As Hanoi’s nightlife faces raids & repression, its underground scene modulates

Spaces Between the Beats is a series spotlighting music and cultural communities around the world, exploring their stories as they build resilience and find meaning and hope in connection.

It takes a moment to grasp why the Mirage club bartender is handing the bank note back without our beers. A nervous smile and quick glance leads our eyes to the deep green uniform of a Vietnamese People’s Police Officer. Music fades, then cuts, leaving only whispered speculation at what comes next. 

Slowly and quietly, 30 or so punters leave the venue’s intimate boxy room, heading downstairs past the observant lawman. Nobody wants an altercation in a country where raids on legal venues like this regularly escalate to on-site drug testing, whether there’s grounds for suspicion or not. Anyone falling foul faces deportation or imprisonment. Consuming contraband before entering the country is no defence. 

Downstairs and outside the front door, we’re left staring at the subdued streets of Tây Hô. A Hanoi district known for Western immigrants, modern apartments and hotels, it has been home to a liberal party scene for more than a decade. But a national ban on nitrous oxide balloons – big money-makers for bars and clubs – began mid-2025, and relations between nightlife and authorities have grown increasingly tense since. 

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Electronic and experimental music are particular targets of a crackdown, which is forcing spaces to close or making them inoperable. But even our escape plan is a bust: an innocuous craft beer house recommended by a man who speaks no English, just gestures. More blue lights, more officers dispersing a handful of people. 

Back around the corner, the Outlandish crew are still at Mirage. Hosts of tonight’s event, Russian Katya, Vietnamese Tung, Colombian-Canadian Diego, German Felix, and British Jo make up the Hanoi-based, multinational team, alongside Matt, a Canadian living here for almost a decade. 

His CV also includes the now-defunct Treehouse, Bloom and Outsider festivals, Defused Mood Records and Arch Café, an arty hangout with terrace overlooking Tây Hô’s West Lake. Not forgetting Geist, a studio-cum-guesthouse aimed at opening new opportunities for visitors and regulars through Ableton classes, design workshops, and lessons on professionalising creativity.

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Together, they’ve been running Outlandish Festival for three years at Gam Troi Valley, an otherworldly open air art gallery near a picturesque village around 90 minutes southwest of Hanoi. The complex has been slowly conceived by globally renowned environmentalist, painter and performer Dao Anh Khanh. It comes complete with towering surrealist phallic sculptures, a venue hidden inside what appears to be a giant testicle, and 500-capacity swimming pool. My trip was planned for 2026’s edition, but this was all-but-pulled at the last minute due to concerns about unwanted attention. Past instalments ran without so much as a noise complaint, which speaks volumes about the situation. 

Significantly scaled back and relocated, something has survived: a thoughtfully programmed, beautifully designed music showcase across two boutique accommodations close to the original site, flanked by limestone karsts and undulating hills. At Nhà Vườn Sao Homestay, rooms overlook a central lawn, swimming pool, carp pond and bamboo structures, one housing the DJ booth. To the rear, a small bar stands next to an art exhibition. Handmade artefacts hang in various corners of the inspired DIY site. 

A second spot, Sun May, is more luxurious. Generously appointed wooden bungalows fringe manicured grass and fire pit. Another pool, this time worthy of a magazine spread leads to lush tropical gardens sitting below the waterfall hiding a secret cave. Inside, rugs, mats and more decorations await anyone on their feet at 4am Sunday looking for an afters. Including artists, less than 100 people have made it to whatever this has become – less festival, more therapeutic retreat for a music community under pressure. Most took the short journey from Hanoi. Some travelled across borders and seas. One adventurous Boston, US head is vacationing alone and found a ticket through online listings.

The lineup is similarly international, and predominantly South East Asia-based. The dreamy-yet-tough tech house of UK-born Darren Roach hits. One of the London scene’s genre pioneers, latterly affiliated with Gene On Earth’s en-vogue Limousine Dream imprint, he now lives beachside in Cambodia. Waka, a Russian band hauled up in Da Nang, central Vietnam, realign neurological pathways with tripped out live psyche rock. ​“DAW-less” Taiwanese electronic producer Tile Shop Monologue goes deep into bass‑y permutations as night falls on the jungle setting and texture mapped visuals turn solid surfaces into hallucinatory organisms. A terrific electrical storm lights up the sky. It’s a sanctuary of strangeness.

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“It’s definitely bittersweet, I think the hotels we used really were very impressed and have talked about doing something longer term. Which also, in the new climate of Vietnam, I think might be a good move. Opening this up to some kind of small regular gathering… The whole club thing, that scene, it’s getting hit super hard and I think people are now thinking it’s not going back to the way things were,” says Matt when we finally get a chance to speak. 

“In the end it was beautiful. You know, when you take away people’s balloons, you take away their drugs, you take away their peak hours – at the end of the day they still want to dance, let loose, and be free for however long they’re permitted to be free,” he continues. ​“My big question is, do people come to dance music for the drugs or do they come for the music? I think there is good evidence they come for the music, a good proportion at least. We need to rally those people. I mean, [the crackdown] might be a crazy social experiment that’s actually amazing. Maybe we’ll see the best music coming out of Vietnam.” 

It’s a typically wry half-joke from someone who somehow maintains an air of calm whether re-organising festivals on the fly or negotiating with authorities after midnight. But there are definitely reasons to be cheerful back in the city. An hour or so spent with one of Matt’s friends, Tri Minh, is proof of life. Widely regarded as Vietnam’s first electronic music producer, he says club closures could create new opportunities.

“In Vietnam, the club is just seen as a party by government – a bad place, where funny people go, take a lot of drugs, party and leave. Now the government is saying they want a curfew, so a lot of places are closing down. But then I believe a new type of club will open. Points of gathering, and this will be very interesting to see,” Minh says, tangible hope in his voice.

He also talks excitedly about a new generation of synth explorers, whose higher wages compared with his youth allow them to seriously invest in studio setups. His current student, Bibi Tran, is one example. Following in his footsteps, she takes inspiration from traditional national instrumentation and builds deep house from those parts, garnering bookings from mainstream EDM festivals like Ultra Japan alongside underground promoters in Hanoi and beyond.

“[The club situation] is different for each artist,” Tran tells us when we track her down at Chung, a co-working space she founded and designed, inspired by time spent in European libraries. ​“It’s easier because I have a business side that can be stable for me. I don’t rely on music. For other electronic artists in Hanoi or Vietnam, maybe they have to go to clubs every day, every night. That’s really hard for them.” 

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The same evening, in the lush, low-lit Tây Hô basement bar Otto – which the owner dubs ​“a space for artists and art lovers to communicate… express their true self and [be] open to others” – we meet Unpurist. Last weekend at Outlandish, her high tempo footwork rhythms were commanding, playful and funky. Now, she has plenty more to say. 

“I started out [DJing] in Saigon, and I think I was very fortunate to be involved with the scene at the right time. Especially like the younger generation and the underground, things were really popping. I was getting booked, people liked it, and it just kept going from there,” she says, going on to recount early production projects that were picked up by the likes of London’s East and South East Asian diaspora label, Eastern Margins, and her decision to move back home to Hanoi. ​“Over the past years, it’s been a bit slower, and that was making me a little anxious. 

“This may be people slowing down to catch up with themselves, if that makes sense. But it also comes with how tough it is to find venues,” she continues. ​“It’s a very inconvenient thing, when parties are closed down, and it’s out of everyone’s control. I would love to go for a night out and everything just goes well. But I would never base my decision about whether to go out or play an event on that issue. I’m comfortable with the fact there’s a chance the cops could come.”

Our conversation moves on to the role ​‘third spaces’ like Otto play in keeping music communities together. ​“For now we are free to do things in those kinds of more open places, but the people running them have to be receptive, too. At Otto, the owner is very open-minded and excited to have all this new curation, new sounds, new artists. Which I think is perfect, as the bar is just beautiful and the openness means artists can put out whatever they want here. And people who come are curious to find out what the artists are doing.” 

This evening exemplifies the point. Guardlist is an event run by Trần Uy Đức, another prominent figure in Hanoi arts and music. We are left gobsmacked by a powerhouse noise performance from local producer Z, using only a handbag-sized tabletop synth. Either side of that intensity, Vietnamese and Swiss short films play out. Emphasising the quality of what’s on offer, we later learn the Swiss Arts Council has invited the promoter to spend a month in Europe developing new ideas.

A mile or so away, XOAY is a stylish three storey coffee shop, wine bar and art gallery. When we get there around 9pm on a Saturday it’s so busy the crowd has spilled onto the road where you can still hear the profanity-laden booty bass emanating from the DJ’s counter-top controller. We’re told the night is celebrating Hanoi’s queer creatives. Wildly diverse attendees spread throughout another venue repurposed into something more impactful than a hip place to grab a glass of claret.

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More unusual is GoodTime Burger, a minute away on foot. Known for its house sauce and claiming the best beef patties in town, it’s also renowned for music. Many of the city’s established and emerging selectors spin from the bar as diners order meals at the fast food counter. It’s a mix of date night couples and groups of friends here for tunes as much as food. 

“I think these spaces are extremely important for the community because they allow artists to grow and explore their individual identities in ways that are often not possible within a traditional club setting. They also create room for more experimental sounds and art forms that exist beyond the usual boundaries of clubbing,” says TaoFu, a well-established DJ in town and head of bookings at the restaurant-cum-venue. 

“GoodTime itself has been, and continues to be, actively involved in organising community-focused events such as block parties and music gatherings,” she continues. ​“Through these activities, we aim to build, preserve, and nurture underground culture while supporting local and international artists based in Hanoi.” 

TaoFu’s gateway to the scene came on a night out at Hanoi’s most legendary club, Savage. Forced closure in 2025 and its subsequent demolition paved the way for a mass redevelopment blueprint, which includes a giant new opera house. Outcry from the global electronic music scene followed. For many, the loss was a pivotal moment in the government’s switch from tolerance to suppression. 

On a warm afternoon, we grab a seat outside the headquarters of Hanoi Underground Movement [HUM]. The lakeside hub has a tiny ground floor bar, first floor ​“micro-club” with DJ booth, and upper level production studio. We’re here to meet the founders, Italian-born Yanes and his partner A.lien, who’s originally from Vietnam’s highlands and has enough time to chat before heading to play deep house and disco at GoodTime. 

The pair are joined by two of Savage’s accomplished resident DJs. There’s Di Linh, who also works for the Equation booking agency and its namesake festival. Another event that was cancelled this year due to pressure from authorities. Its future is uncertain. The other is Cong, a vinyl-only selector who nine-to-fives as an architect. Both are Hanoi born and bred.

“It’s a very interesting time to be talking about nightlife as there’s a lot of struggle and change happening, but looking back at what we have done, there have been some great things achieved. Everyone has contributed so much in the last 10 years,” Di Linh tells us. ​“We are realistic about where things are right now, but I’m also staying positive… Change is not always easy but I also believe there’s still people here with a lot of passion. And if we stay together and stick with each other we can rebuild.” 

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Education is a consistent talking point. Those originally from the city explain that electronic music and experimental arts started with nothing after half a century or so of strict laws dictating what forms of culture were acceptable. They add that Westerners moving to the country, bringing knowledge and experience from overseas, has been vital.

Everyone talks about the safety problems created by a régime that refuses to have open dialogue about drugs, including alcohol. Some add the Hanoi crowd also needs to see that nightlife, loud music and dark rooms can be removed from raging hedonism. Others believe immigrants and touring artists have a lot to learn themselves. 

“When I got here in 2017 it was like a crazy jungle. I’d been in Ibiza for 12 years and came here to chill. Wow. I found after parties for two or three days, amazing people. The thing is, we have millions of locals but few foreigners that come here and want to actually help,” says Yanes, before pointing to a group of Caucasian-looking guys sitting outside an adjacent bar with a table full of empty Saigon beer cans. 

“Look at that. All they do is sit together, drinking cheap beers. What’s the point in foreigners moving in if they only want to work with other foreigners? It’s boring,” he quips. ​“I didn’t understand, because I come from Europe… but in Asia communication and friendship come first… what’s happening now is a lot of European artists just come to play and leave. But Asia only needs Europe if Europe actually gives something back, many touring artists just take.” 

Cong, meanwhile, raises concerns about perceptions that Hanoi’s underground club and arts scene is cliquey, when it’s really about trying to keep heads down and out of trouble. ​“I know there are more like us out there, but we just don’t know them,” he explains, before nodding to Yanes and the reason HUM was set up in the first place – a community platform aimed at preserving connections between artists and audience, linking different people through music.

The next time we catch Yanes proves what is still possible in the city. Down one of central Hanoi’s countless narrow lanes lined with tiny eateries, mini-marts and massage businesses, we’re on the top floor of an unassuming mid-rise, savouring yet another small beer. The roof terrace is expansive, and reminiscent of a high-end bar, but it’s actually the smoking area for one of the last clubs in the city focused on techno, Unmute. A few weeks later, Jeff Mills plays. Seven days ago, it was Japanese icon DJ Nobu. 

Martin Guttridge-Hewitt is a music journalist. Follow him on Instagram.

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