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Let me take you back to a flashback from 2014. My best friend and I just spent an entire weekend blasting Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” nonstop. The music video was just released, and it was safe to say we were obsessed. It actually got to the point where both my brother and her brothers were yelling at us to turn off the song. From the first thing in the morning all the way to midnight, we could not get enough of “Shake It Off.”
A few weeks later, when Taylor announced her 1989 World Tour, I begged my mom to take us. Eventually, she agreed. My best friend and I dragged our moms to Forever 21 to grab matching outfits. White denim shorts. Magenta tank tops. White layered tanks that read “Epic Weekend.” Purple flower crowns to match. We made a poster, obviously, even though we were sitting in the nosebleeds.
When the day of the concert finally arrived, we had the time of our lives.
1989 was my first concert. It opened the floodgates and set off what has become a long-running obsession, one that has taken me to more than 20 shows and counting.
If we’re starting with big arenas, I feel the need to show my credentials. I’ve seen a whole slew of artists, from the Foo Fighters and Pitbull to Jack Johnson and more. From Luke Combs and Taylor Swift at SoFi Stadium in Los Angeles to Tate McRae and Dua Lipa at TD Garden in Boston, I’ve had my fair share of 20,000-70,000-person crowds.
There is nothing quite like that feeling; being surrounded by tens of thousands of fans who know every lyric, every bridge, and every beat drop. They know when to chant and when to turn on their phone flashlights. When the lights go down, the scream is deafening. It feels less like a concert and more like a shared event.
At big arenas, the production is massive. The stages are rarely just a flat platform. They twist, extend, and often include secondary stages in the middle of the floor. For Tate and Dua, parts of the stage lifted them high into the air so fans in the rafters could still feel close. There are backup dancers, choreography, costume changes, pyrotechnics, and confetti cannons. The backdrop is usually a giant screen or a series of screens running intricate visuals that change with every song.
Another guarantee with big venues is the level of performance. Artists playing arenas are usually seasoned performers with strong vocals and serious stage presence. The sound coordination is tight. The audio is balanced and engineered so that even the highest notes carry cleanly to the back of the stadium. You are not just hearing the artist. You are hearing a carefully mixed version of them at their best.
These concerts are a full production from beginning to end. There are interactive QR codes on the screens before the show. Carefully curated playlists play while everyone finds their seats. One or two openers are warming up the crowd. Then comes the headliner and the carefully-timed spectacle. Even the merch stands feel like part of the experience.
Working at TD Garden as a camera operator has given me a different perspective on these shows. I’ve seen the mic checks, the stage setup, and the coordination between lighting, sound, and video teams. I’ve seen how many wires it takes to power floor-to-ceiling screens and how much coordination it takes to pull it all off. I’ve watched crews build entire worlds in a matter of hours. I’ve seen how many cameras it takes to capture the right angles for the Jumbotron so that even the fans in the nosebleeds feel included.
The pros of big venues are clear: there is always something happening, whether it is on stage or on the screens. The staggered, bleacher-style seating usually guarantees you can see, even if from an elevated angle. And the production value is unmatched.
On the other hand, I have also seen artists in small venues. Places where it’s me and a few thousand, a few hundred, or even just 20 other people. Bars with tiny stages. Standing-room-only halls where the air feels thick before the opener even walks out. I saw COIN at a small venue, Ruel in another, and Sam Barber in one too. The experience could not be more different.
In small venues, you are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, as close to the stage as physically possible. You end up talking to the people next to you while you wait. The couple in front of me at Sam Barber had driven in from Ohio. The group behind me was local. There is something about standing that close together for hours that forces you to chat. It creates community.
The energy can still be electric. When the chorus hits, and everyone starts jumping in unison, it feels like the floor might give out beneath you. You are moving with a sea of people who love this smaller artist just as much as you do. And when you love the same niche artist, you already have so much in common.
If you are short like I am, your view is probably obstructed within minutes. You might spend half the show staring at the top of someone’s head. The sound design might not be perfect, the mic might peak, and you might even hear them adjusting audio levels mid-song. There are no massive screens. No backup dancers. No perfectly timed pyrotechnics.
But what small venues lack in production, they make up for in intimacy.
At Sam Barber’s show, the backdrop was a large piece of fabric designed like the sky. Throughout the set, they lit it to mimic different times of day, dusk fading into night. It was simple but thoughtful. His voice was raw and right in front of us. At one point, he stumbled on the lyrics and restarted the song entirely. There was no backtrack forcing him forward, no choreography to keep up with. It was just him, the band, and the music.
He spoke briefly between songs. You could tell what mattered most was performing; being there, playing the music. I was close enough to hear him without the mic at certain moments. Close enough to see the way he reacted to the crowd.
Small venues are intimate in a way that feels almost vulnerable. Each show feels slightly different because it depends so much on the room and the people in it. It reminds me of when I studied abroad and watched Irish artists perform in pubs, in front of a handful of drunk, happy people singing along.
These experiences are real. They are raw. They are imperfect. But they are personal. When you strip away the screens, the lights, and the spectacle, you are left with a person, an instrument, and a microphone.
Music has always been a constant for me. It has marked different phases of my life, introduced me to people I never would have met otherwise, and given me nights that I still replay in my head. There is something about hearing a song live that makes it stick differently. It feels more tangible.
If you care most about intimacy and closeness, small venues might be for you. Being a few feet from the stage, hearing the artist without layers of production, and sharing the space with a tight crowd of fans creates a kind of connection that is hard to replicate.
If you are drawn to scale and spectacle, big arenas deliver. The production, the visuals, the sound design, and the sheer size of the crowd turn a concert into a full experience.
But if you love music, try both. Support the artists you listen to. Go with friends. Get there early for the opener. Learn the lyrics.
Whether it is a stadium or a bar stage, there is something valuable about showing up and being A part of it.
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