Lost in Phoebe Bridgers
Phoebe Bridgers and Havertown’s Alex G commanded a sold-out crowd at Xfinity Mobile Arena, where fans who were not glued to their phones, but rather the sights and sounds of a unforgettable evening of live music.
After experiencing Phoebe Bridgers and Alex G live, I’m tempted to just say, “It was incredible. You had to be there.” That being said, I’ll try to let you in.
The show’s phone-free atmosphere highlighted a generational shift that came with cellphones and, even more so, social media. When we sensationalize and monetize the ability to go viral, every experience can become a competition. We find ourselves grasping for curated documentation rather than reality.
But being forced to put my phone away did something unexpected: it recalibrated my brain to everything I was missing. There was no escape into a screen. No checking a notification. No composing the perfect Instagram story. No texting someone when a lyric reminded me of them. Instead, we in the crowd only had the experience in front of us. And boy, did we get an experience.
“There you are,” I thought as I entered the arena and saw the stage dome. This structure had been consistently popping up in my algorithm in different variations, all artfully sketched by fans. The artwork coming out of this tour has been one of its own little joys. The desire to create permanence and share can exist alongside Yondr pouches. Artists will always find a way.
The arena floor was divided in two: “Above” and “Below.” Fan outfits ranged from ethereal to skeletons to Jalen Hurts jerseys. I scribbled in my notebook: Will we hear Go Birds? The division created intimacy for both stages, and I was flooded with anticipation.
At 7:30 p.m. sharp, the arena darkened, with only the round stage in Below illuminated.
“Clap your hands, everybody, for Philadelphia 76ers! Stomp your feet, everybody, for Philadelphia 76ers!”
Wait. What?
Throughout the night, it kept coming back, like a recurring dream. Bridgers had designed the evening to be disorienting. I loved that Alex G was clearly a partner in the plan. The full 76ers anthem played before the space fell silent. Then, in a rush, the music exploded.
How long has it been since I really felt the bass in my chest?
The circular stage lit up with red light bars encircling the band. The design positioned the musicians facing inward toward each other. Who knew something could feel so massive and intimate at the same time? Alex G opened with “Gretel,” followed by “Southern Sky.” Cheers erupted at the opening count: “One, two, three…” It was immediately clear that we were here for a rock show.
Alex moved effortlessly between guitar and accordion, highlighting his band’s musical talents while pressing against the edges of rock, folk, and lo-fi. About midway through his set, I drew a Venn diagram in my notebook, attempting to dissect the intersection of Alex G and Bridgers. When Alex released his voice in “Runner,” I added “screaming” to the middle.
It was around “Immunity” when I realized the primary musical connection between these two artists is the raw release of emotion.
Before closing his 19-song set with “Sarah,” Alex paused to thank everyone who had helped make the night possible, from the merch manager to lighting and sound to the bus driver. The balance between musical immersion and humanity was on full display, creating an electricity difficult to put into words. And just as I started to feel emotional, Alex shouted, “Philly is the greatest city in the world! Go Birds!”
The incredible sound engineering, lighting production, and intentionally disorienting magic were only getting started.
Over the last three years, Bridgers’ energy has felt contained, mysterious, protective. Her ability to embody both expressive vulnerability and mysterious restraint is part of what magnetizes fans to her. Maybe that tension is what makes her so transporting. And here we are for the release.
As the arena fell dark again, our attention shifted back and forth between the Below stage and the dome as the sets illuminated in turn. Disorienting. “The Outside” vibrated throughout the arena. Then, like a lid being lifted off a steaming pot, the dome rose.
The stage came to life with dramatic lighting and fog. Instead of the typical screen behind the stage, live footage was projected onto a massive curtain. The introduction matched the start of her new album, but Bridgers took us right back to 2017. “I hate you for what you did” rang out, and the crowd exploded. Singing and dancing are back.
Maybe the lack of recording wasn’t only for her. Maybe it was for us, too. It had been a long time since I’d been at a show where the artist was the only one performing. This night, we could release the illusions we construct for the outside world and turn our attention outward. Man, it felt good.
Bridgers’ setlist danced through her discography, and the physical stage evolved alongside her. The dome transformed with the music’s emotions, shifting from projection screen to planetarium. From the main stage, her band swelled to fill an arena, adding weight to the quieter songs. During “Panorama,” Bridgers disappeared from the stage, reappearing on the round stage in Below.
Following “Graceland Too,” she addressed the crowd. Her dad died in 2023, a clear influence on the Lost Weekend album. “Did anyone bring their dad?” she asked. The cheer was louder than anticipated. “Sounds like there’s some stolen valor,” she joked.
Phoebe Bridgers is funny.
“My dad is dead, and it’s been cool to have that shared experience with so many.” As a member of the unfortunate dead-dad club, I appreciated her humor and openness. She connected the experience of losing her dad with the desire to unplug, a feeling I know well. I was grateful for the distance from the outside world in that moment, and for the ability to lean in closer to the people around me.
She closed by mentioning that some people found ways to open their Yondr pouches, which kept smartphones locked away throughout the show. “And they will have to live with themselves. Artists are like everyone else.”
She continued on the Below stage, with the crowd completely silent and immersed in “As Above.” In the final verses, confetti sprinkled down like snow, forcing us to return to our bodies before Bridgers made her way back to the main stage.
She played “Bobby” before bringing out “hometown hero” Alex G to join her in covering his song, also titled “Bobby.” Another note for the Venn diagram.
Alex wasn’t the only guest. Bridgers also brought out her “little bro,” Jackson, to sing the vocal part of someone credited on the album as “Son-John Johnson”— but rumored to actually be Geese frontman Cameron Winter—on “I Can’t Wait.” Throughout the night, I kept noticing Bridgers taking in the crowd. That symbiosis came to a head during “I Know the End,” when every single voice joined in. “You guys ready?”
Of course we were. She had brought us to this moment. Then 20,000 people let out a scream.
Embodying both sides of something can transport you. As we disconnected from the outside world, we moved through our own world inside the arena. Contained and vulnerable. Disoriented and wholly present. Silenced and screaming loud.
I’m even more convinced now that one can only truly get the full experience of music in person. Not because a recording can’t capture the sound, but because it can’t capture the feeling of the artist’s full vision. This night served as a reminder of what it means to be present.
No escape into a screen. No checking a notification. No composing the perfect Instagram story. No texting when lyrics remind you of someone you long for. Just music, lights, laughter, grief, screaming, and 20,000 people experiencing the same moment together.
“And when I grow up, I’m gonna look up / From my phone and see my life / And it’s gonna be just like my recurring dream I’m at the movies / I don’t remember what I’m seeing.”
I’ll be clinging to this night. “I get everything I want / I have everything I wanted.”
