Concert culture: Is it a gig or a camping trip?

At this point, the distinction between a concert and a camping trip is practically non-existent. You don’t just pack clothes, you pack like you’re heading off on a short holiday. Snacks, power banks, blankets… they all make the cut. I once witnessed a girl arrive with an entire rotisserie chicken and a fold-out chair, which was almost definitely stolen from her mum’s garden. You know you’ll be standing for hours, hoping to get a barricade spot. You arrive early, bond with strangers, and complain about the wait. Most of us are guilty of doing it, but is it worth it to be in the eyeline of your favourite band?

Let me tell you about the time I gave in to concert culture myself.

Until November 2023, I had never queued for a gig. That changed with Inhaler’s biggest headline show at the 3Arena. If I had known the implications of what that meant, maybe I wouldn’t have.. I booked a hotel in Dublin that cost so much it nearly financially ruined me. I came armed with a cowboy hat, matching boots, and zero sense of self-preservation.

The night before the show, my friends and I chose double vodka whites over a decent night’s sleep. At 3 am, we made the walk of shame to the 3Arena, only to find a “queue” of three people. Yes, three people in pyjamas, wrapped in blankets, lying on pillows. We joined them on the freezing concrete of the Dublin quays, inflatable band member dolls in hand, while people waiting on the night bus tried to figure out what type of cult we’d joined.

I briefly met a girl from America who told me she hadn’t even booked a hotel, she was just going to sleep in the queue. That made me feel a bit better about my own life choices. At least I had a bed waiting for me. I compare concert culture to a camping trip simply because of this interaction.

By 8 am, the queue had exploded, my energy had vanished, and I was being micromanaged by a random girl who had appointed herself queue security. (Real security wouldn’t show up for hours.) On the brink of shouting at her, my friends and I fled to Wetherspoons for a couple of pints and some warmth. We pulled ourselves together and returned to the queue, where I shoved a heat pad down my top and braced myself for another few hours of borderline frostbite and quiet despair.

Despite the cold, the exhaustion, and the hangover, there was something weirdly charming about it all. People shared blankets, sang along to Inhaler’s set list, and at one point we even started a mini dance party to keep spirits up. Still, by the time the doors opened, I was dizzy, aching, and felt like a geriatric in a mosh pit. We just about made it to the barricade, only to be shoved, elbowed, and squashed by the sea of people behind us.

My ex appeared right behind me, someone who had rocked up hours later, looking fresher than I felt, and somehow got the same view. When Inhaler finally took the stage, I was tired, grumpy, and dangerously close to regretting everything. What frustrates me the most is that a few months later, I bumped into the band at the Grand Social. No queue, no chaos, no heat pad needed. After seventeen hours of suffering, it turns out I could’ve just waited.

So, is it worth it? If you enjoy running on two hours of sleep, physically aching, and feeling like you’ve aged 40 years by the time the encore hits, then yes, completely. There’s something weirdly addictive about the chaos. One minute you’re wrapped in a blanket contemplating your existence, the next you’re screaming lyrics with strangers who somehow became your best friends. Concert culture is feral, unhinged, and borderline unhealthy, but to be completely honest, I’d probably do it all over again.

Written by Sophie Lee.