Thea Parsons ’25

I have always felt a strong sense of connection to music. Whether it’s cranked high on a stereo, spinning on a turntable, or filtering melodically through my headphones, music serves as the backdrop for my life. There’s music that I listen to when I’m doing my homework and music that perfectly matches my walking pace. I’ve got songs that echo my mood, the weather, and even the time of day. Music has begun to shape my identity as well as the way in which I engage the world. I interact with lyrics and tunes that express things I’m going through, things I’ll never go through, things that were prevalent in my childhood, and things that will come to me at  a more mature age.

Music, as I tend to interact with it, has always been defined by a sense of community. In many ways it has become inseparable from people’s lives, perforating the elusive definition of the human condition. Though I would like to avoid sounding cliche, a tremendous sense of connection can grow between people who have the same taste in music. Like all art, music can have immense emotional power, transcending cultural divides and disparities. Today, there is merit, or alternatively disdain, awarded to one's music taste: personal preferences have become badges of honor. Partiality defines lives and dictates identities. Not only is the music industry unbelievably high grossing, but audiophiles use sound quality as a creative outlet, angsty teenagers sing their hearts out in bands with names ad libbed at their first gigs. The appreciation and further compilation of sound into music has existed for so long that asking a question like “when was music created” leads to answers regarding the first instrument (Neanderthal bone flutes), rather than when, exactly, music-making became inextricable from the bounds of humanity. There is an entire world defined by the music that people produce – creative minds sitting down to write albums for which they are consequently considered geniuses, even deities. There is no doubt that music has the power to move and to wrangle, to validate emotion and foster community, to define and to deconstruct. 

Whether you are a recreational music listener or someone who has spent their life dedicated to collecting records, composing songs, and fine-tuning audio quality, there is a ubiquitous community that music instills. The modern phenomenon of fan bases, no matter how underground the artist, has revolutionized the role that musicians play in our lives. Where there was once a lower standard for the quality of performance at live shows – as well as an attitude that tickets were cheap and easy to come by – today we have a significantly altered perspective. People treat concerts as fleeting and indispensable, moments that they must document and preserve. Ticket prices have risen significantly, making it difficult to attend one show — let alone many. But people are willing to pay this price, feeding into a system that drives costs higher as time progresses. The more they idolize their favorite artists, the more money they’re willing to fork over for a chance to see them live.This is the paradox of modern music: people spend more, but experience less. This shift, though most applicable to concerts headlined by viral artists, has affected lesser known artists as well. Nowadays, people end up paying not just to hear the music, but to feel the presence of celebrity and to see a once in a lifetime show. Live music has gotten more and more elaborate, especially that which is extrapolated by the media. Fans pay thousands of dollars to see shows again and again, trying to soak up as much time as possible. Whether the band is huge or anonymous, filling a stadium or the back corner of a comedy bar, there is a fear that the next time it comes along, the event will be inaccessible. There is a sense of dread surrounding bands blowing up, whether it’s because they become ‘too famous’ for recognition in a specific music scene, or their shows become competitive to the point of impossibility. There is another conversation entirely to be had regarding how and why music can be so exclusively defined in terms of popularity and prevalence – isn't it always a good thing for people you enjoy listening to to make a living, or even a killing, at their art? When does popularity begin to be overly defined by the preferences of listeners? etc – but the question of live music is one that transcends these conversations. At every level of a musical ‘hierarchy’, if you will, there is some kind of performance.

Of course, there are a number of barriers that limit concert attendance, whether that attendance is in 2024 or 1984. Money is a huge factor, as well as location. I have yet to be made aware of the “scene” in, say, rural Idaho, but I would take a wild guess that it doesn’t involve a big tour circuit. Though the reception of live music isn’t universal, I don’t think it’s unfair to say that concerts are embarked on by many artists, at a big or small scale.

I attended my first real concert on February 18th, 2022. Fifteen-thousand people packed into Madison Square Garden, wearing big t-shirts and neon yellow beanies. It felt transformative – sitting in a squeaky black seat, my friends and I crowded around each other as we bounced to the beat. I have a vivid memory of sitting in a taxi on the way home, hearing the rush of the noise coming from the street after hours of blaring bass, not knowing what to say. It was a sensory overload, yes, but it was also one of the most incredible experiences of my life. Being exposed to words sung out loud by the person who wrote them uniquely altered the way that I listened to them. This experience became a milestone changing the way that I interacted with music forever.

Since then, I’ve tried to see music live as often as possible, though it can be difficult to accommodate. And, the more you attend live concerts, the more you learn about their culture. The most starkly noticeable aspect of concert-culture is the prevailing presence of phones. At almost every concert I’ve attended, nearly every audience member has had their phone out. Sometimes, when I’m standing behind somebody particularly tall, I find myself watching the show through their screen, the camera app pulled open. Blue-light casting a glow on the faces of people poising their cameras, flashlights gleaming, has become a hallmark of the 21st century concert experience. Whether this is a product of competitive concert pricing, causing people to do their best to get their money’s worth by capturing every moment on film, or simply a result of the rising prevalence of technology, I find it striking. My parents, who go to shows as much as possible – hopping on the bandwagon when their friends have extra tickets or swinging by a hole-in-the-wall venue when they go out to dinner – have told me that this development is much to their chagrin. But, are these complaints about our reliance on this system of documentation valid? Or, is this method of capturing these particular moments one of the aspects of the modern world that manages to help, rather than harm, us? 

In my experience, using my phone to record at shows has always led to distraction. Getting that perfect shot or angle means shifting my focus from the stage before me to the image on my screen, which in turn leads to picking my phone up whenever it vibrates as I begin to check text messages and emails. I have found that using my phone at concerts is an inhibitor, hindering my enjoyment and sometimes tangibly lessening the degree to which I remember the event. Whether this is a placebo effect, giving a name to the shame I feel for being too preoccupied with a mobile device to be fully capable of enjoying what is in front of me, I am unsure. There is an argument to be made that remaining grounded in a moment should always be a concern, but it feels much more deplorable when I am missing a moment I have put effort into experiencing, and have anticipated with excitement. There is something about having my phone out during a concert that quashes the sense of community that music in general, but especially live music, so carefully manages to cultivate. 

At the same time, I am no luddite. I think that phones can play an integral part of the concert experience in their production of a physical memory. A favorite song recorded, whether it is sent off and shared or held tight for later recollection, can be the perfect time capsule of an event. There is something to be said, however, against the performative nature that concert going has begun to take on. In some ways, posting about attending shows feeds into the illusions that we collectively have about people’s ‘perfect’ lives. In a world where acquiring concert tickets is a competitive sport, proving that you were present at one becomes a status symbol. It is not that this advertisement is inherently negative – social media exposure can benefit campaigns for lesser known performers – but it can feel like a let down when you're not the person attending. Coachella, for example, represents such a competitive ticket market that it is largely attended by influencers and celebrities. Having a coveted ticket becomes a way to demonstrate social significance and wealth. Content posted from inside these secret, coveted spaces distorts the public’s perception of live music, making it feel like something only a privileged few are entitled to.

So, is the recording of live music necessarily performative? Is it a result of the environment of impermanence that now clouds the music industry? More broadly, is it generally good or bad? As with any exposure it can be sure to benefit an artist, but it also plays into an interpretation of the world that emphasizes our records of it, rather than the actual moment itself. It sounds like a hippy dippy way to put it, even cheesy and cliche, but why is there such an aversion to existing within the community that a show can provide? Why do we have to possess the kind of tangible memory that lets us watch and rewatch something again and again? When I watch footage of a show I don’t possess anything near the same amount of excitement and enjoyment that I felt the first time around. Is it a bad thing to leave a performance only having the fleeting feeling that the music leaves imprinted on us in the moment that we experience it?

I by no means reap what I sow, as I am a chronic phone user at concerts, but this is something that I would like to change. In recent months I have tried to catch myself — to be present, experiencing live music through my senses rather than my screen. I by no means intend to impose my perspective on others, or vilify what some may enjoy incorporating into their experience, and instead merely wish to suggest that the next time you are at a concert you contemplate what will mean more to you – actually seeing the song, or missing it for a recorded reincarnation? If humans weren’t created with such systems of record keeping in mind, then should we really start relying on them so heavily? When the neanderthals were playing on their bone flutes, they didn’t have iphones to record on.