The internet moves fast. If you weren't scrolling TikTok religiously in 2020, you might have missed the meteoric rise and the somewhat confusing quietude surrounding The Clubhouse Los Angeles. It wasn't just a house. It was a massive, sprawling Beverly Hills mansion that acted as a pressurized chamber for teenage fame, brand deals, and a very specific kind of West Coast chaos.
Think back. Remember when everyone was trapped indoors and suddenly these "content houses" were popping up like mushrooms? The Clubhouse was one of the big ones. It stood as a direct rival to the Hype House and Sway House. But while Sway was about "soft-boy" angst and the Hype House was about polished dance routines, The Clubhouse felt like a weirdly organized business experiment. It was basically a startup where the product was a group of kids with ring lights.
Why The Clubhouse Los Angeles felt different from the start
Most of these houses started with a group of friends who just wanted to live together and make videos. The Clubhouse was a bit more corporate. Founded by Daisy Keech—who had very publicly and dramatically split from the Hype House—and Abby Rao, it was meant to be a place where creators actually owned their work. No shady contracts. No "manager" taking 50% for doing nothing. Or at least, that was the pitch.
Daisy Keech's exit from Hype House was the catalyst. She claimed she wasn't given credit as a co-founder, which, in the influencer world, is basically a declaration of war. When she launched The Clubhouse Los Angeles, she brought in a more diverse roster of creators. We're talking about people like Kinsey Wolanski (the Champions League pitch invader), Charly Jordan, and even some younger "Clubhouse Next" members. It felt like they were trying to build a franchise rather than just a frat house.
The house itself was a behemoth. 14,000 square feet. A theater. A gym. A pool that looked like it belonged in a music video. It was a literal stage. Honestly, living there sounds like a nightmare if you actually enjoy sleeping, but for a 19-year-old with five million followers, it was the ultimate office.
The logistics of living in a content factory
People always ask: "How do they actually make money?" It's not just the Creator Fund. That pays pennies. The real money for the The Clubhouse Los Angeles came from massive brand integrations. You'd see a video of someone doing a backflip, and "accidentally" there’s a specific energy drink in the frame.
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The house operated on a "collab or die" mentality. If you weren't in someone else's video by 2:00 PM, you were losing relevance. The algorithm rewards volume. This created a weird environment where every interaction was potentially a transaction. You aren't just eating cereal with your roommate; you're filming a "What I Eat in a Day" segment that needs to be edited by sunset.
Who was actually in the house?
The roster was constantly rotating. This wasn't a lifelong lease.
- Daisy Keech: The face of the brand and the primary engine behind its launch.
- Abby Rao: Co-founder and a major social media personality in her own right.
- Charly Jordan: A DJ and model who brought a bit more "professional" clout to the group.
- The Clubhouse FTB: A separate wing for the boys, because the internet loves shipping creators together.
It wasn't just one house, either. They expanded. They had the Clubhouse BH (Beverly Hills), Clubhouse Next (for the up-and-comers), and even a house in Malta for a bit. They were trying to scale influence like it was a Starbucks franchise.
The bubble bursts: What changed?
Nothing lasts forever, especially in Los Angeles real estate. By late 2021 and early 2022, the "content house" trend started to feel... stale. The pandemic restrictions lifted. People started going outside again. The novelty of watching seven people dance in a kitchen wore off.
Also, it's expensive. Maintaining a mansion in Beverly Hills requires a constant stream of high-ticket brand deals. When the hype around TikTok houses began to cool, the math stopped adding up. Creators realized they could just rent their own apartments and not have to share a bathroom with five other people who are also trying to film GRWM (Get Ready With Me) videos at 8:00 AM.
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Internal drama is usually the silent killer. While The Clubhouse Los Angeles avoided some of the more public legal meltdowns seen by other houses, the core members simply grew up. Charly Jordan moved on to her music career. Daisy Keech pivoted more toward fitness and her own individual brand. Once the "founding fathers" (or mothers, in this case) leave, the energy shifts.
The reality of "The Clubhouse" today
If you look for The Clubhouse now, you won't find a centralized mega-mansion full of teenagers doing the Renegade. The brand transitioned. It became more of a media agency and less of a dormitory. They still have a presence, but it’s not the 24/7 reality show it once was.
The house itself—the physical Beverly Hills property—has been cycled through the luxury rental market. That's the secret of LA: these "influencer houses" are often just high-end rentals that owners struggle to fill, so they lease them to management companies for a premium. When the lease is up, the influencers move out, the walls get a fresh coat of paint to cover the scuffs from ring light stands, and a tech CEO moves in.
Is the content house model dead?
Kinda. It's evolved.
We don't see the massive "everyone live together" houses as much anymore because creators value their privacy and their own "owned" spaces. Now, we see "collaboration hubs" where people go to work for the day but go home at night. It's more professional. Less messy.
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The legacy of The Clubhouse Los Angeles is really about the professionalization of TikTok. It showed that you could take a chaotic app and turn it into a structured business with departments, rosters, and clear ROI for brands. It was a bridge between the "Vine era" of random viral clips and the current "Creator Economy" where influencers are treated like small corporations.
What we can learn from the Clubhouse era
Looking back, the whole thing was a fascinating social experiment. It proved that proximity breeds content. If you put ten talented people in a room, they will make something. But it also proved that you can't manufacture "friendship" for a camera indefinitely.
For anyone looking to get into the space now, the "Clubhouse" model offers a few harsh but useful lessons:
- Ownership is everything. Daisy Keech was right about that. If you don't own the platform or the contract, you're just a tenant.
- Burnout is real. Making 10 videos a day is not sustainable for years on end.
- Diversify early. The creators who survived the end of the house era were the ones who had a "thing" outside of the house—whether that was music, fitness, or a product line.
Moving forward in the creator space
If you're a creator or a brand trying to capture that 2020 magic, don't look for a mansion. Look for a niche. The era of the "generalist" influencer house is over. Today, it’s about specialized houses—gaming houses, crypto houses (though those are struggling too), or even "writer retreats."
The The Clubhouse Los Angeles was a moment in time. A loud, expensive, sun-drenched moment. It served its purpose by launching a dozen careers and proving that TikTok was more than just a fad. Now, the creators have grown up, the mansions have new tenants, and the followers have moved on to the next big thing. That's just the way the feed scrolls.
To apply these lessons to your own brand or content strategy, focus on creating "hubs" of activity rather than permanent co-living situations. Prioritize short-term intensive collaborations over long-term residential commitments. This maintains the high-energy "hype" without the inevitable interpersonal friction and overhead costs that eventually shuttered the big houses of 2020.
Keep your overhead low and your equity high. That's the real "Clubhouse" way.