How modern life killed the house party

Libby Connor just turned 21 and wanted to throw a house party. The second-year student at Bristol University wanted to be considerate of her neighbors as well. She gave them a week’s notice and assured them that it wouldn’t be too noisy and that it wouldn’t be too late. She even baked them banana bread. However, on the morning of the party, advice knocked on Libby’s door. They sat her and her roommate down in their living room and told them the party was off limits. At 8 p.m., a police car parked in front of the building for the evening.

Libby’s experience is just one example of the widespread killing of house parties. Home gatherings were once a necessary, even crucial, part of adolescent socialization. And yet my generation, Gen Z, is missing out—and it’s not for lack of trying. Libby tells me that in student-heavy areas of Bristol, even more modest gatherings are often closed. “I went to fewer house parties at university than I’d hoped,” she sighs. “The more successful ones I’ve been to, with smaller numbers, didn’t last more than two hours before the police shut them down. As for her aborted birthday plans, she believes handling them was a “waste of police resources”.

The slow demise of the house party did not go unnoticed. Rapper Stormzy recently opened his first nightclub venture, actually called House Party – an immersive experience that recreates the buzz inside a 1990s suburban house, set in a five-storey townhouse in London’s Soho. Why? Because, as he said in a statement, “people don’t throw house parties anymore.”

When I visit, I feel like I’m part of the typical house parties depicted in the seminal Noughties teen drama skins. You’d be forgiven for guessing that the place would be full of geriatric millennials trying to relive their prime. But not. The crowd is made up of people in their twenties, all soaking up an environment they’ve rarely experienced in real life. At one point in the night, between getting fake tattoos on the toilet and singing the Sugababes with strangers, I realize that my generation has totally missed the mark.

How did we get here? Becca Hutson is the editorial director of The News Movement, a Gen Z-led media company that explores youth and nightlife culture. She told me that a combination of factors is behind the decline of house parties, including skyrocketing rents, an increase in noise complaints and a cost-of-living crisis. “I’m afraid it’s generally harder than ever to have fun,” he says. “And I also think that entertainment has never been more important. Young people face many challenges. Not having a space to go out and make memories and meet people is a huge, huge shame.”

I tell Hutson about Libby’s experience with her failed 21st party. He says noise complaints and general concerns about social unrest have increased since the closure, which is one part of the problem. “There is a strong argument that since the pandemic, people have become accustomed to silence, so their noise threshold is lower,” he says. “It is very likely that this also applies to student housing, with local residents not wanting to adapt to a noisier neighbourhood.”

Most parties don’t even get that far. As someone who lived in London for six years, four of which without a living room, I never invited friends over, not even for dinner. The house party was completely off. And increasingly young people are living in cramped conditions or moving home for longer periods as the average rent outside London has risen by more than 7 per cent to £1,223 a month in the past year, according to Zoopla.

If you’re one of the lucky ones with plenty of living space, a house party may not be worth the risk of losing an expensive deposit. “The rental market, especially in cities, for affordable apartments or houses that young people can share is fiercely competitive and very expensive,” explains Hutson. “So the risk of jeopardizing your place at the party will definitely be on people’s minds before they send out a group invite.”

Stamina. Aren’t we living in the era of the so-called “Puriteen”? According to a certain narrative about Gen Z, we’re supposed to be a whole generation of sober, prudish youngsters eager to turn their backs on the party culture of our millennial and boomer elders, rather than follow it. But really, it’s still 1999 in the mood to party.

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According to Michael Kill, chief executive of the UK’s Night Time Industries Association, young people generally socialize less because of financial constraints, not because they don’t want to. New research from the organization shows that 52 per cent of adult respondents said they could not afford to go out on a night out, with the cost of drinks and club admissions putting people off. As a result of this cocktail of restrictions, Kill says, my generation has become more selective about social outings. Instead, Gen Zers tend to save up for one-off, more expensive events like concerts or day-long festivals over several months rather than going regularly.

“While the desire to go out remains strong, financial constraints have led young people to prefer things like all-inclusive package nights, activity-led evenings and competitive socialising,” he says. He adds that music-focused events such as concerts are what young people increasingly spend their money on, and only when they actually have it.

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I admit that the concert is fun. But there’s a part of me that still mourns regardless of the nightlife culture my generation is missing out on. I can’t face another Saturday night huddled around my kitchen counter, tin in hand, side by side with absolutely everyone I know.