The Night Time Industries Association has calculated that if closures continue at the current rate, there won’t be a single nightclub left standing in the UK by December 2029. Only a few years ago, this statement would have sounded like an alarmist headline pushed by the Daily Mail with only a modicum of possibility. Yet here we are, watching our nightlife institutions drop off one by one, limiting the number of spaces fledgling artists can mould their sound.
As inflation continues to bite, the entire live sector is feeling the pinch. Grassroots venues are desperately holding out tin cups to music fans who are struggling to justify buying even the cheapest ticket. Promoters are faced with dwindling attendance and rising overheads. Artists, too, find themselves trapped in a paradox: more than ever, they need the revenue from tours and merchandise sales, yet audiences are inclined to stay at home, streaming tracks as an affordable way to keep connected to the music industry in the most isolated way possible.
Against all this, we have artists such as Kate Nash, stepping forward to proclaim the virtues of OnlyFans as a means of financial salvation. On the surface, she might be presenting it as a bold, liberating stand. Yet, her ‘cheeky’ PR stunt reeks of privilege.
It’s all very well for Kate Nash, who has already carved out her niche and used to enjoy record deals and chart presence. For a struggling musician with minimal profile, flitting into the digital sex trade may not be so much about empowerment as it is about raw survival. Should sex work, digital or otherwise, become a necessary evil of the creative grind after artists have had to push back against toxic objectification?
It’s a messy moral labyrinth which points to a painfully simple truth: nothing adds up. The numbers on spreadsheets, the advice from industry heads, the cries for support, the indignation when that support doesn’t materialise, none of it tallies into a solution or leads to a route back to a healthier balance between artist, venue, and listener.
The Domino Effect of Vanishing Nightclubs
Each time a nightclub closes, we lose part of a circuit that musicians rely on. These institutions host afterparties that become prime networking spots, and they double as testing grounds for emerging acts. Without them, the entire ecosystem falters. Fewer club nights mean fewer up-and-coming DJs gain traction; fewer late-night gigs mean new bands get fewer bookings. Eventually, the entire grassroots support base collapses. Larger venues and arenas rely on this lower tier of the live music pyramid to nurture the talent that eventually fills their larger stages.
We have policymakers spouting hollow words about how the creative industries need support, while simultaneously granting permission for property developers to snap up old club spaces and turn them into luxury flats, supermarkets, or chain restaurants. This suburbanisation of once vibrant nightlife hotspots strips away the environment that allowed creativity to simmer into something substantial. Without that tangible cultural infrastructure, the music scene becomes a ghost town of studio-only artists who never get to find their stage legs. Without a stable funnel of performers moving from the smallest clubs to the more mid-sized venues and beyond, the entire industry’s future looks bleak.
Many people point to streaming and digital platforms as the saviours of modern music, but they neglect the symbiotic relationship between live performance and recordings. Artists develop their stage presence in front of a sweaty audience, feeding off the energy in the room, making mistakes, and learning lessons that studios can never teach them. Take these spaces away and you strip away the real-time human element that polishes rough edges and can turn a bedroom producer into a bona fide stage performer. We need to acknowledge that a city without nightclubs and small music venues is a city losing its cultural pulse.
Inflation’s Iron Grip on Pockets and Tickets
The cost-of-living crisis hits everyone differently, but it is always those at the bottom who feel it most. Music fans, who just a few years ago wouldn’t think twice about catching a midweek gig, are now doing grim household maths before even considering treating themselves to a live experience. The increase in electricity bills, the spike in food costs, the general malaise of living expenses going through the roof—none of these make spending money on a gig ticket easy. No matter how cheap the gig tickets are, there is no getting around the fact that people’s spending power is diminished.
Smaller merch sales mean less money in artists’ pockets; fewer sold-out gigs mean less leverage for organisers when booking future acts. It’s a vicious cycle that no single stakeholder can break free from without collective efforts.
Raising ticket prices to cover costs would only make matters worse. Fans simply don’t have the disposable income to absorb those increases. Meanwhile, the artists—hardly known for rolling in wealth—bear the brunt. They’re torn between the desire to keep their shows accessible and the need to be paid fairly for their work. Beyond the artist and promoter dynamic, even backline technicians, sound engineers, and lighting operators are feeling the burn. Inflation affects everyone from top to bottom.
In this financial climate, it’s not enough for the industry to blame one facet. Everyone is backed into a corner. The consumer faces their dwindling bank balance and chooses the sofa and the streaming subscription. The promoter stares at their empty venue and wonders what more can be done. The artist attempts to find alternative revenue streams, some of which blur moral boundaries. We might yearn for a fairytale solution, but this scenario is more like a steadily collapsing Jenga tower with no sure moves left.
Kate Nash’s OnlyFans Gambit and the Privilege of Sexual Reinvention
On the surface, Kate Nash suggests that artists can harness platforms like OnlyFans for empowerment and a sense of independence. She claims it gives her control. Perhaps for someone with a decent existing audience and a name that already resonates, this seems plausible. A well-off artist can toy with risqué ventures and call it creative liberation. Yet what about the performer who doesn’t have that safety net? The one who’s considering sexual services—online or offline—out of pure financial desperation, not out of a desire to reinvent their brand?
The notion that turning to OnlyFans is automatically empowering is as flimsy as a cheap pop-up. Some artists are forced into these corners not by choice or a sense of daring exploration, but simply by having no other viable options. While some celebrate the sexualised brand-building exercises of well-known names, we must acknowledge the darker reality beneath the glossy surface: genuine poverty often pushes people into sex work. The sense of “freedom” touted by privileged voices can be non-existent for those who feel trapped by their circumstances.
Blurred lines between creativity and sexual labour don’t necessarily indicate a fresh new paradigm in the music industry. Instead, they highlight how dire the financial predicament has become for many. It’s about survival, and survival often comes at the cost of autonomy. We need to scrutinise the narratives put forward by those who have the privilege to spin their situation as a quirky career move. While Kate Nash can trot out a soundbite about feeling “empowered,” many unknown artists and session musicians must face the grim reality that if they follow suit, it’s not a statement—it’s a matter of staying afloat.
Rather than applauding the pivot to OnlyFans as some kind of progressive, creative solution, we ought to recognise it as a symptom of an ailing industry. The fact that musicians must even consider it as a revenue stream says more about the world they’re forced to operate in than it does about their personal liberations. Real empowerment would lie in restoring the economic stability of the music world, not suggesting that becoming a part-time sex worker is an appealing next step.
Searching for a Way Forward: No Quick Fixes, Only Complex Trade-Offs
If we accept that nothing adds up, where do we look for solutions? The reality is that neat answers are thin on the ground. The challenges are systemic, interwoven with cost-of-living issues, profit-driven property development, industry exploitation, and the loss of community spirit. None of these problems have a single bullet to fire at them.
Screaming at music fans to support independent venues and artists via their wallets isn’t going to lead to a solution; they don’t HAVE the money to spend, if they DID, the industry wouldn’t be in such a dire state of disrepair. The onus has to be shifted away from the cash-strapped consumer towards local councils and MPs who can protect cultural infrastructure and slow the haemorrhage of venues.
For artists, collaboration is key—artists can unite, form collectives, and advocate for fairer splits from streaming services. Getting a better deal from these digital giants won’t be easy, but a united front is more persuasive than scattered cries.
At a policy level, we need to see meaningful protection for venues. Nightclubs and grassroots music spaces must be treated as cultural treasures, not disposable assets. If government grants, protective legislation, or business rate relief could keep these places running, then it’s time to stop dithering and start implementing. If the situation is dire enough to predict no nightclubs by 2029, we must take that as a genuine call to arms.
In the end, these suggestions might feel like a triage rather than a cure. Perhaps they are. But if we do nothing, accept the closures, watch artists flee to digital sex work, and shrug at the imbalance, the cultural landscape will only worsen. There’s no single fix, but we can at least start pushing in a direction that doesn’t involve letting our nightlife culture rot in silence.
Article by Amelia Vandergast