“It feels like we’ve gone back in time!” my friend shouts in my ear over the blaring techno remix. Instead of our usual stomping grounds of Hackney, Peckham or Tottenham, we’re spending our Saturday night in — god forbid — a postcode that starts with WC. Specifically, we are standing in what used to be the Odeon cinema on Shaftesbury Avenue, which for the past six months has been transformed into a nightclub called Lost.
We’re here because, since the end of last year, Lost has been the club on everyone’s lips but on nobody’s camera roll. It’s strictly a phone-free zone — and I’m not talking about a sticker placed over the camera à la Fold or Fabric. Devices aren’t seeing the “multi-layered venue” — a playground for live music, cinema, performances and dancing — at all, thanks to the magnetic pouches they are placed in on arrival and released from during departure.
In a time ruled by instant information and the Instagram story-fication of fun, the mystery shrouding Lost has encouraged everyone from Central Cee to Daniel Lee to give it a try. I heard about it on a date with a guy who prides himself on being one of the first to try the newest night out. Then suddenly I couldn’t escape it — every post-work drink, coffee catch-up and smoking-area chat included one of three: “Have you been to Lost yet?” “How long did she queue for?” “Did he tell you about what he saw in there?” I have a decade’s worth of nights out proudly sitting under my belt, but I’ve never experienced people talking about one club in such a way.
When I experienced it for myself last month, I understood why. The banishment of phones — and the posing, distracted illuminated faces they bring with them — was refreshing, but it wasn’t the only reason my night out felt like it could have happened decades ago (although the near-£20 price tag for a vodka lemonade quickly humbled me; this is a nightclub, not a time machine, after all).
In the unisex “powder room” a drag artist hands out paper and pens for clubbers of all ilks
Connected by winding corridors where eye contact and conversations with strangers — remember those! — are rife, screening rooms invite you to take a seat for classic films, 1990s music videos and, sometimes, vintage porn. Bands play on stage in the live music hall, vinyl records soundtrack the jazz club foyer and DJ sets happen in secret closets. In the unisex “powder room” a drag artist hands out paper and pens for clubbers of all ilks — from tourists to club kids, twenty-something creatives to fifty-something old-school ravers — to swap contact details.
In the main room, which evokes the feel of a club scene from a 2000s movie with dance battles and Lindsay Lohan, the DJ booth is elevated and almost out of sight, encouraging dancers to face one another rather than whoever is playing. Then, at the hit of a spotlight, a surprise musical performance begins. From rappers and singers to DJs, the musical programme is diverse and well thought-out, with recent acts including Celeste, Fcukers, OK Williams and Lancey Foux.
Lost is exciting because it’s an anomaly in what has been a torrent of depressing headlines and statistics concerning London nightlife in the last few years. Late-night venues have been closing at an alarming rate — partly, we’re told, because young people don’t have a taste for clubbing. They’d rather be sober. They’re not “fun” anymore. They’d rather spend their money on skincare than on sambuca shots, etc.
But the queue that snaked outside the Odeon last month tells me another story. Encountering a new night out that’s open until 6am is akin to stumbling on a mountain of gold dust. And it’s not only young people who are hungry for it: I can’t remember the last time I was surrounded by such a mixed crowd — ages, backgrounds, tribes — in a club I was excited to explore.
Don’t get me wrong, Lost isn’t perfect. It feels slightly more like a rave for people who shop at Waitrose (and can afford the £25 door fee) than a club from the 1990s. Purists may argue the frills distract from the music, but if I can dance late into Sunday morning and take a break with a movie while I’m at it, who says I shouldn’t?
In true London style, the building is set to be demolished to make room for a hotel
A huge part of the appeal is that the experience of clubbers feels like a priority. But despite this, and its ensuing popularity, the current chapter is coming to an end. “We have been working to secure yet another [tenancy] extension — this has not yet materialised,” said a now-deleted statement on Lost’s Instagram page. The final parties happen this week as, in true London style, the building is set to be demolished to make room for a hotel.
Thankfully, though, a Lost representative has confirmed to the Standard that the club night has found a new “very, very exciting building” to call home, where it will continue working towards its goal of making central London “a place for young people, nightlife, culture and entertainment”.
I can’t help but feel this is exactly what it needs. A different home means this hermit crab of a club can offer something new, the suspense and mystery it became known for receiving a reset. Whatever the next edition looks like, the first iteration of Lost achieved something that many thought a club in 2026 couldn’t — it got us excited about going out in central London again. Where the 1980s had the Wag Club, and the 1990s Ministry of Sound, if the past six months are anything to go by, Lost is staking its claim to become the defining night out of the 2020s. I can’t wait to see what it does next.
