Amy Lamé, London’s first night czar, announced on Wednesday that she is stepping down from her role championing the capital’s late-night culture, saying it is “the right time for me to move on”. But her departure, much like her eight-year tenure, has bitterly divided those who work, play, drink and dance after dark across the city.
To her supporters, the broadcaster and performer has been a committed and effective advocate for the night-time economy ever since Sadiq Khan appointed her in 2016. To her detractors, she’s “done more damage to culture than the Taliban” and proved that we don’t really need a night czar in the first place – an argument perhaps tacitly acknowledged by the mayor’s office declining to mention plans for a successor. “The forthcoming London Nightlife Taskforce will examine and address the issues facing the industries,” a statement read. “Any decisions on the night czar role will be taken once they have completed their work.”
The case against Lamé is straightforward: she’s a political lightweight, apparently, who has hoovered up public money while achieving little. Late-night venues continue to close at a dizzying rate, with London losing more than a quarter of its nightclubs since the pandemic. Surviving venues remain hamstrung by licensing restrictions, noise complaints and heavy-handed policing, rendering claims of a “24-hour city” laughable.
This line of argument can be traced back to 2018, when Hackney council announced that all new venues in the borough would be forced to close at midnight. Lamé appeared to be caught off-guard by the decision, and by public anger subsequently directed at her rather than the councillors responsible.
Her reaction – that “neither I nor the mayor have the power to tell local authorities what to do” – was factually accurate but lacklustre, and was met with derision. DJ and producer Four Tet was among those questioning her “apparent lack of influence and interest” – a theme that has been repeated with each new venue closure.
This highlights a paradox at the heart of Lamé’s role: despite being a figurehead for London’s night-time economy, the night czar lacks any meaningful decision-making or enforcement powers. It has led some to ask whether the role has any purpose, particularly when it’s paid £132,846 a year, and she has faced criticism over public accountability. “Amy Lamé – what is the point of you?” raged one NME article.
Much of this is hard to argue with. But the relentless heckling Lamé has faced also reflects a one-sided and simplistic understanding of her role.
Most importantly, it overlooks the essential work she has done behind the scenes. The launch of a Women’s Night Safety Charter might not feel as urgent as clubs being threatened with closure, or attract the same headlines, but bringing together the police, councils, transport and others on this issue is meaningful and important work.
Similarly, the creation of a Culture at Risk team to support venues under threat, and funding to help them navigate the licensing system, are positive steps even if their effects aren’t always visible. Writing on X shortly after Hackney’s 2018 clampdown, Dan Beaumont, the owner of east London club Dalston Superstore, said: “Licensing prohibitionists *want* you to go after the night czar. Remember: she’s on our side.”
Lamé’s critics have also placed strangely lofty expectations on what is essentially a civil service role. The depletion of London’s late-night venues is the result of myriad factors, not least property prices, the pandemic, and the cost of living crisis. Are these issues really within her remit, or a fair metric by which to judge her?
It’s unclear what anyone could have expected when Printworks – a venue that only ever existed thanks to a temporary contract within a multibillion-pound regeneration project – reached the end of that agreement. The mayor’s office credited Lamé with helping to ensure that a renewed Printworks will be retained among the incoming flats and office blocks, to minimal acknowledgment from those who’d griped at her over its closure.
But then, it’s become clear that several of Lamé’s critics have other priorities. Looking at social media reactions to her departure, it’s striking that the most consistently enthusiastic comments aren’t from ravers, DJs, or venue owners, but Conservative councillors and rightwing journalists queuing up to toast her demise.
Lamé has increasingly been used as a proxy to undermine her closest political ally, Sadiq Khan. Last week, the Times breathlessly declared “costly, crime-ridden” London to be “the UK’s worst night out”, before the article’s flimsy statistics were comprehensively debunked as misrepresentative and selective. Earlier this year the Adam Smith Institute, a Thatcherite lobbying group not previously known for its commitment to the sesh, called for Lamé to be sacked. The Daily Mail has published repeated attacks, with Khan featuring prominently. It’s not hard to unpack the narrative being pushed, or question whether these voices are genuinely concerned for underground culture.
Lamé has certainly made mistakes, from claiming credit for saving clubs that have closed, to seeming disconnected from the day-to-day threats facing grassroots venues. After eight years, some fresh energy and perspective would be welcome. But increasingly polarised discourse around her role risks overshadowing more important truths.
London’s night-time economy has undoubtedly benefited from having someone representing it, however limited their remit. Abolishing that role will not save a single venue, nor reduce the need for better policy-making. Anyone who enjoys a night out, and who’s tempted to celebrate Lamé’s resignation, should be very careful what they wish for.
