Anyma reminded me we've forgotten how to live in the moment

I've been wondering recently whether I need a break from clubbing.

Not because I'm bored of dance music. I'm still bouncing around my house at 7am on weekday mornings listening to mixes or trying to track down obscure edits of tracks I heard at the weekend. There are still DJs I get genuinely excited to see and friends who can instantly lift my mood the moment they walk onto the dancefloor.

But somewhere over the past year, the nights have started to blur together.

When every weekend consists of another rave, another festival, another afterparty or another "you have to come to this one", it's surprisingly easy for experiences that should feel special to become routine. I've stopped counting down the days until the big event because I'm still dealing with the life admin left behind by last weekend's rave while already thinking about the next one. The anticipation disappears when there's always something else on the horizon.

That's a strange thing to admit when you write about nightlife.

It makes me feel ancient, but I remember when I'd buy tickets months in advance, spend the whole week getting excited, meet mates for drinks beforehand and talk for days afterwards about the set. Now I sometimes catch myself halfway through objectively brilliant nights thinking about how tired I am, whether I'll make the Night Tube or what's happening next weekend. That's probably the biggest sign something has changed.

It isn't the clubs' fault. Or the promoters'. If anything, London's nightlife is healthier than it's been for years. Every weekend presents impossible choices. If you know where to look, there's another lineup worth seeing, another debut, another marathon set that feels unmissable. The problem isn't a lack of good nights—it's an abundance of things to do in a city oversaturated with good music.

The result, after a few years of this, is a kind of burnout that creeps up on you without you realising. The emotional highs get flatter. The magical moments become harder to recognise because they're surrounded by so many other good moments. It's difficult for any individual night to stand out when you're asking your brain to remember fifty of them.

It's not that nights have become worse. It's that they've become normal. When every weekend delivers another incredible lineup, another sunrise, another DJ playing the set of their life, those experiences stop feeling exceptional. They become your baseline.

The problem is that clubbing isn't just how I spend my weekends anymore—it's where most of my friendships live. Taking a break doesn't just mean skipping a rave. It means missing birthdays, post-rave tinnies watching the sunrise, chance encounters with people I haven't seen in months and those little moments that happen between the headline sets. My social life has become so wrapped up in nightlife that I'm not entirely sure what a weekend off is supposed to look like.

And I'm fairly confident I know what will happen if I do stay home. I'll open Instagram on Sunday morning and see videos from the party everyone is calling the set of the year. Friends will message saying I picked the wrong weekend to rest. Social media will happily remind me that while I was getting an early night, everyone else was making memories.

So I'm caught somewhere in the middle. Burnt out enough that I don't appreciate every night as much as I should, but still too afraid of missing the next unforgettable one to properly step away.

I could end this by saying absence makes the heart grow fonder. Maybe it does. But as I sit here looking at a couple of empty weekends pencilled into July, the absence just feels like absence.

This week's mix is a few months old, but MAÏS chucked it my way this week and I really enjoyed it. It swings between bangers that will make you lock in and some groovy little tunes that feel like they'll never end. I don't know much about Two Ex, this is the first time I've heard them, but I'm keen to find out more.

Put it on, shake your butt, live your life. It's here on SoundCloud.

I was standing front right (uh oh) in the crowd for Anyma on Saturday when I noticed something that was impossible to ignore. As the first of his trademark visuals burst across the giant screens, it was almost as though someone had given the audience a cue. Hundreds, probably thousands, of hands disappeared into pockets at exactly the same time. A second later they reappeared, phones in hand, held high above heads to capture the moment.

For a moment, it felt less like I was standing in a crowd and more like I was standing in a phone shop. And it didn't really change back. For most of the set, the sea of glowing screens stayed there, everyone understandably keen to capture every spectacular visual before it disappeared.

It's difficult to blame anyone. Anyma's shows are designed to be spectacular. The visuals are every bit as much a part of the performance as the music itself, and if there was ever a DJ whose set practically begged to be recorded, it's probably him. But watching it happen made me wonder when we'd all become so conditioned to reach for our phones the moment something exciting happens as a first response, instead of dancing away for a couple of minutes first. A legion of clubbers trying to preserve a moment they haven't really experienced themselves.

That's become one of the defining sights of modern clubbing. Whether it's a huge festival headline set or a tiny basement club, the second the big tune arrives or the lights do something spectacular, pockets empty and screens light up. Somewhere along the way, documenting the night has become almost as instinctive as dancing.

I remember seeing Armand Van Helden drop Bonkers at KOKO a few years ago and watching the same thing happen. Around me, people transformed from active participants into passive observers behind rectangular screens. Even in clubs where filming is discouraged, you'll still spot people pointing cameras at the DJ as though proving to themselves, or perhaps everyone following them online, that they're witnessing something incredible.

I've had to make peace with my own role in this. Since starting FrontLeft I've usually got a camera in my pocket, grabbing photos for the newsletter, and I'm hardly going to pretend I've never pulled my phone out for thirty seconds because a track was too good not to record.

My camera roll is full of warehouse raves, festivals and clubs across London. Drops I was convinced I'd revisit. Incredible lighting moments. IDs I desperately wanted to send to my friend and musical oracle Daria after Shazam had, once again, completely given up.

The reality is that I barely ever revisit them. Every now and again I'll scroll back while looking for something, often the monthly roundups I drop on my Instagram for my own benefit, but my general feeling of video clips is that my phone has preserved footage, but not the feeling I actually had when I was there.

That's because dance music has always been about something that cameras are remarkably bad at capturing.

I actually didn't enjoy Anyma as a DJ that much even though I had a great time, and that's because a great rave isn't just the song the DJ is playing but that feeling of bass thumping into your chest, the eye contact with your friend because of an in-joke from earlier or a drop you both know is about to hit. Those weird moments when you lock in with a stranger and decide for the next couple of hours at least, you're going to be best mates.

No 30-second video clip can record that. No photo can really capture that feeling.

I spent most of my twenties in exactly that role, photographing everyone else having the time of their lives while feeling strangely disconnected from having much of one myself. That's partly why I fell in love with clubbing in the first place.

For me, it offered an escape from awkward pub meet-ups and the strange pressure to constantly document life. Don't mention the fact that I now basically write a newsletter about going out and dancing each weekend. For a few hours there were no emails to answer, no algorithms to satisfy, no notifications demanding attention.

The dancefloor has always been one of the few places where hundreds of strangers can exist entirely in the same moment, connected by nothing more than a soundsystem and a desire to forget about work on Monday.

It feels a bit like we're eroding that. I think part of the reason we reach for our phones isn't even to create memories anymore. It's habit. We've become so used to documenting everything that exciting moments almost feel incomplete unless we've uploaded them to Instagram Stories before we climb into a cab, exhausted, to head home.

And that's a shame, because some of the best moments in clubbing are the ones that simply can't be shared.

The conversation with strangers outside the smoking area at 4am. The DJ accidentally loading the wrong track before laughing and starting again. The sleepy photo someone's forced you take outside of the club after it's closed. That moment of pure joy when you've realised that, just for a few hours, someone you've just met is totally on your wavelength.

I'm not convinced that any of those moments are improved by pulling out a phone. In fact, they're often diminished by it.

Some of the best clubbing experiences I've had in recent years have been at events where phones barely made an appearance. Nobody was policing it. Nobody was covering camera lenses with stickers. People simply... weren't that interested in filming.

The atmosphere felt different. People looked at each other more. Danced more. Reacted to moments instead of trying to capture them. It felt less like everyone was creating content and more like everyone was creating memories. Maybe that's the balance we've lost.

I'm not arguing for a complete ban on phones. Take a photo with your mates. Capture the moments no one else can. Smartphones are part of modern life and they're not going anywhere. My night has been improved by my friend getting everyone together for a group photo, and it's barely taken 20 seconds out of my night to do it. But outside of grabbing a quick clip of your favourite tune, does your video of the DJ actually add anything?

Perhaps we could all afford to be a little more selective. Ask yourself whether you really need three minutes of video from the biggest drop of the night or whether thirty seconds would do. Better yet, ask whether you need any at all. Because five years from now are you going to want to go back and think about how sharp your video looked, or are you going to remember how the room felt? Of the walk to the tube station with aching legs as you realise your friend is lost and is taking the longest route back to Bromley By Bow imaginable?

The funny thing about Anyma's set is that I can barely remember what was happening on the giant screens during some of the biggest visual moments.

What I do remember is looking around and seeing an entire crowd watching one of the most spectacular shows in electronic music through devices to take photos they'd be uploading to Instagram before they'd even left the venue.

Maybe next time, when the lights go down and the visuals kick in, it's worth leaving your phone where it is for just a minute. You might experience it a bit more fully.

(And if that doesn't convince you, spare a thought for those of us who are 6'8 and spend half the night looking at the screen of your phone instead of the DJ as you hold it aloft)

Day fest season remains in full swing with not one but two Above and Beyond gigs on Friday night. My pick would be the open air at Silverworks Island because I quite enjoyed watching the sunset there at Anyma last week, but also because Yotto is playing and is generally excellent. If that doesn't tickle your pickle, someone gave my best friend and FrontLeft photographer MAÏS the keys to Hoxton Cabal, which promises to be great fun on vinyl all over again. There's also Max Styler at Magazine if you want to get fancy.

Saturday all roads lead to Fold, where Art of Dark will be celebrating 15 years with a lineup that includes Tommy Pickles, which always makes me laugh because I'm old enough to remember The Rugrats. Elsewhere, The Cross has a day-to-night party with a good lineup, including DASHA, who I saw at Go-in a while back and have been meaning to see again.

Sunday there's a surprising amount on, but the pick is probably Pendulum at Silverworks Island because, you know, it's Pendulum and Andy C.

Friday

• Hoxton Cabal: MAÏS, vene.tia, Smudge Proof (Vinyl Only) Hoxton Cabin
• Gallery x Organic presents: Max Styler Magazine
• Above & Beyond: Bigger Than All Of Us with Yotto Silverworks Island

Saturday

• WILD FESTIVAL (Day Party) The Cross
• Art Of Dark - 15 Years - Part 1 Fold
• Feel Good W/ Jorg Kuning The Carpet Shop

Sunday

• WAH In The City with Pendulum (Live), Andy C: Alive, Bou, Kanine, Mozey and Sota Silverworks Island

What else?

• It's London Pride this weekend. The pick of the bunch is Howl's pride party which takes over most of Hackney Wick, but Unfold on Sunday is likely to have a queue you can see from space, so if you want to head to that, get there early.

• Everyone is talking about this post from Avarni, alleging abuse by DJ Lukas Wigflex. Be aware that there's some pretty detailed discussions of abuse in here and it's a tough read. Wigflex has issued a statement on Instagram identifying himself, apologising, and cancelling all upcoming shows. He's also pulled out of Peep, the festival he co-founded with Dr Banana. "Safety and respect have sat at the heart of every conversation in the planning of the first edition of our festival, and will always be our top priorities. We are deeply saddened by what we have learned in the last 48 hours and recognise the impact it has had on our community," says a statement posted to Peep's instagram announcing the news.
• Tidal won't pay royalties to AI-generated music. Good.
• The Block is returning to Junction 2 this summer and wants you to apply to play. Last year I saw some great DJs there, so if you're thinking of applying you have until 5pm on July 10 to get your mix in.