Clubbing in Manhattan is Dead

There, cold-sweating my way up the single-file line of dresses the price of my once in a blue moon dinner bill, I stand riding my skirt up my legs just enough to be revealing, but not enough to look desperate. Every time I’ve experienced this exact moment, without fail, I ask myself “Am I the only one who feels out of place?” After a painful $30 cash cover-charge, I’ll wind up haunting the club floor to not-that-popular pop hits and wondering why anyone in this room goes out if it’s just to sit on a sticky leather couch and take pictures. While the promoters flaunt their open bottles of grey goose and the girls drink up without suspicion, and I grow closer to sober with each step through a necropolis of makeup-caked statues on their cellphones, I realize clubbing in Manhattan is dead. 

It’s not like people don’t indulge in cocaine anymore, or want to dance to Diana Ross till their shirts are soaked in sweat, those people just don’t go to Manhattan anymore. Clubbing in Manhattan has become somewhat like a car dealership showroom– shiny, clean, and expensive, but passive. Everyone is worried about everyone else and in result, the room is full of darting eyes and blue light from hundreds of iPhones. I attribute part of this death to the promoter tables, 10-15 girls being displayed like meat on a platter for clientele they’re unaware of. Their only job is to look good, and who the hell looks good when they’re having fun? Who the hell wants to have real, sweaty, spilled drink, singing your heart out fun when there’s a photographer around every corner ready to snap a picture to blast it over social media for promotion. And who the hell can afford fun anymore? The cover charge and a cosmopolitan alone will set you back $60. After searching far and wide for a place I can enjoy myself, I’ve lost my faith in the borough most notorious for its nightlife. 

Moving to New York City as a bored nineteen year old, Manhattan nightlife sang to me like the angels at the gates of heaven. After my first week residing in the city, I had gone to over ten Manhattan nightclubs and wondered what the hell happened to dancing? I blew it off as “not knowing the spots”, but once I knew the spots I still wondered seriously, what the hell happened to dancing? After let down after let down, I decided to explore more of Brooklyn– I finally found the dancing I had been looking for. I could look to my left and see a twenty year old in fishnets then look right and see a sixty year old in sequin; they’re both dancing their asses off, and finally I can grab a $10 cocktail.

Carly Weiss