Dancing for the Camera: How Phones Changed the Festival Experience

There’s a specific kind of magic that happens when thousands of people move to the same beat. You can feel it: that invisible connection pulsing through a crowd, every bass drop syncing your heartbeat to someone else’s. It’s euphoric, raw, and real. Or at least, it used to be.

I found myself standing in two very different worlds: in 2023 at Tomorrowland in Belgium, and the other in 2025 at Scream or Dance Festival in Jakarta. Both promised lights, music, and madness. But what I didn’t expect was how much the experience of “being there” would depend on one tiny piece of glass and metal: the smartphone.

Photo by Alex Bracken on Unsplash

From Living in the Moment to Filming It

Tomorrowland felt like a dream.
People were dancing like they were born to, glitter on their skin, flags waving high, and not a single care for how it looked on camera. It was a collective celebration: strangers locking eyes, singing the same words, smiling without filters.

But when I went to the festival in Jakarta, something felt different. The lights were beautiful, the music was pounding, yet the crowd barely moved. Instead of dancing, they were recording. Hundreds of glowing phone screens lit the night, all pointing toward the stage like a mechanical sea of tiny eyes.

I could see people doing short choreographed moves for TikTok, holding perfect smiles for five seconds before dropping back into blank expressions. Others were filming full sets, barely glancing up from their screens. At one point, I looked around and realized: the audience wasn’t experiencing the music, they were curating it.

And I wasn’t immune either. I caught myself reaching for my phone, thinking, “I need to capture this.” But for who? For what?

The New Ritual: Pics or It Didn’t Happen

Somewhere between 2010 and 2020, live music turned into content. Festivals became aesthetic backdrops for digital self-expression: a way to say, “Look, I was there.”

Sociologists call it “performative participation.” You’re not just attending; you’re producing a version of yourself through what you post. Platforms like TikTok and Instagram reward moments that are photogenic, bite-sized, and relatable, not necessarily authentic.

This isn’t just an Asian or Western phenomenon. It’s everywhere. At Coachella, influencers plan outfits for weeks. At Rolling Loud, fans film entire sets just to post shaky clips online. The modern concert-goer has become both the audience and the camera crew.

But Indonesia’s scene, as I experienced it, made this hyper-visibility almost cultural. There’s a deep social value placed on being “seen,” especially online. Having festival photos isn’t just fun, it’s status, proof of belonging, even ambition. That FOMO culture (“fear of missing out”) drives the urge to capture rather than to live.

Visual explanation of the feeling at Scream or Dance Jakarta 2025

When Did We Stop Dancing?

In the past, concerts were sacred chaos: sweaty, loud, a little messy.
People didn’t need perfect eyeliner; they needed energy. The performance wasn’t just on stage, it was in the crowd.

Now, our collective behavior is changing. Studies on crowd psychology show that the presence of cameras actually changes how we move. People become self-conscious, hesitant. Instead of losing themselves, they perform.

At Scream in Jakarta, I felt it in real time. The bass dropped, but instead of jumping, people raised their phones. The crowd’s body language said, “Don’t ruin the shot.”

In these moments I felt like an outcast because I saw no one around me moving  

Contrast that with Tomorrowland: I saw strangers hoisting each other up on shoulders, people crying during emotional tracks, a DJ shouting “Hands up!” and thousands actually did it. It wasn’t just music. It was communion.

The collective crowd motivated me to go harder and louder. No shame and no judgement.

Picture by me

The Digital Divide: Global Culture, Local Etiquette

Festivals are global, but how we experience them is deeply local.
In Belgium, many people treat Tomorrowland as an escape, a weekend where reality dissolves. There’s an emphasis on presence, on being part of something collective and fleeting.

In Jakarta, the same format of event carries a different meaning. For many, festivals are still rare and expensive. They’re aspirational and tied to modern identity and global belonging. So of course, people want to document it. Posting isn’t vanity; it’s participation in a global narrative of youth and freedom.

And maybe that’s the tension: for some, filming kills the moment and for others, it makes the moment real.

Artists Are Fighting Back

Even musicians are starting to rebel against this new reality.

• Billie Eilish often asks crowds to put their phones away for certain songs, saying she wants “real eyes, not screens.”

• Fred again.. structures his shows around emotional intimacy, building moments that feel too personal to record.

• Beyoncé has entire no-phone zones, forcing her audience to be present. Not just for her, but for themselves.

• RIN, a German artist, startet a tour called „No phones allowed tour“ in 2024

Still, for every artist banning phones, there are ten designing content for them. Fred again..’s Boiler Room set became one of the most viral videos of 2022, precisely because people did film it. Artists are now tailoring drops, visuals, and lyrics to look good online.

So maybe the question isn’t “Should we stop filming?” but “What does filming do to the experience?”

The Screen Between Us

Watching a concert through a phone screen creates a strange duality.
You’re there, but you’re also not. You’re framing reality, not living it. You’re focusing on composition, not connection.

Psychologists describe this as “cognitive offloading”, outsourcing memory to technology. You don’t need to remember the song; your phone will. But that means you’re not forming deep sensory memories yourself.

Later, when you rewatch that clip, you might feel like it wasn’t you who lived it. Just someone who recorded it.

Photo by Kevin Kim on Unsplash

Living, Not Streaming

Maybe the solution isn’t to shame people for filming, but to rethink what it means to be present.
Because ultimately, music is one of the few human experiences that truly unites us. It doesn’t need perfect lighting or an Instagram caption. It just needs us to feel.

At Tomorrowland, I remember one moment vividly: Swedish House Mafia played “Don’t You Worry Child.” The sky was pink with fireworks. A stranger next to me grabbed my hand and shouted the chorus. Nobody had their phone out. For three minutes, we were infinite.

At Scream in Jakarta, I left the crowd early. I watched people taking selfies in front of the stage, each trying to capture the same “perfect” memory. And I realized, maybe we’re chasing connection, but losing the pulse.

The Challenge

Next time you’re at a concert, try this: put your phone away for just one song. Let the lights hit your face, not your lens. Feel the sound vibrate in your ribs.

Ask yourself:

“Am I here to be seen, or to see?”

Final Thought:

Music is the heartbeat of connection. But the more we try to capture it, the more it slips through our fingers. The real magic, the kind you can’t post, still happens when the lights hit, the bass drops, and for a moment, you forget to record. 

Written by: Christina Kyriakidou

 

Suggested Listening:

1. Fred again.. – “Delilah (pull me out of this)”

2. Swedish House Mafia – “Don’t You Worry Child”

3. Peggy Gou – “(It Goes Like) Nanana”

4. Calvin Harris & Ellie Goulding – “Miracle”

5. Fred again.. x The Blessed Madonna – “Marea (We’ve Lost Dancing)”

Sources & References:

• Furedi, Frank. The Culture of Fear Revisited. Bloomsbury, 2018.

• Turkle, Sherry. Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other. Basic Books, 2017.

• Rolling Stone. “Beyoncé’s No-Phone Policy at Her Renaissance Tour.” 2023.

• The Guardian. “Fred again.. and the Rise of Emotional Dance Music.” 2022.

• Vice Indonesia. “Festival Fever: The Social Media Currency of Attendance.” 2023.