party, attempting to sweatily salsa dance with a grown man in a Hawaiian shirt. I want to be queuing outside Dalston Superstore in the ball-twisting cold, worried I might not get in.
I long for the bright future that clubs have always promised: the best ones aren’t soulless pleasure palaces, clubs are the ultimate utopias, politically-charged or not, where we can enact the diversity, inclusivity and tolerance that we wish we saw everywhere during our daily lives.