A cultural mutation and a new era for Montreal nightlife

This story originally appeared in URBANIA, an online magazine based in Quebec focused on pop culture and society.

“The first six months were the golden age,” recalls Charles-Étienne Pilon, co-founder of Nouvel Établissement, a bar discreetly nestled in the heart of Mile End. For nearly three years, it stood as a quiet yet indispensable cornerstone of Montreal’s nightlife.

The opening was brimming with promise: an electrifying atmosphere and a devoted clientele surfing the post-pandemic wave. The intimate nightclub quickly carved out its niche, drawing in a young crowd of Gen Z and Alpha enthusiasts moving to the rhythm of cutting-edge electronic music. It wasn’t long before it became a launchpad for fresh talent, showcasing nearly 200 emerging DJs.

But what seemed like an unshakable formula proved vulnerable to shifting economic and cultural tides.

Behind the scenes of the packed dance floor, the numbers painted a starkly different picture. “By January 2024, we were already in survival mode,” Pilon admits, his tone devoid of bitterness.

By November of the same year, Nouvel Établissement had shut its doors. Weeks later, over coffee with Charles-Étienne, what began as a post-mortem of the bar’s closure turned into a profound reflection on the shifting cultural currents reshaping the very fabric of nightlife.

C.R.E.A.M. and the new rules of the game

Once the epicenter of Montreal cool, Mile End now finds itself at the crossroads of gentrification and a housing crisis. The soaring cost of living has reshaped its social and cultural fabric, transforming the once-casual outing for a drink into a small luxury. “Getting people out on weeknights became increasingly difficult,” says Charles-Étienne Pilon, who witnessed these shifts firsthand.

Alcohol consumption is on the decline, particularly among 18–24-year-olds. Even flagship events where Pilon oversees bar operations, like Piknic Électronik and Igloofest, are feeling the impact. “Alcohol consumption decreases every year,” he observes, echoing a growing body of research on changing drinking habits.

Near Buvette Chez Simone—a Mile End staple since 2008—its “little sister” Bar à Flot has also adapted to post-pandemic shifts in consumer behavior. I sit down with Simone Chevalot, co-owner of both venues, and Claude Saade Traboulsi, a young sommelier who has been a familiar face in both establishments for years. Together, they paint a nuanced picture of their clientele and the transformations shaping nightlife.

“Young people don’t linger at tables anymore. One drink, maybe two, and they’re gone. For the 18–24 demographic, our bars are more like pit stops,” Claude explains.

“After the pandemic, people needed to go out—it was wild. But the way they drank? That’s completely disappeared,” Simone adds.

Nights now end earlier. Both venues close at 1 a.m., compared to 3 a.m. in the past, reflecting these new patterns.

Claude attributes much of the change to economic pressures: “People now share bottles; rounds of shots are rare. The carefree indulgence we once saw just doesn’t exist anymore.”

But beyond the cost, what’s driving this paradigm shift?

For Pilon, the traditional rhythm of early adulthood—classes punctuated by parties—has been replaced. “Young people today are focused on micro-entrepreneurship, side hustles, career planning, and maintaining a curated presence on social media. Their priorities have shifted.”

This shift reflects an emerging financial maturity. The rounds of drinks, once a symbol of carefree camaraderie, have been replaced by a more calculated and prudent approach to spending.

Competition and a fragmented scene

Montreal’s nightlife is facing growing fragmentation, driven by a boom in festivals, neighborhood clubs, and guestlist-driven party goers. While these initiatives draw crowds, they also slash traditional revenue streams like entry fees. Adding to this upheaval is the proliferation of raves—both underground and legalized—which entice audiences seeking novelty. These events, often stretching until dawn, attract a clientele more interested in drugs than alcohol. “Each rave offers a unique and immersive setting, often far more stimulating than a standard bar,” explains Charles-Étienne Pilon.

The impact? “A vibrant nightlife culture where no one’s really making money,” Pilon notes, as profitability still relies heavily on alcohol sales.

Rave culture, once gritty and clandestine, has undergone a significant transformation. Once held in precarious and obscure locations, raves have evolved into well-organized, high-cost public events. “People come to bars for a quick pre-drink, but their main budget is spent on rave entry fees,” Pilon observes.

Even within this thriving rave scene, oversaturation poses challenges. “There’s so much happening that, on any given Friday, multiple major events overlap, splitting the crowd.”

Meanwhile, even Montreal’s French expatriate community, previously loyal to traditional bars, has shifted toward electronic collectives, further steering the city’s nightlife landscape away from conventional venues. This diversification has energized the scene but has left traditional establishments grappling to find their footing.

A whiff of individualism

“Before, a group would order a round of shooters. Now, people take a quick shot solo before retreating into their bubble,” Pilon remarks. This shift, though anecdotal, encapsulates a broader trend in nightlife: the gradual fading of collective experiences in favor of more individualistic approaches.

The spotlight has shifted. Where bars once thrived on group dynamics—dancing in clusters, bartenders as the charismatic ringleaders of the night—the DJ lineup now commands singular focus. “People dance alone, often silently, fixated on the individualized figure of the DJ rather than engaging with those around them,” Pilon observes.

This inward turn is further fueled by the rise of substances like ketamine, GHB, and mushrooms.

Often cheaper and more introspective than stimulants like cocaine, these “downer” drugs encourage a deeper, solitary immersion in music, replacing the communal euphoria that alcohol once inspired.

Socializing, too, has transformed. Snapchat, Instagram, and TikTok are increasingly replacing bars as hubs for connection. Conscious of their mental and physical well-being, younger generations are gravitating toward more intimate or digital spaces. A single, well-crafted social media post can serve as a stand-in for a night out, saving both money and the effort of leaving home.

Social media’s omnipresence introduces another deterrent: the fear of being filmed in compromising situations. The risk of becoming someone’s embarrassing story online diminishes the carefree spontaneity that once defined nightlife. This "fear of cringe" is reshaping how people engage—or disengage—with the nightlife scene.

A more sober generation in search of authenticity

Even the art of seduction is undergoing a transformation. “Dating is becoming less tied to consumption. People are more cautious about what they say or do under the influence,” observes Charles-Étienne Pilon. This shift signals a departure from the era when excess and inebriation, often glorified by the alcohol industry, dominated the nightlife landscape.

In the wake of #MeToo, attitudes within nightlife spaces have noticeably evolved. “There are fewer fights, and reports of inappropriate behavior have dropped significantly,” Pilon notes. Nights once defined by unpredictability and reckless abandon are now giving way to more respectful environments, where interactions are guided by greater awareness and sensitivity.

“It wasn’t so long ago that everything revolved around debauchery—binge drinking, Coors Light mansion, ladies’ nights, or outings where the goal was simply to hook up. That’s no longer the norm,” Pilon reflects.

He points to the decline of “bottle culture” and nightlife rooted in rigid, heteronormative expectations. While hypersexualization persists, it has evolved into something more aligned with self-expression than promiscuity or fleeting encounters.

This growing sobriety transcends mere abstinence from alcohol. It embodies a deeper cultural shift among a generation prioritizing emotional authenticity and meaningful connections. “They don’t need a drink to let loose anymore. Maybe they’re just better at expressing their feelings,” Pilon suggests.

Places less conducive to meeting

Dating apps have revolutionized romantic encounters, redefining the rules of seduction and pushing bars into a secondary role in the rituals of courtship. Once seen as lively hubs of chance encounters and consumption, bars are gradually losing their central place, overtaken by more private, controlled spaces where connections are initiated by simple, reciprocal swipes. “The idea of meeting someone after a drunken night out is no longer the foundation of dating,” says Simone Chevalot.

“I met all my boyfriends in bars,” she recalls. “The early years of Buvette Chez Simone were like that—shared tables where strangers ended up spending the evening together, talking and drinking. We let spontaneity take the lead. That desire to meet new people is fading.”

This shift is accompanied by a growing sense of social hypervigilance, with nights out now more deliberate and less subject to the unpredictability of earlier years. A pervasive mistrust now seems to linger, making natural, unplanned interactions rare and fragile.

“Young women, in particular, are far less comfortable being approached,” adds Claude Saade Traboulsi, capturing the shift:

“There was once a sense of freedom, a carefree spirit, that has all but disappeared. Now, young patrons tend to be more spectators than active participants in their own nights out.”

Though concerns about drink spiking persist, they don't fully explain this shift. “At events like Piknic or Igloofest, there are plenty of safety measures: lids for glasses, professional security teams, and harm reduction services like GRIP,” says Charles-Étienne Pilon. According to him, while the fear of drink tampering remains real, it doesn’t stop young people from consuming. Yet, it remains a pressing issue that cannot be ignored.

Standardized sobriety

Bars and festivals must now adapt to this shift in behavior. Menus are increasingly stocked with alcohol-free options. “These alternatives are becoming more popular, even at events where excess once reigned,” notes Charles-Étienne, pointing to the mocktail bar at Piknic Électronik as a prime example. The trend is even influencing international DJs, many of whom have chosen to adopt sobriety. “Even their riders—previously filled with extravagant requests—now reflect this change,” he adds.

The rise of non-alcoholic beers highlights this transformation. “They used to be associated with people over 50, but now it's completely normal. In groups, it's common for several people to abstain,” says Claude. Sober months, like February, further amplify this trend, pushing bars to diversify their offerings.

As a result, drunkenness has become the exception. “When everyone is drinking in moderation, someone who’s overly intoxicated stands out. But young people getting drunk? You almost never see them in our places. They hardly drink,” observes Claude.

With the days of drunken nights fading, a new generation is embracing lifestyles focused on wellness, balance, and self-awareness. Binge drinking and its inevitable consequences are being replaced by healthier habits: exercise, hiking, mindful eating, and productive mornings. This is not just a passing trend but a profound movement that reflects a desire for better physical and mental health.

“Even MDMA is losing popularity. The comedown is just too much to handle,” says Charles-Étienne.

This turn toward sobriety goes hand in hand with a growing commitment to disciplined routines. Sports, body sculpting, and fitness practices have become key priorities, driven by a culture of performativity in the digital age.

On social media, half-marathon medals and other curated images of well-being create subtle but pervasive pressure. The search for meaning, which becomes difficult to reconcile with late-night excess, is driving the shift toward a lifestyle where morning energy takes precedence over the haze of the night before.

A new paradigm is emerging—but not without pitfalls.

New priorities

Although based on observations, these encounters highlight how nightlife culture, once synonymous with escapism, is evolving under the pressure of a demanding economy and shifting priorities.

Faced with inflation and the intensifying pressure of a hyper-competitive job market, young people are trading sleepless nights for well-being pursuits centered on health, social media, and a sense of control over their daily routines. This shift reflects a new approach to sociability that is more selective and deliberate, where caution and independence take precedence over the festive traditions of bars, which, inevitably, feel the direct impact.

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