When I was at university, a Big Night Out was my brush, and Instagram’s recently released Stories function was my canvas. Not a single moment went undocumented. Sharing a toilet cubicle with the girlies? On the Story. Doing shots? Get that on there too. Chicken shop afters? On the Story, obviously. Best mate throwing up in the street? A perfect dose of umami for my 15 course tasting menu of a Story.
While the canvas may have changed over the years (Myspace turns to Facebook turns to Snapchat) the same can be said for many university students before me and after me. It’s a rite of passage.
But liveblogging my nights out made for a LOT of incriminating material. Six years on, I still jolt awake at 4am after most nights of heavy drinking, driven by the impulse to delete something I posted hours before. But there’s nothing there. (Shortest happy story ever told? “Instagram Story, Failed to Upload.” Take that Oscar Wilde.)
I don’t liveblog my nights out now that I’m an adult, even though, ironically, I probably go on far more now than I did then. And I have a much better time.
I also move through the world with the assumption that my fellow clubgoers will have come to the same conclusion. We’re not 18 anymore, and we’re not at a student night where the music is bad and being drunk is a novelty. Phone away, mice shall play.
Unfortunately, that’s not always the case. This week, Aussie DJ duo Flight Facilities came under fire after posting videos of two clubbers gurning (for the narcs, that’s when the jaw is swinging, indicating MDMA usage) in the crowd during their set. The video has since been deleted, but I find this to be shameful behaviour of Flight Facilities. Not only does it embarrass the clubbers, who are doing exactly what a million clubbers have done before, but it could also threaten their employment or put their interpersonal relationships into risky positions.
What if their families didn’t know they did drugs? What if they had been a closeted person at a queer venue, or a queer themed night? What if, I don’t know, they just didn’t expect a world-famous DJ duo — who should know better — to film them in a state of vulnerability?
Cameraless clubs have roots in two places: firstly, the past, given that it only became possible to bring a functional, handheld camera into a club in relatively recent history. And secondly, Berlin. As Daniel Plasch, co-director of R.S.O. in Berlin, recently told The New York Times, “By taking a photo you are destroying the moment even as you are documenting it.”
In 2004, legendary Berlin nightclub Berghain opened its doors with a strict no-cameras policy from the get go. When it was named DJ Mag’s top club in the world in 2009, Berghain’s popularity skyrocketed, boosting it to the near-mythical level it is today. Though Berghain wasn’t the first club to ban photography (Tresor, Ufo, Planet and Snax Club all banned pictures much earlier), its huge success as a club made the policy well known worldwide.
And while camera bans now function as an enticingly cool feature of Berlin’s clubbing culture, it’s also for clubbers’ safety: many Berlin nightclubs double up as sex clubs, or host queer nights. To allow photography in these places would be disastrous.
Berlin’s camera-free club ethos has gradually spread to other party cities, including London. Fold in Canning Town has been stickering clubbers’ phones since 2018, with Farringdon nightclub Fabric adopting the same policy in 2021. Similarly, Basement in New York has been doing it since 2019.
More recently, a new nightclub in Manchester, Amber’s, has introduced the policy, and Ibiza nightclub Pikes just extended its Monday night phone ban to seven days a week.
Enough to indicate a trend, but to me this list is insanely short. I can’t count the amount of times I’ve been in a club in the past month and had to watch a DJ set through someone else’s phone screen. And there’s nothing more horrifying than when someone switches from back to front camera, catching you behind them in a trancelike state, plastered with sweat, caught unawares like a wild animal.
London’s struggling nightlife scene could heavily benefit from the kind of mystique and unspoken respect that Berlin’s has. Venues like The Cause and Drumsheds could stoke up some real hype by going unseen. And London clubbers could really do with a break from their (and everyone else’s) phones.
Granted, I’m not saying all London clubbing needs to be phone-free — my rigorous uni night out posting schedule made me the woman I am today, so let’s keep phones on the floor for student nights. They need to learn the lessons themselves. But proper clubbing. Clubbing that costs £40 a ticket and deserves to be remembered. Clubbing that you can only describe to a friend in hushed, wondered tones. That’s what London needs. And if the club isn’t currently enforcing it, adopt your own camera phone-free policy. I guarantee you’ll have a better time.
