Journalist Joan Westenberg said, “When everyone’s watching, no one is really themselves. We’re all just reflections, bouncing off each other in a hall of mirrors, endlessly distorted and refracted until all that’s left is the hollow shape of what we think we’re supposed to be.”
This powerful critique of social media’s impact on identity perfectly captures the experience of attending a concert in the digital age. Artists no longer perform to their fans, but to the entire world. Because one mistake on tour is almost guaranteed to go viral, live performances have become more vulnerable than ever. For confessional singer-songwriter Phoebe Bridgers, whose recent album Lost Weekend tackles heavy themes of loss, grief, fame, and love, removing phones from the arenas reduced the stakes of her vulnerable performance. Bridgers thanks her audiences for giving up their phones, and giving her space to comfortably process her emotions in front of her fans. Yet, we should be thanking her.Â
Generation Z is trapped in what Westenberg calls social media’s, “relentless cycle of performing and watching.” At concerts, when the crowd is a sea of phones fighting for the best angle to record, every audience member is forced to be aware that the way they react to the music is undoubtedly being captured. Every tear, dance move, or attempt to sing along is at risk of being on video. “The Lost Tour” is now a rare space where Gen Z can experience and react to art in complete isolation from their screens. This makes “The Lost Tour” a powerful experience for the individual, and a defining moment for modern visual culture.
Primarily, attending “The Lost Tour” felt like freedom from the rapid consumption and creation of images that shapes the modern visual landscape. For the first time at a concert, there was nothing to prove. I didn’t care what my outfit looked like, where my seats were, whether my mascara smudged (which it did, by the way), or the volume of my voice. The cathartic scream the audience shared during “I Know The End” is something I would have never participated in if I had been recording, because I would not have been able to post it. Instead, I screamed probably the loudest I have ever screamed in my life next to my best friend, and hysterically laughed after because I had never done something like that before. The performance the audience routinely carries out was completely removed. Reactions were real, not posed for selfies. This opportunity to authentically react and feel is extremely valuable to Gen Z. If the music of Bridgers is not enough to convince you to see her, the chance to see art without a phone in the way should be.
Additionally, not having a phone does not just force you to be present, but it literally changes the experience of seeing. Bridgers has done no video interviews to promote her album, and there are no videos inside her arenas. In completely removing videos from promotion, “The Lost Tour” risks literally being lost amongst an algorithm of viral concert videos. Yet, Bridgers similarly asserts her trust in her fans’ ability to remember and connect to the experience. For me, knowing I could never see what I was seeing again amplified its emotional weight. My awareness of time was completely different than normal. For the first time I had no idea what time it was. I also was hyperaware that the moment in time was valuable because it could not be replayed. Knowing I wouldn’t hear her playing “Scott Street” over and over the next day as I scrolled through Instagram forced me to truly see what was in front of me, with a kind of attention I was not used to. Within the sight of Bridgers singing and the audience swaying to “Scott Street” was the clearest mental picture of my high school self playing a Stranger in the Alps CD on loop in my car. This blend of the past and the present moment was able to exist because I was not distracted by my usual stretched, shaky arm attempting to record. Within the sacrifice of digital documentation of the tour, Bridgers raises the stakes of sight, ultimately allowing room for elevated emotional connection.Â
This authentic and deeply personal concert experience allows “The Lost Tour” to be treasurable in a way most concerts are not. It doesn’t matter who records a concert video on their phone; they will all capture the same thing. Videos are often quick, grainy, and in my experience rarely rewatched. Yet, when capturing “The Lost Tour”, people are forced to be more intentional. Some people have been drawing scenes from the show, in loose sketches that have the same mood of the album’s nostalgia. Personally, I have not stopped playing Bridgers’ songs on guitar since I saw her, because I want to channel the feeling of being in that room. For most, including myself, writing about “The Lost Tour” is also a way of confronting the sheer impact of the concert. In all of this personal treasuring of “The Lost Tour” is a permanent, physical, and intentional catalog representing the concert through the lens of individuals.
In an often hopeless digital age of brain rot and phone addictions, “The Lost Tour” was life-affirming. It affirmed the persistent power of art and the romantic nature of present-ness. Growing up seeing footage of Queen at Live Aid or performers at Woodstock, who performed to totally enthralled audiences, made me think a “camera-less” concert was truly a thing of the past. Yet, looking out, with my warm, tear-stained cheeks, at Bridgers’ sparkly tear-shaped makeup as she belted “Georgia” made me feel unwaveringly alive. In its risk-taking, “The Lost Tour” joins a small group of artists defying the norm and creating treasurable experiences. “The Lost Tour” is something you should go see because you will really see it: unfiltered, immediate, and shared in a safe, phone-free space where both the artist and audience can be their authentic selves.