New York City’s Most Exclusive Nightclubs are Reviving Membership Cards

Dylan doesn’t think he was a more suitable candidate than any other club rat. He goes out dancing frequently, sure, but doesn’t hit any one venue often enough to be considered a loyalist, at least not by his estimate. And yet, last August, an email showed up in his inbox. “You are invited,” it read, prompting him to click the embedded link to begin his application. Dylan was asked to provide a “portrait-style photo” and the usernames attached to his Instagram and RA Guide accounts. He decided to make his Instagram account public, so his anonymous adjudicators could see that, in addition to being a recommended party guest, he was also “young and beautiful and Asian.” Within five hours of submitting the necessary materials, Dylan’s application was approved. He recalls being “really gagged” by the swiftness of the decision. But he didn’t contest it. He was now a card-carrying member of Basement, a nightclub in Queens known, colloquially, as the “Berghain of New York.”You may recognize Basement’s throbbing, dungeon-esque interior from the Nicole Kidman dom-com Babygirl. Not unlike the actual Berghain in Berlin, Basement is notorious for its winding queues, all-night tech-head DJ lineups, and strict no-camera policy. (Recently, the cavernous Flushing Ave haunt updated its zero-tolerance filming rules: Anyone caught bringing smart glasses into the venue risks a lifetime ban.) The door is not quite as rigid as Berghain’s, but tickets to hot parties sell out quickly, and even ticket-holders often wait in line for hours. But being a friend of the venue guarantees ticket availability and the privilege of entering through the members line, which is comically shorter than the regular one.“It’s a very arbitrary process. I don't think that I’m cooler than any of the people that I referred who didn't get approved,” Dylan muses. He was referred to the program by a friend he sometimes sees on the dancefloor and at the gym—someone he describes as “just a regular raver, not a famous DJ” or even “very active in the scene.” In addition to a member referral—card-holders are permitted three referrals, replenished only if the person referred gets approved—Basement’s guidelines state that a member may be asked to write a short letter of recommendation for applicants who do not provide enough information. Some partiers with a more dedicated Basement attendance record told me they waited weeks only to be declined. But Dylan says he was accepted rather quickly. Now, on a given night at Basement, all he has to do is access Basement’s member portal on his phone’s browser and show the bouncer a QR code. (Even this elite status has its limits: “If you're going with a group of people—which happens quite often—if they have a ticket, but they're not a member, you have to wait with them,” Dylan says. “Or you could say, ‘Fuck you. I'll see you inside,’ but that I kind of don't feel good about because that's kind of a dick move, honestly.”)The secret-ish, if-you-know-you-know club membership has its precedent in dance havens of yore. In 1978, the New York Times reported that 18,000 people had applied for a Studio 54 membership card, with only 3000 making the cut. Patrons paid $75-$100 in exchange for a card emblazoned with the venue’s iconic Art Deco logo, which guaranteed admission and a $3 discount on cover charges. But as Studio 54 exploded in popularity, access grew extra-exclusive. Once the club stopped automatically admitting card-carriers, the New York City Department of Consumer Affairs shut down the program. Still, Mudd Club, which opened shortly before the epic demise of Studio 54, offered laminated ID cards to those enrolled in “Mudd College of Deviant Behavior,” allowing them to bypass the venue’s capricious door policy. (Notable Mudd alums include Keith Haring, Anna Sui, and Kim Hastreiter.)John Barclay, owner of Brooklyn’s Paragon and Bossa Nova Civic Club, started a membership program for the latter venue around 2014. It was conceived as a token of gratitude for those who frequented the space regularly, not just on “hot nights”; Barclay secretly hoped it would reduce the number of late-night calls he gets from acquaintances with list requests. “I’ll be in bed—this happens to me all the time—it’s like 2 a.m. and I’m asleep and people call my phone five times to try to save 10 bucks at the door,” Barclay groans. “And it’s always some guy my age.”Once a year, in the basement of Bossa, new members got their photo taken by Aurora Halal—beloved DJ and the co-founder of Sustain-Release, an annual electronic music festival held in the Catskills—and laminated on the spot. Keeping the program a secret has never been a priority; those Halal portraits, Barclay says, “would be everybody’s profile picture. It was kind of like a status, dumb, clout-y Bushwick thing.” Plus, awareness of the program is a moot point when it comes to acquiring the Bossa-Paragon pass.“We don't just give it to anybody who asks. Some people I'm like, ‘Who are you, bro? Never seen you, heard of you my entire life,’” Barclay says, sliding me the latest version of the card, now much simpler in design and, therefore, easier to hand out. We’re talking on the subterranean floor of Paragon, which opened in 2022, seated in booths that are typically piled high with unchaperoned bags and hoodies. With every light on over the checkered dancefloor, the room is barely recognizable as the head-banging, hazy-with-sweat-and-vape-clouds den it becomes on a busy night, which Barclay says hosts about 40-50 members in addition to those who paid to be there.The membership criteria haven’t changed much since the Studio 54 era. As Barclay says, “You give them to people who may be a good look to have at your club for whatever reason. Maybe they're famous or stunningly attractive or they work somewhere. Maybe they’re a big shot DJ or an agent or something.” Modern memberships tend to place the same premium on loyalty as they do clout: “My favorite,” Barclay says, “is to give it out to people who just come, behave, support, tip the bartender and dance, first and foremost.”Most establishments implement a referral process, preferring to let their program fly under the radar and stoke intrigue, but that's not always the case. An annual membership to Brooklyn’s Good Room will run you $10 on Bandcamp. (The card’s copy reads: We are now selling our coveted membership cards online!) The multi-room Elsewhere offers seasonal and yearly passes, with generous perks at its Freaks with Benefits tier: skip-the-line privileges for you and your plus-twos. Nowadays, a Queens nightclub known for its “Non-Stop” parties, which run from 10 p.m. to 3 p.m. and provide free bagel service at sunrise, promotes its memberships on Instagram. Followers are encouraged to enroll through Patreon, with monthly dues running from $5 to $100.“It kind of helps us to have more members because we can be a bit more strict at the door—we already know people are showing trust and community,” artist Maxwell Vice told me over the phone last fall, back when they were a manager at Nowadays. “And they’re also investing in us. The Patreon goes directly towards the staff.” Exclusivity isn’t as central to the program’s existence as fostering a sense of community, Vice said. “I think certain clubs like Basement, for the aura they possess, should have a membership that kind of provides exclusivity. But for Nowadays, I think it's important—since we market safety and inclusivity—to have a membership that just shows that this is a community member and not just an elite member.”Most spaces cite the same reasons for revoking membership: nonconsensual touching, filming the dance floor, getting too drunk or high too many times, and behaving like an asshole. “I don't think we’ve ever been like, ‘We need the membership card back,’” Barclay jokes. “We're just like, ‘You're banned.’” He maintains that his club sparked this generation of nightlife’s membership wave. “When we started it at Bossa, everybody mocked it,” he says.When I ask Barclay if he’d ever consider updating his card, he tells me people bring him their “quirky” new ideas constantly, but that he’d never go digital. “I personally don't like that idea just because I think half of it is having this little thing you can show people,” he says, adding that keeping the card tangible makes it into a memento that can be passed on. “It’s like, ‘Oh, this is my great-grandma Savannah’s club card from the 2020s.’”