Recently, the news of Muzique closing its doors sparked public outcry. The club cited the change in the party scene as the reason for its closure; John Gumbley, one of the club owners, told CTV news that young adults drink and party less, a trend supported by statistics. Many lamented the club’s closure, fearing that the loss of the long-time Montreal staple would negatively impact the rest of the city’s club scene. Others felt indifferent, citing the club’s longstanding unsafe reputation. As Gumbley admitted to CTV news, “Muzique was like, I think, the last ‘boy scout’ of clubs where it was anything goes, and it was a bit on the raunchy side.”
Testimonies from undergraduates echo the consequences of the ‘boys’ club’ atmosphere.
“From what I remember, almost every girl I know that has gone to Muzique has had some sort of bad experience with the guys there,” Anastassia Haidash, U2 Arts, wrote in a written statement to The Tribune. “It has really been forever since I have heard of anyone I know going there for a night out because of bad experiences in first year.”
Josephine Morchoisne, U3 Arts, who regularly goes clubbing, expressed similar sentiments.
“Even if we were with two guys, it wasn’t safe at all [....] I have never felt unsafe in a club except for Muzique,” she told The Tribune.
Muzique’s reputation for being an unsafe club is well-documented, with countless negative reviews circulating on online forums and social media. Yet, often missing from these discussions is a deeper examination of why so many nightclubs—Muzique included—stay open until financial struggles, not safety concerns, force them to shut down.
Reasons for going out
Clubs like Muzique follow an outdated model, where quality music, good service and decent drinks are not the primary mechanisms of attracting customers. Instead, policies like free or discounted entry for women are used to attract men partygoers, who are more likely to spend big on tables and bottle service. Not only does this create an environment within the club where men behave creepily, but this approach reinforces the idea that women clients exist to attract men, reducing them to commodities rather than clubgoers in their own right. Clubs also fail to enforce strict anti-harassment policies and remove known offenders. This reflects a nightlife industry that prioritizes profit over people by objectifying women and treating harassment as an unfortunate but unavoidable consequence.
Thousands of women go clubbing every night. Many enter these spaces with excitement, seeking a fun night out with friends. Others are influenced by the romanticization of nightlife or the desire to fit in.
“It is most definitely for social reasons [that I went clubbing],” Haidash wrote. “At the beginning of first year, I had this picture in my head of what clubbing was like (definitely because of movies), and I was excited to go, but after maybe a week of university starting, I only went out to try and fit in and make friends.”
For some, clubbing represents a step into adulthood.
“Two years of pent-up COVID solitude made clubbing sound like the purest essence of going out. As downright corny as it sounds, going to Café Campus truly felt like a sign of no longer being a teenager who relied on house parties and siblings to get drunk,” Gilad Maianski, BA ‘24, explained in an interview with the Tribune.
The cost of participation
The cost of clubbing extends beyond entrance fees and overpriced drinks. For many women, it requires a constant state of vigilance—an unspoken understanding that harassment is not an anomaly but an inevitability.
“Women getting taken advantage of and disrespected on a night out is disgustingly common,” Haidash wrote. “From getting repeatedly spoken to to getting grabbed, touched, etc, it happens pretty much every night out.”
Elise Holbrook, U2 Music, has had similar experiences, and highlighted how blurred the concept of consent becomes in a club setting.
“You just make eye contact with [men] and maybe start dancing with them, and then they think they can grind on you and bite your neck—like, that happened to me,” Holbrook recalled. “Even with the women, there wasn’t always consent exchanged. I never felt uncomfortable, but it’s still something to be aware of.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever gone out without being harassed at least once. Just last month, I had to jab a guy under the ribs on the Barbossa dance floor because him and his friends kept kicking us and trying to mosh,” Estora Marshall, U2 Arts, wrote to The Tribune. “I think at a certain point you get used to it: You’re never going to have fun in Montreal without getting a thick skin and sticking up for yourself.”
Over time, the frequency of this persistent objectification fosters a more subtle, tacit problem: A troubling sense of resignation as women begin to perceive harassment as an unavoidable aspect of nightlife.
A search for safer venues
Growing intolerance for the handsy men on dark dance floors has led to a shift in club demographics, with young adults going to lesser-known clubs to escape harassment.
“The places that I tend to go are a little bit smaller, [which] means that there’s not as many creeps, but maybe they don’t have as many resources and you don’t get that full clubbing, Charli xcx experience,” Holbrook said. “So you lose a little in the wildness, which is too bad, but sometimes it’s a compromise you have to make if you don’t wanna be creeped on.”
Morchoisne, who goes out two to three times a week, favours smaller clubs for the music and more welcoming social atmosphere.
“I love house music, so my favourite club would be Flyjin [....] [I love Le Bar Baby] because [...] it’s really well decorated, and just the vibe is nice to have drinks with friends and go dancing. And the most important thing is that the entrance is free in most places; even if you are on a budget, you can go out.”
Many queer spaces also offer alternatives to traditional clubs, creating a safer, more inclusive environment for 2SLGBTQIA+ partygoers. Venues like Club Chez Mado, Champs or raves like Latex provide diverse nightlife experiences, celebrating queer expression without fear of judgment or exclusion. However, queer spaces, often assumed to be safer alternatives, can also be sites of harassment. Many straight people seek refuge in these venues to escape predatory behaviour in mainstream clubs, inadvertently undermining the purpose of these spaces. As queer clubs become more widely attended, their original intent can become diluted, and the very people seeking “refuge” are met with the same dangers they hoped to avoid.
“The clubs I feel safest in are those that are not advertised as gay but are frequented by gay people,” Marshall wrote to The Tribune. “Unfortunately, people now treat “gay clubs” as safety centres or “themed” experiences. I think all the straight girls started going to gay clubs because they thought that there wouldn’t be any creepy guys, causing the creepy guys to infiltrate the gay clubs in order to find the straight girls.”
The current commercialization of gay clubs strips them from their original intent of providing a safe space for queer individuals. In doing so, it undermines their importance as inclusive spaces for self-expression and diminishes the authentic gay club experience.
Holbrook highlighted another troubling aspect of this shift: The objectification of queer women within these spaces.
“I’ve been to a few different clubs and had queer experiences at them and every single time I was perved on by old men who sometimes I had to push off by force [...] and they thought that what I was doing with another girl was a spectacle for them.”
She also noted that harassment remains prevalent even in queer spaces, particularly when she is unaccompanied by men friends.
“Most people have experienced harassment,” Holbrook said. “I noticed a difference when I go with my male friends or not, regardless of the sexuality of my male friends. If they’re away from me, I’ll get harassed, especially in places like Unity.”
Despite this, many queer women still find gay clubs to be an improvement over more mainstream venues.
“I still feel safer in gay clubs, though, because it still does not compare to the risks of the bigger straight clubs. Protecting you and your friends from a couple creepy people is easier than trying to avoid hundreds of them,” Haidash added.
Where reporting mechanisms exist, they are often ineffective, placing the burden of safety on those most at risk to defend themselves. This leads to a shift in the club scene with many patrons, in particular women and queer people, avoiding larger, mainstream clubs.
What can we do?
Overall, Muzique’s closure is a sign that young people are less willing to compromise on an uncomfortable or unsafe clubbing experience—they are willing to sacrifice a crowded dancefloor for better music, stylish venues, top-notch service, and a safer experience. Clubs should take note, and curate unforgettable experiences or cater to unique niches rather than continuing to use women to funnel as many men as possible into a massive venue.
While clubbing remains a vital pastime for socialization and escapism, it should not come at the expense of personal security. If the nightlife industry is to be truly safe and inclusive, it must implement meaningful reforms. Club owners must enforce zero-tolerance policies, train staff to handle harassment appropriately, and ensure that safety takes precedence over profit.
Beyond institutional accountability, social attitudes must shift. Students and young adults play a critical role in reshaping club culture—not just through public discourses or online reviews but by making intentional choices in where they spend their money. Voting with your dollar sends a clear message: If you don’t appreciate the environment or values of clubs where people are routinely harassed or mistreated, don’t give them your business. Instead, find places that align more closely with your values and support those venues so they thrive.
