What grand stages forget to share
Temps de lecture/Reading time : 3 minutes
It took me some time to truly put into words what I feel every time I leave a concert in a small venue, a club, an intimate festival, or even a village courtyard: a rare, sincere, almost visceral sense of fulfillment. The kind of moment when music doesn’t just pass through the ears, but flows through the body, the heart, and even the soul. And each time, I have the same thought: it’s in these humble places that music truly lives.
For a long time, I believed that big concerts, festivals with monumental lineups, and stadium shows were the holy grail for live music lovers. To be fair, some shows border on the spectacular, and there’s a certain fascination in that. A Rammstein concert in a 20-person venue? Of course, you’d lose all the magic of the pyrotechnics and the sensory overload that comes from the sheer scale of it all.
But in the reality of these “money machines,” my experience is often far from enjoyable. First, there’s the crowd. Way too many people. If I end up in the pit, it’s packed, shoulder to shoulder with strangers — some of whom already smell like sweat during the opening act. I’m 1.73 meters tall, so I usually end up trying to peek between shoulders or over someone’s neck. And if I’m unlucky enough to be behind someone really tall, it’s simple: I leave with a stiff neck from trying to find a decent view.
The alternative? Stay in the back. But then the artist becomes a tiny silhouette on a massive stage. So we fall back on the giant screens. The irony? You paid a fortune to… watch a concert on a screen. Might as well stay home, with good sound and a comfy sofa. And even then — if only the price truly matched the experience. But too often, the quality doesn’t live up to the cost.
On the flip side, small venues, clubs, and local festivals offer a completely different experience. There, you get to the essence. No excessive staging, no flashy production. Just the music, the artist, and an audience only a few meters away — sometimes just centimeters. It’s in this closeness that the magic happens. That’s where the emotion flows. Musicians talk, laugh, share. They don’t perform — they live their music with us. The audience isn’t an anonymous sea anymore: it becomes a community, just for one night.
A few days ago, I felt this very strongly at the Peillon Jazz Festival. A stunning setting, nestled in a small village in the Alpes-Maritimes in the south of France, with a breathtaking view. And on stage: François Arnaud, Baptiste Herbin, Jean-Marc Jafet, Olivier Ker Ourio, Stéphane Belmondo, André Ceccarelli… just to name a few. On top of that, a deeply emotional tribute to Sylvain Luc, the genius guitarist taken from us too soon. Between sets, you could share a drink, enjoy a good barbecue, and chat with the artists as easily as with the other audience members. No barriers, no show business. Just music, humanity, and authenticity.
That’s when I realized: this is what true luxury is. Not flame throwers, 8K screens, or perfectly timed lighting. No — real luxury is being present. Feeling the vibrations of a double bass in your chest. Locking eyes with a saxophonist in the middle of a solo. Knowing that what you’re experiencing, right here and now, will never be exactly the same again.
Yes, big stages have their audience, their logic, their economy. But for me, the truth of live music lives on small stages — in intimacy, in fleeting moments shared.