New York's Wave Of Private Clubs Is Actually The Worst

Something is rotten in the state of New York society.

Well, not so much rotten I suppose as wholly lame.

For ages, members' clubs were merely a social commodity loosely traded on the Upper East Side. Gilded Age-esque institutions like the University Club or Colony Club were respectable places to lunch in good company, and ultimately served as metropolitan landing points for the sophisticated trajectory of one's life, which of course involved eventually moving out of New York and popping back for shopping trips or special occasions.

In the early aughts, it was the advent of Soho House that saw a new dawn for houses of "exclusivity," indulging the downtown set's wide-eyed desire for card-carrying clout. And certainly, their rooftop pool didn't hurt their curb appeal...

Post-pandemic, following a time when New York's narrative was one of banding together, the flood of private clubs and need for "elite" insularity has been hard to ignore. 

There's Zero Bond, where overly made up gaggles lounge around staring at the elevator bank, desperately hoping that someone they know will appear so they can pop up, offer them a try-hard double kiss and a hello, and then promptly plop back down, returning to their faithful watch.

There's Casa Cipriani, which for all intents and purposes is basically a premier viewing area for the thrilling back and forth voyage of the Governors Island ferry.

There's Casa Cruz, a posh new perch in a deserted no man's land stretch of the 60s that you can totally tell thinks a little too highly of itself to actually be interesting.

There's The Ned, Soho House's desperate plea for relevance.

There's Chapel Bar, a glorified museum membership that includes access to... a bar. A self-described spot for "bon vivants, provocateurs and culturati." Insert eye roll here, no?

There's the Aman. Whose international reputation for excellence, in the case of its New York hub, neither seems to precede it, nor warrant a $200,000 membership fee. But I suppose everyone needs a place to call their own, even those who get off on hurling heaps of money away in the name of overpriced "experiences."

God, even Carbone is opening an invite-only private members space. 

The nightlife landscape and social scene is changing, there can be no doubt. But even in the hedonistic, overindulgent 70s and 80s, where wealth up the nose ran rampant, the coolest crop rose to the top and made their way into Studio 54 or Pyramid Club. And those bribing the doorman for entrance were the desperate ones.

When did New York become so much more interested with cash than cachet?

All too depressingly, The Jane, a decades-old bohemian party kid's playground, is next on the chopping block. L.A.'s Jeff Klein is set to strip the West Village haunt and refashion it into an outpost of his Hollywood based San Vicente Bungalows. 

It's the ultimate metaphor for the times. A budget hotel that somehow moonlit as the coolest destination in the city. Where lines to get in on a Friday night would wrap around the block, a trail mix of characters and classes, all in search of an evening well spent dancing on tables and spilling drinks and striking up conversations. Now, to become yet another transactional status symbol.

As the current carries us towards a toff-inspired London setup where a chosen set wall themselves off with trendy traps, where will the actually cool crowd go? And how long until the money-interested masses realize how dull their incestuous social circles really are?

Or, is this structure here to stay, with more and more spots to become members only? 

Will you have to undergo an interview, list out references and shell out an annual membership fee to join a Brooklyn warehouse rave? Certainly we're not too far off.

All of this to say - thinking of joining one of the city's many new shiny cliques? 

Don't.

You're too cool. 

Or at the very least, you should hope to be.

[Photo via Casa Cipriani]