How Modern Life Killed the House Party

Iibby Connor was about to turn 21 and wanted to throw a house party. As a second-year student at Bristol University, she wanted to be considerate of her neighbours. She gave them a week’s notice and assured them it wouldn’t be too loud or too late. She even baked banana bread just in case. However, the morning of the party, the council knocked on Libby’s door. They made her and her housemates sit in their living room and told them the party was illegal. At 8pm, a police car pulled up outside the grounds for the evening.

Libby’s experience is just one example of the widespread murder of the house party. Home gatherings were once an essential, even crucial, part of adolescent social life. And yet, my generation, Gen Z, is missing out – and it’s not for lack of trying. Libby tells me that even modest gatherings are often shut down in areas of Bristol that are densely populated by students. “I’ve been to fewer house parties at university than I would have liked,” she sighs. “The more successful ones I’ve been to, with smaller numbers, didn’t last more than two hours before being shut down by the police.” As for her aborted birthday plans, she believes their handling was a “waste of police resources”.

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

When I’m there, I feel like I’m part of the typical house parties depicted in the influential 00s teen drama Skins. You’d be forgiven for guessing that the place would be full of geriatric millennials looking to relive their glory days. But no. The crowd is made up of people in their early twenties, all soaking up an environment they’ve rarely experienced in real life. At some point during the night, between getting fake tattoos in the toilets and singing along to the Sugababes with strangers, I realise that my generation has got it all wrong.

How did we get here? Becca Hutson is the editor-in-chief of The News Movement, a Gen Z-led media company that studies youth and nightlife culture. She tells me that a combination of factors, including skyrocketing rents, rising noise complaints and the cost of living crisis, are behind the demise of the house party. “I worry that it’s harder than ever to have fun in general,” she says. “And I also think that having fun has never been more important. Young people face so many challenges. It’s a huge, huge shame that they don’t have spaces to go out and make memories and meet people.”

I tell Hutson about Libby’s experience with her failed 21st party. She says that noise complaints and general concerns about social disruption have increased since the lockdowns, which is part of the problem. “There’s a strong argument that since the pandemic, people have become accustomed to silence, so their threshold for noise is lower,” she says. “It’s very plausible that this is also true in student housing, because locals don’t want to get used to a noisier neighbourhood.”

Most parties don’t even get that far. As someone who’s lived in London for six years, four of which I haven’t had a living room, I’ve never invited friends over, not even for dinner. A house party was out of the question. And increasingly, young people are living in cramped conditions or moving back home for longer periods, with the average rent outside London rising by more than 7 per cent in the past year to £1,223 a month, according to Zoopla.

If you’re one of the lucky few with enough living space, a house party might not be worth the risk of losing a pricey security deposit. “The rental market, especially in cities, for affordable apartments or houses for young people to share is fiercely competitive and fiercely expensive,” Hutson explains. “So the risk of risking your space for a party is definitely going to be on people’s minds before they send out the group invite.”

Wait a minute. Aren’t we living in the age of the so-called “puritans”? According to a certain narrative about Gen Z, we’re supposed to be a whole generation of sober, prudish kids who would rather turn their backs on the party culture of our millennials and boomer elders than chase it. But the truth is, there’s still a thirst for partying like it’s 1999.

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According to Michael Kill, CEO of the UK Night Time Industries Association, young people are generally socializing less because of financial constraints, not because they don’t want to. The organization’s new research found that 52 percent of adult respondents said they couldn’t afford to go out for a night because the cost of drinks and entry fees was a deterrent. As a result of this cocktail of constraints, Kill says, my generation has become more selective about social outings. Instead, Gen Zers tend to save up for one-off, more expensive splurges like concerts or day festivals spread over a period of several months, rather than going out regularly.

“While the urge to go out remains strong, financial constraints have led to young people preferring things like all-inclusive package nights, activity nights and competitive socialising,” he says, adding that young people are increasingly spending money on music events, such as concerts, and that’s only if they can actually afford it.

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I admit that a concert is fun. But there’s a part of me that still mourns whatever nightlife culture my generation is missing. I can’t handle a Saturday night anymore, huddled around my kitchen counter, can in hand, shoulder to shoulder with absolutely everyone I know.