I'm just a girl trying to have proof I was once young and cool
Each generation finds its own way of holding onto the moments that matter most, and today's young concertgoers are no different — they simply have tools their predecessors lacked. At venues across Ireland and beyond, a quiet cultural argument unfolds: whether lifting a phone to record a beloved song is an act of absence or, paradoxically, one of deeper devotion. The charge that recording diminishes presence mistakes the medium for the meaning, overlooking how memory has always sought vessels — painted, written, photographed, and now filmed.
- A generational fault line runs through every major concert, with older voices insisting that phones steal the experience from those holding them.
- Gen Z pushes back with a simple but forceful claim: recording a moment and living it are not opposites — they happen simultaneously, in the same body, at the same show.
- The real irritant — a glowing screen blocking someone's sightline — gets conflated with a broader moral judgment that young people are somehow failing at being present.
- Footage of Olivia Dean, The Cure at Marlay Park, Hozier in Belfast — these clips become irreplaceable personal archives, not digital noise, carrying the specific weight of a particular night and a particular place in the crowd.
- The generational critique quietly collapses under its own logic: those who never recorded concerts simply never had the means to, and circumstance is not the same as virtue.
Two weeks after seeing Olivia Dean perform, the author was still returning to the phone clips captured that night — rewatching them in quiet moments, reliving the set from the exact spot where she'd stood. She knew she'd do it again at the next show, and she felt no conflict about that.
The familiar criticism arrives with every major concert: young people are glued to their screens, missing the real experience, too distracted to be fully alive to the moment. But the author finds the premise flawed at its core. Recording a thirty-second clip and feeling the full force of a live performance are not mutually exclusive acts. You can be present and preserving something at the same time.
She acknowledges the genuine frustration of a phone screen blocking your view — that inconvenience is real. But the broader moral argument, that recording is inherently diminishing, assumes a false choice. What critics miss is what these videos become over time: not clutter, but proof. Footage of Robert Smith singing 'Just Like Heaven' from your exact vantage point, or Irish dancers joining Olivia Dean mid-set, carries a specificity that no Spotify stream can replicate. It is the particular crowd, the particular night, your particular place in it.
The generational argument, she suggests, doesn't hold up to scrutiny. Those who attended concerts before smartphones existed didn't abstain from recording out of principle — the technology simply wasn't there. If her grandfather had owned a capable phone at a Beatles concert, that footage would now be priceless. Circumstance is not virtue.
She's heading to Marlay Park with a fully charged phone. She'll record 'Just Like Heaven.' She won't film the whole set or scroll between songs. She'll be engaged and present — and she'll also be capturing something. The two things, she insists, were never in conflict.
Two weeks after Olivia Dean took the stage, I found myself back in the crowd—or at least, back in the videos I'd captured from my phone. I'd watched them repeatedly, scrolling through the clips in quiet moments, reliving the set from the exact spot where I'd stood. And I knew, watching myself watch these recordings, that I'd do it all again at the next show.
This is apparently a controversial position. Every time a major concert happens, the same argument surfaces: young people can't put their phones down. We're glued to screens, missing the actual experience, too distracted to have real fun. The criticism comes with a particular tone of disappointment, as if we've collectively failed at something fundamental about being alive.
But the premise misses something obvious. Using a phone to record a few moments of a concert doesn't mean you're not there. It doesn't mean you're avoiding the experience or hiding from social interaction. It means you're doing both things at once—being present and preserving something. These aren't mutually exclusive acts.
I understand the frustration when someone's phone screen blocks your view of the stage. That's a real inconvenience, and I don't dismiss it. But the broader argument—that recording at concerts is inherently wrong, that it diminishes the moment—assumes a false choice. I can film a thirty-second clip of my favorite song and still feel the full weight of hearing it live. I can capture evidence of being there and still be there.
What people don't seem to grasp is what these videos become. They're not just digital clutter. They're proof. Years from now, I'll have footage of standing in a crowd watching Olivia Dean bring Irish dancers onto the stage during "Man I Need." I'll have video of The Cure at Marlay Park, of Robert Smith singing "Just Like Heaven" from the exact vantage point where I stood. My future children will see these things. They'll understand that I was young once, that I went to concerts, that I stood in crowds and felt something.
People who dismiss this often say the same thing: just listen to the song on Spotify. But that's not the point. A recording of a live performance from where you stood is fundamentally different from a studio version. It's not about the audio quality. It's about the specificity of the moment—the particular crowd, the particular night, your particular place in it. I still rewatch videos from a Hozier concert in Belfast years ago. Those clips are irreplaceable.
And let's be honest about the generational argument here. The people criticizing phone use at concerts would absolutely be doing the same thing if they'd had smartphones during their concert-going years. If my grandfather had owned a phone capable of recording video at a Beatles concert, he'd have footage now that would be priceless. The technology didn't exist then, so they didn't record. That's not virtue. That's circumstance.
I'm heading to Marlay Park with my phone fully charged. I'll record "Just Like Heaven." I won't film the entire set. I won't take calls or scroll Instagram during the show. I'll be present and engaged and also capturing moments. And I'll have no shame about any of it. The two things—being there and recording being there—are not in conflict. They never were.
Notable Quotes
It's really not that deep. If I'm seeing an artist I love, and they play some of my favourite songs, you can guarantee I'll need plenty of videos of it.— The author, defending phone use at concerts
I simply don't believe the people who say they would not have been doing the same thing if they had had a smartphone during a Beatles concert back in the day.— The author, on generational hypocrisy regarding phone recording
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does it matter so much that you have the video afterward? Isn't the memory enough?
The video isn't a replacement for the memory. It's proof of it. And it's different each time you watch it—you notice new things, you feel it differently depending on your mood. It's like having a conversation with your past self.
But doesn't filming it pull you out of the moment while it's happening?
Not really. Thirty seconds of recording doesn't erase the other ninety minutes. I'm not filming the whole thing. I'm capturing the songs that matter most to me, and then I'm back in the crowd, fully present.
What about the people behind you who can't see because of your phone?
That's fair, and I get it. But that's a specific problem with specific solutions—don't hold your phone up high, don't block people's sightlines. It's not an argument against recording itself.
Do you think older generations would judge you less if they understood why you're doing this?
I think they'd judge less if they admitted they'd do the same thing. They act like they're above it, but they're just nostalgic for a time when the technology didn't exist. That's not morality. That's luck.
What will you do with these videos in ten years?
Watch them. Show people. Remember exactly how it felt to be there. That's the whole point.