The Economist February 6th 2021 International 492006 most German states have also ex-
tended their opening hours. Meanwhile, in
rich countries young people are drinking
less. They are more likely to meet their
partners on apps than leaning against a
bar. In Britain 5% of 20-somethings say
they met their beau at a bar; among
over-50s the figure is 20%. And as social
media put people in constant contact with
their friends, the appeal of a Friday-night
blowout has dimmed.
Some of the ways clubs have responded
have made things worse. In an effort to off-
set the impact of falling attendance, many
increased prices of tickets and drinks,
which has made them even less popular.
And when it comes to music, they are
struggling to stay on trend. As people in-
creasingly stream personalised playlists,
compiling a set of killer tunes for hundreds
on the dance floor has become harder.
Clubs will not be able to operate nor-
mally until most people are vaccinated.
Those that focus on niche but enthusiastic
audiences, and which draw international
stars, will thrive as long-cooped-up revel-
lers pour out onto the streets. But for the
average city nightclub, with its tired set
lists and high drink prices, a return to the
status quo ante will not be enough.
And the beat moves on
As the rich world has aged, the pulse of the
nightclub industry has shifted to big cities
in the developing world, where people are
younger, the share of the population with
some disposable income was rising until
the pandemic, and licensing laws are less
strict—or at least less strictly enforced. Ci-
ties such as Nairobi are now on the beaten
track for big djs. Just as party animals
might have gone to Berlin in the 1990s, they
now go to São Paulo and Marrakech.
Nights with famous djs have drawn rev-
ellers from across Brazil and beyond to
Campinas, the third-largest city in São
Paulo state. The lgbtnight at Caos, a club
in an old warehouse in one of the city’s in-
dustrial estates, is one of the biggest in a
largely conservative region. In Nairobi new
clubs have emerged as the number of
young people with a bit of spare cash has
risen. Around most corners sits a new
apartment or office block and for each one
there is a nightclub, says Jeannette Mu-
sembi of Bars Kenya, an industry group.
Unlike their counterparts in the rich
world, clubs in developing countries have
not, by and large, been forced by govern-
ments to close—though they may have to
add measures such as social distancing
and temperature checks. Caos is operating
at 20% capacity, with groups of six seated
around tables wearing masks. It was mak-
ing a healthy profit before covid-19 struck,
though it opened only three or four times a
month. It now opens five days a week in an
effort to stay afloat.
A curfew in Kenya has forced clubs to
close by 10pm. To stay in business many
have started opening during the day:
though the atmosphere is flat and dance
floors are largely empty, this at least keeps
some money coming in. But they are hard-
ly dancing to the bank. The lack of any gov-
ernment support means they have also had
to lay off staff. “Now there is little to no
budget for entertainment, and most revel-
lers prefer to drink at home and avoid the
police,” says Ms Musembi.
A continuing source of revenue is use-
ful during an economic crisis. But it is link-
ed to a big reason why the pandemic will
last longer in the developing world: gov-
ernments are less willing and able to act. In
Brazil, for example, even as a contagious
new variant seems to be spreading from
Manaus in the northern Amazonian re-
gion, Jair Bolsonaro, the populist presi-
dent, has resisted lockdowns and joked
that covid-19 vaccines might turn people
into crocodiles or bearded ladies.
If nightclubs in developing countries
make it through their long covid, they will
face some of the same pressures that cur-
rently bear down on their counterparts in
rich countries. To survive, they will have to
make the same sorts of accommodations:
finding new, more formal venues; building
better relations with local residents, often
by making less noise; and persuading au-
thorities that they are both a useful source
of jobs and a way to keep cities centres
safer at night.
The clubbing scene in São Paulo and
similar cities is big but informal, like Ber-
lin’s during its heyday in the 1990s. Club
space was easy to come by in the German
capital after the fall of the wall, when a
third of buildings in the east of the city
were empty. Abandoned warehouses and
banks quickly became home to club nights
and raves. But as prosperity increased,
such venues became scarcer. One of São
Paulo’s most popular, Fabriketa, is a hugedisused textile factory in the gritty down-
town area. At Nos Trilhos, a largely outdoor
venue that was once the city’s train grave-
yard, djs set up their sound systems in
rusting locomotive carriages while club-
bers gyrate around the railway tracks.
Landlords are keen to rent such spaces
to club-owners; it is an easier way of mak-
ing money than developing them. But they
are also quick to boot their tenants out at
the first sign of trouble. As more of São
Paulo becomes residential, clubs find
themselves rubbing up against new neigh-
bours. “The city is growing so fast that ven-
ues are becoming a problem,” says Guga
Trevisani, a music producer and agent
based in the city. Complaints, police raids
and closures follow. And rents increase.
The monthly rate at a venue in São Paulo
shot up from 5,000 reais ($950) in 2015 to
30,000 reais ($5,600) at the start of 2020.
This makes clubs’ futures precarious.
nimbyism is a problem for a sector that
comes alive when sober citizens want to
sleep, and which is linked to all sorts of
shenanigans. (Even in Ibiza, Europe’s club-
bing capital since the 1980s, three-quarters
of islanders still say they oppose nightlife
tourism.) In November 2019 four of Nairo-
bi’s biggest clubs were ordered to close by
the local government after lobbying
against them by a residents’ group. One,
the Space Lounge, posted a sign: “Sorry,
we’re closed (but still open-minded)”.
In Europe nightlife lobby groups have
managed to persuade governments that
clubbing is good for cities, rather than a
nuisance. Relations with officialdom have
greatly improved in Berlin over the past
two decades. Police raids, which blighted
the city’s club scene in the 1990s, are rare.
Noise complaints are often part of the bit-
terest disputes. The city’s government
started a €1m ($1.2m) noise-insulation
fund in 2018, but clubs generally now sim-
ply pay for expensive soundproofing.
Their counterparts in developing coun-
tries still face scepticism—or perhaps in-
difference. A pre-pandemic campaign to
have Nairobi nightlife added to Kenya’s
tourism literature came to nothing. One
line of argument is that they can keep a city
centre alive outside business hours. “Emp-
ty cities are not very comfortable to live in,”
points out Lutz Leichsenring of the Berlin
Club Commission, a lobby group. “If, at
night, you’re standing at an empty bus
stop, you don’t feel very safe.”
Emphasising their economic contribu-
tion will probably be more useful. As coun-
tries emerge from the pandemic, their gov-
ernments will be desperate for growth
from any source. And as Mirik Milan, foun-
der of the Global Nighttime Recovery Plan,
an industry group trying to come up with
ideas for reopening, points out: “When a
lot of people are dancing, there are a lot of
people working, too.”