Half of Clubbers Think Phones Are Ruining the Dancefloor. We Asked the People Running the Clubs

Look, we know. Another piece about phones ruining club culture. The think pieces have been written, the surveys conducted, the hot takes delivered. But here’s the thing: most of that conversation has been happening in the abstract, with commentators theorising about what might be happening while the actual architects of nightlife, the people building these spaces and curating these experiences, have largely been drowned out by the noise. So we decided to actually ask them.

The numbers tell part of the story, and they’re worth acknowledging. A recent survey commissioned by Ray-Ban Meta found that half of UK clubbers reckon phones are wrecking the dancefloor, which is darkly amusing when you consider that 55 per cent of those same people admitted to using their phones whilst dancing. It’s the kind of cognitive dissonance that feels very now, very 2026 (yes, aware the year only just began). We know it’s a problem, we’re contributing to it, and we’re doing it anyway. Sixty per cent are filming themselves and their mates, 34 per cent are sharing content or messaging friends. The irony practically writes itself.

What’s more interesting than the numbers, though, are the voices behind the venues. Because whilst academics and journalists have been busy dissecting the phenomenon, the people who actually create these spaces have been quietly testing theories, implementing policies, and watching what happens when you remove the screens from the equation.

Sam Divine has seen both sides of it. As a DJ, label owner and promoter of 555, she’s built a career in an era where social media has become inseparable from music culture. “I’ve always been on the fence about phones on the dance floor,” she tells us. “I come from an era where camera phones weren’t really a thing so I embraced it. People capturing moments on their phone and sharing them on social media I believe has helped so many DJs’ careers, including my own. Some DJs have gone viral from one video.”

But when she decided to test the theory at the UK launch of her new record label in London by implementing a no-phones policy, something shifted. “I can confirm the energy was significantly better with no phones. It felt like an old school rave. People letting loose without feeling conscious, totally present and in the moment.” Her conclusion is unequivocal: “No phones on the dance floor for the win. Our culture needs this reset and I urge all DJs to take a leap of faith and get behind the no phones movement. Music isn’t about going viral on TikTok, it’s about freedom, living in the moment. Dancing like no one is watching.”

It’s a sentiment that cuts to the heart of what’s been lost. When you’re dancing with your phone held aloft, you’re not just recording the moment, you’re fundamentally changing your relationship to it. You become a documentarian rather than a participant, an observer rather than someone lost in the collective energy of the room.

Tony Truman, who owns O Beach Ibiza, offers an interesting counterpoint. His venue is practically synonymous with Instagram-worthy moments, the kind of place where the visual spectacle is part of the draw. Yet even there, something’s shifted. “At O Beach Ibiza we are known for being so social media-led, but I go out on most Fridays and look at the dance floor, hardly anyone is holding up their phone,” he observes. “People are less focused on the super star DJs at O Beach, everyone is vibing on the dancefloor and are more interested in the music, getting drunk and having a party.”

It suggests something intriguing: that perhaps the pendulum is already swinging back without needing heavy-handed intervention. When the culture itself becomes too saturated with documentation, when every moment becomes content, there’s a natural rebellion that occurs. People start craving the unfiltered, the unrecorded, the genuinely spontaneous.

Nick Sheehy, who runs Pikes in Ibiza and Manoeuvre in London, frames it in more philosophical terms. “The no phone policy movement is so important. It’s not about being anti technology, it’s about being pro presence. Dance music culture was built on collective, almost tribal moments, looking at each other on the dancefloor and losing yourself rather than trying to capture it. The best nights aren’t filmed, they’re felt and shared with the people around you.”

There’s something poignant about that last line. The best nights aren’t filmed. It flies in the face of everything social media has taught us: the idea that if you didn’t document it, it didn’t happen. But anyone who lived through the 90s and early 2000s rave culture knows the truth of it. Those nights exist in memory, in shared glances with strangers who became friends for three hours, in the way a particular track can transport you back to a moment that exists nowhere but in your head.

Paul Crane from Kinky Malinki has been at this long enough to remember what it was like before. The party started in a South London railway arch in 1998, before social media, before camera phones were ubiquitous. “For me, going offline when stepping onto the dancefloor has become essential to saving clubland,” he says. “I want everyone to experience a pure connection to the music and to be fully present at every dance floor we create at Kinky Malinki.”

He acknowledges the commercial reality, the fact that content creation has become part of the promotional ecosystem. “Like many promoters, we benefit from people filming and sharing content on socials, but I believe the greater cause is re-creating that same incredible atmosphere we had when we started… and staying truly connected to the DJ and the people around us on the dancefloor.”

David Vincent at Sankeys Manchester doesn’t mince words about what’s been lost. “It’s become a soulless experience. You just see a sea of people with phones in the air filming the DJ rather than dancing. We need to bring it back.” He points out the absurdity of the behaviour: “People are recording for hours. Most of them won’t ever even watch it back and in the process they lose the actual experience.”

His venue is putting money where its mouth is. When the new Sankeys Manchester opens in January, it’ll be doing so with a strict no-phones policy. And contrary to what you might expect, he reports that resistance has been minimal. “We thought the clubbers might push back, but once you encourage them to switch off, they realise the feeling you get from being present on the dance floor and they like it.”

Perhaps most tellingly, we’re hearing from younger voices who never experienced the pre-smartphone era but can still feel the difference. Harry Bowen, a promoter behind Maravilosa, represents a generation that grew up with phones everywhere. “Coming from my generation, you expect phones everywhere, but when the room locks in, the energy is unreal. You can feel every single person connected. That doesn’t happen often.”

He describes those rare moments of total presence as powerful, something that doesn’t happen when screens mediate the experience. “It’s rare to see a crowd fully present right now, but when it happens, it’s powerful. No distractions, no phones, just everyone locked into the music together. As a young DJ, playing to a crowd that’s fully in the moment is something I really treasure. You can feel the room breathe with the music.”

The survey data supports what these promoters and DJs are describing experientially. When asked what makes the dancefloor special, 47 per cent pointed to the music itself, 43 per cent to the feeling of dancing with friends, and 31 per cent to being fully immersed and lost in the moment. All of those things, the music, the collective energy, the immersion, are fundamentally compromised when you’re holding a phone.

What’s interesting is that this isn’t just a nostalgic yearning for some mythical golden age. Venues like Fabric and Fold in London have been running phone bans successfully for years now. Pikes Ibiza extended their Monday night phone-free policy to seven nights a week. The relaunched Sankeys is opening with a no-phones mandate. Manchester’s Amber’s embraced it to such success that it’s become part of their identity.

Even corporate brands are getting involved. Heineken ran a campaign at festivals in Mexico and the Netherlands using infrared technology that created messages invisible to the naked eye but revealed when people held up their phones to film. The message? Keep the moment in your memory, not on your phone. It’s a clever bit of creative judo, using the very technology people are filming with to encourage them to stop.

There’s a certain irony in all of this. The same social media platforms that helped build careers, that turned bedroom DJs into global phenomena, that democratised music discovery and connected scenes across continents, are now being identified as the thing that’s killing the very culture they helped amplify. It’s not that simple, of course. Technology isn’t good or bad, it’s just a tool. But the way we’re using it in club spaces has fundamentally altered what those spaces mean and how they function.

The question now isn’t really whether phones are affecting dancefloor culture. The promoters, DJs and club owners are pretty unanimous on that front. The energy is better without them, the connection deeper, the experience more authentic. The question is whether enough people are willing to put their phones away voluntarily, or whether venues will need to make that choice for them.

What’s encouraging is that when people are given the opportunity to experience a phone-free night, most of them embrace it. They remember why they came to the club in the first place. Not to create content, not to prove they were there, but to lose themselves in music surrounded by strangers who, for a few hours, become something like family.

Perhaps the most damning statistic from that survey isn’t that 50 per cent think phones are ruining the dancefloor. It’s that 13 per cent of people who film at clubs admit they rarely watch the videos back anyway. All that energy spent documenting, all those moments filtered through a screen, all that distance created between you and the experience, and for what? A video you’ll scroll past in six months without watching.

The best nights, as Nick Sheehy said, aren’t filmed. They’re felt. And maybe, just maybe, enough people are starting to remember what that feels like.

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