“The gurls and gays are gonna cringe. By this time next year, the bars are closing.”
That was the warning I shared on The Surface Level Podcast in late 2024.
For the past two years, across podcasts, panels, interviews, and TENz platforms, we have been shouting from the rooftops about the state of NYC nightlife and the steady closure of its bars.
After more than 15 years working in New York City nightlife, paying my dues and ascending from club photographer to party host, event curator, and eventually shepherding one of the largest multimedia platforms focused on NYC nightlife, you learn not only how to read a room, but how to spot changing crowd patterns. You hear managers talk about financial struggles. You watch once-reliable parties decline and neighborhood demographics shift.
There’s been a broad decline in LGBTQ+ bars across the U.S., down 45% from 2002 to 2023, according to a report by Greggor Mattson, professor and chair of sociology at Oberlin College and Conservatory.
By 2023, the writing was already on the wall. The post-quarantine nightlife bubble had burst. More importantly, the venues that managed to survive quarantine at all were still carrying the financial and operational damage. That was the first nail in the coffin. We had already seen the closures of Boxers Washington Heights, XOXO NYC, Vodka Soda/Bottoms Up, and Posh.
Posh was personal to TENz. We hosted viewing parties, coat drives, and community events there. The bar closed during the summer of 2020, when quarantine restrictions began to ease and outdoor service was permitted, but constantly changing rules and mounting penalties became another burden it could not survive. Posh management said the venue complied with every state rule but struggled with poor communication and requirements that seemed to change from week to week. “It felt as though the rules were changing every week,” said then-manager David Lopez. Each violation could cost upward of $5,000. With legal fees mounting, rent issues unresolved, and wages still needing to be paid, Posh ultimately closed its doors.
Posh was not the only popular LGBTQ+ venue in Hell’s Kitchen to close during the pandemic. Therapy, a well-known club celebrated for its drag shows, also shut down. Owner Tom Johnson said the venue helped bring drag culture to mainstream audiences, with roughly 20 of its performers later competing on, and in some cases winning, RuPaul’s Drag Race. But like bars across the country, Therapy could not withstand months without revenue.
“The rent and property taxes became too much. I was losing $60,000 every month,” Johnson said.
COVID-19 devastated nightlife infrastructure, but it accelerated a decline that had already been underway for years. The reasons are layered, and any analysis that chooses only one misses the point.
State Liquor Authority oversight creates costly compliance pressure. Dating and hookup apps have changed how people meet. Rising rents, property taxes, insurance, labor, and operating costs strain already thin margins. Some argue that broader acceptance of LGBTQ+ people has made dedicated queer spaces less necessary. But acceptance is not the same as cultural preservation, and access to the mainstream has never been equally distributed.
Long before the pandemic, Black and Brown queer venues were already being pushed to the edge.
Escuelita, once known as Manhattan’s number-one LGBT Latin club and a longtime gathering place for Latino and Black communities, closed in 2016 after years of trouble with the State Liquor Authority. Owner Savyon Zabar, known as Big Ben, directly connected the pressure on the club to the gentrification of West 39th Street:
“I believe that we are no longer welcome on West 39th Street, as minorities scare the mostly white tourists who patronize the newly built and expensive boutique hotels on the block. Minorities are no longer welcome on West 39th Street, as they do not fit into the gentrification plans of the city.”
Chi Chiz faced a similar pattern. Co-owner Ronelle McKenzie said the cost of fighting repeated State Liquor Authority citations and paying NYPD tickets drained at least $50,000 from her savings and eventually forced her to walk away from the business.
Gentrification does not only change a neighborhood’s skyline. It changes who can afford to operate there, who is viewed as desirable, and whose gathering spaces are treated as disposable.
In the last year, New York has seen the closures of Barracuda, Club Lambda, 4 West Lounge, Rash, Kind Regards, and Wu Lou Lounge/Langston’s.
One of the rare reversals came from Paragon Brooklyn. After being forced to close in April 2025 because of rising costs, the club announced that it had received a “generous lifeline” from Detroit techno pioneer Kevin Saunderson, allowing it to reopen. Most venues are not so lucky.
These spaces are part of our nightlife ecosystem. TENz captured the nights. We curated the moments. We amplified the parties and helped bring new audiences through the doors. But visibility is not sustainability.
We can amplify. We can document. We can drive conversation. We can help bring a crowd for the first few nights. What no media platform can do is physically fill every room, every weekend, for years. That takes collective responsibility.
And here is the cultural factor we rarely want to interrogate.
There is an unrealistic expectation that beloved spaces will “just be there,” even if we have not stepped inside them in years. Every month, another Twitter debate asks what new party should exist, what kind of bar should open, or what scene is missing. Then someone actually builds it, the requests shift, and sustained support fades.
Rooms do not stay open on nostalgia, likes, or discourse. Long-term survival depends on a rotating and diverse range of patrons showing up consistently, not only for the grand opening, Pride weekend, or the party everyone is posting about.
Club Lambda, 4 West Lounge, Rash, Escuelita, Posh, and the many others we have lost were not interchangeable nightlife boxes. They were cultural hubs. For Black and Brown queer communities especially, these venues have functioned as sanctuaries for expression, style, language, music, and connection. They are where scenes form, artists develop, sounds break, and people find versions of themselves that may not be welcomed anywhere else.
When one closes, we do not simply lose a dance floor. We lose infrastructure for belonging. Apps offer convenience. They do not offer the electricity of a packed room. They do not replace spontaneous connection, a new song shaking the floor, or meeting someone who changes the course of your night, your career, or your life.
If a space is open, go. Bring someone. Buy a drink. Tip the bartender. And tell ya gurlfriends.
