The sun melts into a cotton candy sky, bass shaking the ground like a heartbeat. A sea of glitter-covered faces turns toward the stage, eyes lit up with that unspoken, electric kind of connection. This isn’t just a concert—it’s a whole vibe, a place where we don’t just exist, we belong. Festivals aren’t just about the music; they’re where we find our people, our style, our best (and messiest) memories. For one perfect weekend, the world is ours.
Or at least, it was.
In Australia, the festival scene has long been a rite of passage. From the sprawling campgrounds of Splendour in the Grass to the neon-lit streets of Laneway Festival, these events weren’t just gatherings; they were cultural moments. They were where you found your people, your sound, your style. But lately, the beats have been quieter, the lights dimmer. Festivals are canceling, downsizing, or simply disappearing, leaving behind an unsettling silence.
Why Festivals Matter
For a generation that grew up online, festivals offer something screens can’t: a tactile, unfiltered sense of community. They’re a break from curated grids and comment sections—a space where you can scream lyrics with strangers and lose yourself in a crowd without feeling judged. Festivals are where the chaos of modern life pauses, where individuality is celebrated within a collective pulse.
But beyond the glitter and good vibes, festivals have always been cultural mirrors. They reflect who we are as a generation: the music we listen to, the causes we rally behind, the way we choose to show up in the world. For Gen Z, a generation shaped by activism and aesthetics, festivals have been spaces to wear our identities—quite literally—on our sleeves. Whether it’s a sequined jumpsuit or a handmade protest patch, what you wear to a festival is as much a statement as the bands you cheer for.
The Rise and Fall of Aussie Festivals
Take Splendour in the Grass, for example. For decades, it’s been a pilgrimage for anyone chasing the euphoric mix of big-name headliners and chilled Byron Bay vibes. Billie Eilish, The Strokes, Flume—these aren’t just performers; they’re icons shaping the soundtracks of our youth. And yet, even Splendour couldn’t keep its footing. Announcing a pause for 2024 and 2025, organizers cited rising costs and unforeseen challenges, leaving a gaping hole in Australia’s cultural calendar.
The fallout isn’t just about canceled gigs. For locals, festivals like Splendour bring life to towns like Byron Bay, boosting tourism, filling cafes, and turning sleepy streets into buzzing hubs. The same goes for Falls Festival, which once transformed regional spots like Lorne and Marion Bay into New Year’s Eve destinations. These festivals didn’t just entertain; they created entire ecosystems—economic, creative, and social.
And then there’s Groovin’ the Moo, the festival that brought big-city acts to regional Australia. For towns like Bendigo or Maitland, Groovin’ was more than just a music event; it was a moment of cultural significance, a rare opportunity for young people to feel like the world wasn’t happening elsewhere. But in 2024, Groovin’ announced its hiatus too, citing low ticket sales as a sign of the times.
What’s Killing the Vibe?
The reasons behind the decline are as complex as the festivals themselves. There’s the obvious stuff: the lingering effects of the pandemic, which shifted how we socialize, and the rising cost of living, which makes a $400 ticket feel like a luxury few can afford. But there’s something deeper at play too.
For many of us, the appeal of mega-festivals has waned. The huge crowds, the logistical headaches, the overpriced food trucks—it all feels a bit much. In their place, smaller, niche events are rising: boutique festivals with intimate vibes, sustainability-focused gatherings, or even local gigs that feel more grounded and less commercial. These spaces cater to a generation craving authenticity over excess.
And yet, even as these smaller events pop up, something about the loss of big festivals stings. It’s not just the music; it’s the collective memory we lose. Festivals have always been more than the sum of their parts. They’re about the energy of a crowd, the unspoken camaraderie when everyone belts out the same chorus, the shared euphoria of feeling utterly alive.
The Voices Behind the Change
For people like Sarah, a 22-year-old Splendour regular, the shift is palpable. “Festivals used to feel like the highlight of my year,” she says. “But now, with ticket prices so high, I’d rather spend my money on smaller gigs where I actually feel connected to the music and the people around me.”
Organizers feel the strain too. “It’s heartbreaking,” admits Jamie, who worked on Groovin’ the Moo for years. “These festivals aren’t just jobs for us; they’re passion projects. But when the numbers don’t add up, you’re left with no choice. It’s devastating.”
What Happens When the Music Stops?
So what does this all mean for us, the festival generation? The loss of these events isn’t just a blow to our social calendars; it’s a challenge to how we experience togetherness. Festivals have been our playgrounds, our sanctuaries, our stages. Without them, where do we find those moments of collective joy?
The answer might lie in how we adapt. Smaller, more sustainable events could fill the gap, offering spaces that feel more inclusive and less overwhelming. But we also need to fight for the spaces that matter—showing up, supporting local festivals, and keeping the spirit of togetherness alive.
Because if there’s one thing festivals have taught us, it’s this: the music might fade, but the feeling stays.
