‘Joyful ritualistic salutation’
The nighttime economy, not just sounding like something straight from a Terry Pratchett novel, is a vital vein in what makes the UK unique. We lament the loss of pubs and the communities they provided, but the more than 800 late‑night venues that have closed since 2020 seem to have inspired far fewer tears.
Somebody had to do something about it, so this ex‑club kid, now a 30‑(something) restaurant and theatre critic, thought it should be him. Sober and saintly, I still regard the British night out as a formative and valuable thing. I made some of my best friends, built some of my most beautiful (if blurred) memories, and felt truly invulnerable skanking away in abandoned warehouses or spinning around to disco hits in the gay bars of Sheffield where I grew up. What we didn’t have in mega clubs we made up for in free parties, a roaming world of sound systems, alfresco revelry, and sticky‑walled live music venues. Night is the perfect time not just for a shot of bad behaviour, but because the cover allows us to truly be ourselves, shed and unencumbered by daytime stiffness. After all, in the immortal words of Fergie: “A little party never hurt nobody.”
I have been tailing off proper club nights for a few years now. Fabric is long gone, as is anything involving queuing or Gaba. Techno gives me a headache, and much house music makes me sleepy. So I thought I would start easily, dip my toes back into the boiling pool, as it were. Did you know the Barbican does club nights? Well, now you do. Transforming, caterpillar like, into a space somewhere between a very loud gallery, a nightclub, and an ancient Egyptian temple.
I will explain. Down the ramp of Silk Street we totter, heels, my friend’s and mine, winding into the core of the building and sliding into the massive foyer between the hall and the theatre. Metre‑long curtains fringe a stage that looks a little like a Beyblade court (showing my age again?) but larger. The bar is packed, and the concrete columns have never looked quite so impressive. “In the belly of the beast” repeats in my mind.
My friend and I, also over 30, fortified ourselves with a slap‑up dinner at the ever‑stylish Brutto around the corner in Farringdon, a much more expected night for our advanced years. She availed herself of the £5 negronis; I sipped Crodinos, feeling as swish as two frogs in a frog pond. Dining at the infinitely sexy time of 9:30, we tumbled over to the Barbican for its 11 pm start, valiantly pushing back the yawns.
Walking down the concrete toboggan run and through actual security felt very much like sneaking into your school or local swimming pool after dark, but inside, pockets of gloom and red lights dispel that myth quickly. Twenty‑something‑year‑olds, mainly from the Asian diaspora, spin like fireflies in circles around us, eye‑wateringly beautiful. Phones cast long stark shadows from their blinking flashes, and I dodge and dive partly to the music and partly to avoid being caught sneering in someone’s TikTok.
Bedroom DJ extraordinaire Nick Cheo, Seoul’s Bass Queen KOLLIN, and local legends Jianbo and MEYY are what we are treated too.
Anyone Can Dance is a nomadic late‑night party, ranging around the world through the vibrant diasporas we have on this little isle. Eastern Margins, a UK collective founded in 2018, blends various genres with almost Nutri‑Bullet efficiency, highlighting the skills of East and South‑East Asian creators.
MEYY starts first in the ring, blonde hair swaying, multiple tank tops, neon fingerless gloves. Her slight, innocent tone encourages us to “party”. Her skill as a DJ is undeniable as she mixes snippets of 2000s pop (a vintage Britney goes down very well with my friend and me) with pulsing, house‑y heartbeats. Jianbo breaks up the feminine cool‑girl softness with drill‑inflected bars, whipping the circle of dancers into sharper and harder shapes. He swaggers, and the ticking beat drives his performance along. Nick Cheo’s DJ set mixes the weird and wild of the music world, keeping the energy high and twisting into futuristic strains to break up the classic pop moments. KOLLIN finishes the evening with her hot and heavy blend of thumping bassline and vibey dance music, a perfect finish to get you sweating and swaying.
We do not make it as late as we would like (baby steps). My friend’s stilettos were hurting, and the negronis had found their mark a little aggressively. The transformation is not total superclub, with some lights being left on at odd points and disrupting the structured gloom. The Barbican toilets are put even further to the test, highlighting the desperate need for the upcoming refurbishment. However, for a venue so engrained in classical music, theatre, and art to open its grey clad arms, revelling in and lifting up these ensemble talents, and letting us raise and sway our arms in joyful ritualistic salutation, is a spot of hope in a rather dark night. Anyone can dance indeed, though age certainly curtails how long.