All Eyes On CDMX
In the last decade, Mexico City's free-spirited club scene has become a global destination. Can it hold on to what makes it special?
The pink penis-shaped disco ball has sprung a leak. It is 1 a.m. at Bonbon, Mexico City’s premier gay alt-pop party, and a wayward strip of glistening fabric dangles from the appendage’s tip, billowing to the bass. A prop malfunction is never ideal, but especially tonight: It’s a birthday celebration for Andrómeda Dugay, an ebullient blond drag queen who enters the room like a hurricane and is wearing a catsuit covered in so many crystals, they leave a mark when she draws you in for an air kiss.
The club’s resident DJ Dave Brennan, also an author and sometime Lana Del Rey impersonator, is taking the decor-related mishap in his stride. “Did you see what I posted?” he asks, pulling up an Instagram story with a shot of the tattered mirrorball with a caption that he shouts — “Feliz Precumpleaños!” — before returning to the floor to dance to Charli and Rihanna. An hour later, Andrómeda has cleared the crowd of willowy, fashionable clubbers for an impromptu lip-sync to “Work Bitch,” a routine involving struts, dips, and a bottle of Johnnie Walker that mostly ends up down her throat.
Bonbon — Mexican slang for “cutie” — was started in 2017 as “a place to gather with my gay friends,” promoter Juanjo Gallo tells me a few hours before the party. I’m at dinner with the Bonbon organizers at Taverna, a nearby rustic-chic spot with artfully exposed brickwork, reclaimed wood furniture, and a rainforest’s worth of greenery. “There wasn't a proper LGBTQ club that focused on the more alternative scene, playing bands like Gossip and The Knife,” Gallo says. The mainstream bars in Zona Rosa, Mexico City’s gay district, stuck to American Top 40 fare; embracing their own tastes made Bonbon stand out. “Pop music is also welcome,” says Jorge Rodriguez, the party’s gregarious co-founder. But you have to draw the line somewhere. “I think just Taylor Swift is forbidden.
That kind of sharp discernment goes without saying in Mexico City, or CDMX (“Ciudad de México”) for short. In the past decade, it has become a mecca for serious clubbers and good-time party people keen to cut loose. A rich scene of independent promoters, formidable local talent, and big-name international bookings makes CDMX a draw for worldly ravers craving a different point of view on nightlife. Bar- and party-hopping is easy, and tickets for the best nights probably won’t set you back much more than a well drink at a Brooklyn hot spot like Nowadays. It’s a refreshing contrast to the $60 Dice tickets and Uber surge pricing that can make NYC clubbing feel like a wallet-gouging logistical nightmare that’s only fun half the time.
Still, the secret sauce is the enthusiasm of fellow clubbers who have the rave in their blood. “The party in Mexico is very different from another region of the world,” says local promoter Robin García, adding that it’s common to “drink every day” in the weeks following December’s Día de la Virgen de Guadalupe. “For us, the party is part of our culture.”
In the last five years, the number of Americans living in Mexico has ballooned. New residents could count on snagging a cozy one-bedroom apartment for less than $1,000 a month, a forgiving time zone for Zoom calls with the States, and your pick of aesthetic cafes set up to make post-Covid digital nomadding a breeze. There’s Michelin-starred dining and swishy members clubs, if that’s your thing; delicious street food and efficient public transit if it’s not. An estimated 1.6 million Americans now live in Mexico, and many of the capital’s new residents settled in the hip area of Roma.
The neighborhood’s wide boulevards are full of weeping fig trees with knotted bark that brings to mind a tangle of veins; under the canopy, street vendors sell woven baskets, papas, or chicharrones. A few doors down from the luxury perfumier Le Labo, a taco stand is doing a roaring lunch-rush trade, slinging blue corn discs onto a sizzling hot plate and topping them with meat, veggies, and stringy Oaxacan cheese. Nearby, I notice that the bougie bakery Panadería Rosetta has added a new hire to its payroll since my last visit in 2021: a security guard keeping a discreet eye on the crowd.
“The party in Mexico is very different from another region of the world. For us, the party is part of our culture.”
All the tourists are “good for business,” says Caroline Troche of Cardón, a slow-fashion concept store on Roma’s main drag that focuses on emerging Mexican designers. “But the prices are a bit over the top. I feel like coffee now costs two or three times the price of what it should.”
As the number of foreigners has spiked, the nightlife scene has changed too. Like most cities the world over, many of the most exciting CDMX parties are queer, or at least queer-adjacent. Bonbon now draws a mixed crowd of college students, off-duty Drag Race queens, and more than a few international visitors on gaycation. The popularity (and cash flow) has allowed Bonbon to donate the proceeds from one party a month to charity, as well as to stage lavish events like this June’s Pride party, where the organizers took over a former hotel. Tickets cost $70, around the going rate for similar Pride events in the United States. “And then people were selling them for around double or triple the price, like it was a Lady Gaga concert,” says Brennan.
No local wants rising rents and post-gentrification prices, but many of the promoters I spoke to this summer say the increase in foreigners has brought a new energy to the city’s nightlife. “There’s this whole thing in Mexico City with people getting angry at foreigners,” says Areli Escotto, who ran the venue El Kntcky with her brother and business partner, Jorge. “We don’t see it that way.” Adds Jorge: “The party scene was homogenizing, and reggaeton [nights were] the only option. Now, there’s a very healthy exchange, where people are coming to Mexico City from other big capitals in the world and bringing different bits of that culture into the nightlife. It’s f*cking ace.”
“I think younger people will be saying that it’s the worst thing that has happened,” says Lao, a founding member of the avant-garde club collective NAAFI. “But it’s definitely the opposite. Why would you be against having more eyes on what you’re putting out?”
The day after Bonbon, I meet García, the promoter, during the busy lunch rush at Peltre, a local chain of cafes. “What’s the English word for when you drank too much?” he asks, pulling up a seat to a table outside. I tell him, and he responds: “I’m hungover as f*ck.” Roma’s usual bustle probably isn’t helping. Nearby a workman is tossing lengths of joinery from the sidewalk up to an awning, a street performer is belting ballads, and soon vendors selling puppets on strings stop by, as does a dog wearing a sparkly pink bow.
García looks like the life of the party — he’s wearing a hat that says Cuatro Oscuro (“dark room”) in Brat-green lettering — and the party has become his life. He’s the co-founder of Pervert, a raucous, sexy queer rave that has held parties in former municipal prisons, abandoned warehouses, and even an old power plant. Pervert became a sensation after its first event in 2017, attracting ravers of all stripes partly for its carefully chosen lineup of local talent. “The techno from Mexico city has a unique sound,” García says. “You can find its references in techno from the United States and Berlin, but combined with Latin club and sounds like guaracha,” a percussive style from Cuba.
“Why would you be against having more eyes on what you’re putting out?”
Even so, Pervert quickly “began to lose the sex vibe,” he says. “People would come in fetishwear, but it started to feel like a costume.” So, that year, he opened TechnoMen, which is like Pervert’s slutty cousin: The door policy is men only, and the dress code specifies sportswear, wrestling singlets, and jockstraps. “For a lot of gay men, the sports world is a fairy tale,” he says. Athletic uniforms are “about the bulge and the ass, and it’s easier to touch a body.” There’s a TechnoMen party tonight. How late should I arrive? “Between midnight and 1 a.m.,” García says. “They come early because they want to f*ck.”
Twelve hours later, I find myself on the side of a highway, attired in a mall-fresh Adidas getup, following the sound of acid techno up the spiral staircase of an industrial building. Inside, there’s a hangar-sized room where Kodemul, a co-founder of the CDMX and LA queer dance party Por Detroit, is DJing in sunglasses that reflect neon lights. “Take your shirts off now,” roars a demonic voice from the speakers, which feels amusingly redundant given that at least half of the crowd’s have been left at coat check. There are a few groups, but most guys here dance alone, with jockstraps purposely peeking out from elastic waistbands and wrestling singlets unpeeled to expose beefy, tattooed pecs. At least one guy is in a skull-covering luchador mask, and I can’t decide if it’s hot or scary or both. I feel a little prudish in my polo shirt, and the darkroom awaits. Off it comes.
I’d been planning to check out Yu Yu, a basement club with low ceilings and a serious sound system. It’d been a draw for both international talent (Yves Tumor, Laurel Halo, DJ Lag) as well as buzzy local DJs like Paurro, known for her airtight house sets, and Regal86, a rising techno star. Two days before I arrive, however, the club posts a cryptic note to social media: “Nightlife conditions always pose challenges, sometimes quite complex… It is difficult to fight against the adversities that these types of projects entail.”
For local ravers, it wasn’t hard to read between the lines. Many of the DJs and promoters interviewed for this story say that the drug cartels are making it increasingly difficult — and dangerous — to throw parties, and at least two other top clubs have closed this year. The cartels have their claws in nearly every facet of Mexican business and life, from tobacco production to the lumber trade to the mom-and-pop tortillerias that serve up some of the best meals in the city. Amid a wave of violence in the country, many of Mexico City’s independent promoters have lost faith in what they perceive as the government’s soft-on-crime approach. (Former president Andrés Manuel López Obrador, who left office in September, used the slogan “hugs not bullets.”)
“In the past five or 10 years, it’s become kind of hard to find a place to throw a party.”
“I mean, you knew cartels were asking bars and clubs for a monthly fee, but [the closures are] something that we very seldom witnessed,” says Areli of El Kntcky, which hosted events spanning punk gigs to queer rodeo nights. “We try to stay away from techno parties. That’s when people do drugs, and that’s when the cartels find out about you. They go, ‘Oh, they’re ordering to this address, I might as well just go and pay them a visit.’”
But on Aug. 29, El Kntcky posted an Instagram statement announcing its permanent closure. “I hope it is not for the sad reasons that many places unfortunately have to close,” reads a top comment. (Areli and Jorge declined to comment further.)
Mexico City may be the most populous city in North America, but its nightlife scene is tight knit. One evening, I check out Revuelta Queer House, a verdant new rooftop bar in Roma. The spot is semi-hidden. To access it, you enter a staircase from the sidewalk; traverse a gallery with charcoal sketches of men showering; skirt a plinth displaying a 2006 issue of People with Brangelina on the cover, embalmed in acrylic; and then ascend a final flight of stairs. After all that, I’m pleasantly surprised to run into a Björk obsessive named Max whom I’d met at Bonbon.
As we wait for our spritzes, I notice a copy of Dave Brennan’s Cocketeo, a novel about queer growing pains, sitting proudly on the bar. “That book!” exclaims Max’s friend Chris, an Aussie who moved here six months ago. “Walk into any Condesa clothing store, and it’s there.” They’ve just come from dinner at Madonna, a stylish pizzeria that’s become an unofficial hub for pre-club rendezvous. I think about all the establishments around the world with similar names and wonder how the Queen of Pop feels about it. “Well, she was committing plagiarism too,” notes Chris, “of The Madonna.”
“People are coming to Mexico City from other big capitals and bringing different bits of that culture into the nightlife. It's f*cking ace.”
The following day, I cab it to ObrerA CentrO, an airy volunteer-run art gallery southeast of the city center. Tonight is an open-decks event organized by the Venezuelan-Mexican DJ collective Oráculo. It’s a cute scene, with Realtree jackets on the guys, bralettes and cargo pants on the girls, and a stand selling jewelry in the corner. I’m there early — it’s just after 7. But the dance floor is already getting going thanks to DJ Mescucharas, and two young women break into an impromptu footwork routine to a dancehall remix of Nelly and Kelly Rowland’s “Dilemma.”
“The point of this is to create a different energy from a generic gay bar,” says Bruja Prieta, a DJ who’s playing tonight. While it’s not explicitly a queer night, she sees the party as a necessary counterpoint to a scene dominated by “white gay men, like playing techno or pop.” Over the past few years, Bruja has gained a following for her kinetic and expressive DJ sets — which blend Western club sounds with the cumbia and salsa music she grew up hearing in the Mexico City suburbs — as well as for her outspoken social media posts. Bruja says that there are fewer spots than ever to host events like this. “In the past five or 10 years, it’s become kind of hard to find a place to throw a party,” she says. “All the gentrification and the people who aren’t from here are changing the parties, and the parties are getting boring.”
So Bruja is trying to mix it up — and making sure deserving artists get their shine. Along with NegraConda Minerva, Addlymuff, Torina Moreno, and DJ Makoña, Bruja is one of five trans women artists at the helm of NACA, a new label releasing compilations spotlighting the work of trans and nonbinary club producers and DJs across Mexico as well as Central and South America. “There’s so much talent in this community,” she says, with a wide smile. “The dolls are mixing, producing, taking the spaces, getting the gigs. It’s powerful.”
Even with all the new eyeballs the city is attracting, some of CDMX’s best nights happen still firmly away from public view. One of the buzziest spots in the city is Unión Veri Bari, a mezcal bar and party spot that — with its sleek decor, regular literary events, and a neon palm tree sign that casts everything in a Sprite-green glow — feels something like a vaporwave salon. After a reading from a visiting Venezuelan author, a DJ starts spinning bright salsa and dembow, and tables are pushed aside to make room to dance. “It feels more like a party for locals,” a friend of mine says. “You can tell by the music they play.”
This spot isn’t in the guidebooks or Google, and its Instagram is pointedly private. Amid the city’s nightlife boom — and the obstacles that come with it — there’s a sense that Unión Veri Bari would like to keep it that way. At 1 a.m., the party is just beginning. “It feels like a secret that people don’t know about yet,” I say to a mustachioed cutie that I’m dancing with. He looks at me with a barely raised eyebrow, and my eyes flicker to a group of new arrivals: the boy with a Mick-Jagger-in-‘68 shag and his friend in the fringed leather pants. “Oh,” he smiles. “They know.”
