In Defense of Going Phoneless at Phoebe Bridgers

It took 40 minutes to get from Max & Helen’s in Hancock Park (the waffle is really good) to the Intuit Dome in Inglewood, named for the American financial technology company best known for QuickBooks. It is Halloween, my least favorite night of the year. We were going to see Phoebe Bridgers on the second night of her three-night stand, which required a lot of effort. To receive my ticket, I had to download a hideous Intuit Dome app. The onboarding process was arduous. I had to enter my basic personal information, take a selfie, and refuse to hand over my biometric data multiple times before my ticket finally appeared, ready to be scanned by a 22-year-old dressed up like Minnie Mouse.

This whole app store journey was hilarious because “The Lost Tour” famously doesn't allow phones. Everyone begrudgingly locks their iPhone in a Yondr pouch at the door. An employee writes your seat info down on a small square piece of paper and hands it to you; if you lose it, good luck. The whole place felt pre-fab and lifeless. A sparkling new airport terminal. Lots of wayfinding signage and harsh overhead lighting to illuminate the wide walkways dotted with stores where you tap in with your card and leave without paying. All the information hidden; they somehow just know what you took. Two waters in aluminum cans for $18, no real human interaction necessary. This ain’t Zebulon.

The night before, Phoebe brought out fellow hometown hero Billie Eilish, which led a few rabid fans to record a clip and post it on social media, only to be shamed by Phoebe fans. This loyal and vocal bunch loves following rules more than anything. I have been outwardly skeptical of the no-phones policy, partly because I am averse to authority even at my ripe age, and also because I didn’t think it could make much of a difference.

We settled into our seats after hearing Alex G and his band, dressed normally but wearing matching long pink wigs, close their hour-long set with two Coldplay covers: “Clocks” and “Yellow,” respectively. They also covered “Monster Mash.” Bridger's most vocal fans (on Twitter) have been complaining about Alex G opening, even though he co-wrote the new album's only single. So two Coldplay covers felt more like a large-scale troll than a full-throated Halloween celebration.

I did a full 360 to check out the scene. We were surrounded by a menagerie of types: an age-gap gay couple holding hands, older millennials in skeleton onesies, and groups of women in their mid-twenties with faces painted in different ways, drinking canned hard seltzers. The Halloween of it all impaired my judgment, but I still got the overall sense of the paying customers. The Intuit Dome had staff in all black, earpieces in, with what looked like a single binocular scanning the crowd, Secret Service style, looking for people using phones. True cop shit, but no one seemed to bat an eye.

The lack of footage intrigued me. Everyone in my circle who had seen the show said it was really special. Phoebe first came on my radar in 2015, when my problematic fave Ryan Adams released her debut, a two-song 7,” on his label Pax Am. I still listen to “Motion Sickness” and “Scott Street” all the time. Her newest album, “Lost Weekend,” didn’t do much for me; of course it had some high points, the slight twang of “Haunted” stuck with me, not to mention the surprising use of “ibuprofen” in a verse—my favorite over-the-counter pain reliever. But I didn’t find myself returning to it like I thought I would. Describing the show step by step is for Reddit dorks or Rolling Stone reporters. But I will say, it was great. It was dynamic; the band (there were a lot of them) sounded good and gave the new songs life that I didn’t hear on the recordings.

The moment when she was alone, sitting on the floor playing a pump organ and singing, was the most powerful. The crowd, phoneless and completely rapt, was absolutely silent. But when Phoebe spoke to the audience about her Dad’s passing, she was unguarded and honest, stumbling through it in a charming way that felt revealing. Maybe it was the lack of phones or where she is in the grieving process, but it was one of the more moving things I have seen at an arena show—the opposite of an Ed Sheeran teleprompter apology.

Pop stars, a category I put Phoebe in, rarely lower the veil in any real way. They don’t do long-form, challenging interviews; instead, they control the narrative completely through their own outlets or even from the stage. But she grew up listening to Elliot Smith, not hamming it up on the Disney Channel. The candor feels appropriate from her, but still a pleasant surprise.

Lucy Dacus and Julien Baker came out to do a few Boygenius songs, and you already know the immunocompromised heads went loco. It was by far the loudest applause of the night. I sort of forget how popular the “supergroup” is, maybe because they define a Covid-era I would rather not be reminded of. They do have a few undeniable slaps, though. You can’t choose your fans.

We left a little early to beat the rush. I got my phone back from its little padded jail. No messages, not even a single alert in two hours. I realized that after they did a costume contest (SMFH) before she took the stage, I hadn’t thought to check my phone or even reach for it. I wonder if more people will institute this policy. I was a skeptic, but I think it has merit, especially for artists with a rabid and overly respectful fanbase. I am sure videos and photos of a great show help ticket sales, but if you don’t need the help, if you are marked safe from blue dot fever, get Yondr on the blower. Is a show more powerful when the audience's focus is on the music and not creating content or, worse, judging each other for creating content? Could the Tater Tots and Swifties stay off their phones for three hours? We may never find out. But Phoebe has done something more remarkable than selling out a tour or going number one. She has gotten arenas full of people to pay attention. There is no bigger feat in 2026.