Upon receiving a notification from their ticket-selling app of choice, reading, “您关注的演唱会将于一小时后开票 (Nín guānzhù de yǎnchànghuì jiāng yú yì xiǎoshí hòu kāipiào, The concert you’re interested in will be on sale within an hour),” eager music fans are set into a frenzy. Spread all over China, yet in unison, they watch the accompanying clock tick down the minutes and seconds with bated breath.

Since 2023, concerts, live houses, and music festivals have flourished in the post-pandemic era, with tickets for major acts selling out in both bustling metropolises and smaller cities. By 2024, live concerts reached an all-time high, with box office revenue accounting for over 80 percent of China’s annual live performance sales, totaling 17.9 billion yuan, according to The Cover, a Sichuan-based news outlet. Yet, demand continues to outpace supply.

For fans, the excitement starts long before the performance day. Once news of their favorite singer’s concert is 官宣 (guānxuān, officially announced), often months in advance, fans immediately dive into a passionate battle to secure their trip. They’ll lock in travel plans even before getting a coveted ticket. At that point, their beloved 同担 (tóngdān, fellow fans) cease to be friends and become fierce competitors. A typical fan announcement on social media may read:

Some fans travel to a city just for a show (为了⼀场演出奔赴⼀座城, wèile yì chǎng yǎnchū bēnfù yí zuò chéng), while others chase their favorite singers from city to city, or even abroad, determined to attend every performance. Local fans, pressured to secure tickets for a concert in their own city, can’t help but grumble: “It’s her tour, not yours! (是她巡演，不是让你跟着巡! Shì tā xúnyǎn, búshì ràng nǐ gēnzhe xún!)”

Of course, with such high demand, not everyone is lucky enough to attend. After Jay Chou, one of Asia’s most popular singers, announced his June concert in Hong Kong, over 1 million people marked “want to attend” on the travel app Ctrip. Securing a single ticket can seem like a near-impossible feat, giving rise to the phrase 一票难求 (yípiào nánqiú).

This has sparked posts like “超丝滑抢票攻略 (Chāo sīhuá qiǎngpiào gōnglüè, Ultra-Smooth Ticket-Snatching Guide)” and “保姆级抢票攻略 (Bǎomǔjí qiǎngpiào gōnglüè, Step-by-Step Ticket-Snatching Tutorial),” offering fans both practical tips and much-needed encouragement.

But even with such advice, come ticket time, the internet inevitably turns into a sea of wails and despair:

Not willing to just give up, the most desperate of fans then turn to scalpers, or 黄牛 (huángniú, “yellow oxen”), who push the resale price up several times. At Jay Chou’s last concert in 2023, a 内场票 (nèichǎngpiào, floor ticket) originally priced at 2,380 yuan was resold for nearly 100,000 yuan. When questioned, fans quipped: “这辈子，你有没有为追星拼过命？(Zhè bèizi, nǐ yǒu méi yǒu wèi zhuīxīng pīnguo mìng? In this life, have you ever risked it all for your idol?)”

Even with more and more concerts implementing strict real-name verification (强实名制 qiáng shímíngzhì) systems since 2023—requiring the ticket purchaser and the attendee to be the same person and prohibiting ticket transfers—scalpers have still found ways to profit. They offer services like 代抢 (dàiqiǎng, “substitute purchasing”) and 录入 (lùrù, “official ticket admission”), where they use the buyer’s information to secure tickets for them.

For those lucky fans who manage to secure a golden ticket, many firmly believe that “Love哪有live香 (Love nǎ yǒu Live xiāng, Love is no match for live)” and spare no effort in enjoying themselves once they get to the venue. There, they purchase 演唱会周边 (yǎnchànghuì zhōubiān, concert souvenirs), apply 应援妆 (yìngyuánzhuāng, matching makeup), and even wear wedding dresses (dream big!).

The concerts of the popular Chinese duo Phoenix Legend, known for their blend of folk and hip-hop music, resemble 军训现场 (jūnxùn xiànchǎng, military training-like scenes), as tens of thousands of fans brandish their light sticks in unison. Fans also partake in what they call “无痛有氧 (wútòng yǒuyǎng, painless aerobics),” which includes singing, shouting, and jumping to the rhythm. They proudly announce it on their social media:

The fervor at famous rock singer Wu Bai’s concerts often reaches such heights that he barely gets a chance to sing his most famous tracks, instead taking a backseat to direct the sea of spectators in their unbridled singalongs. Netizens humorously coined his 2024 nationwide tour “Wu Bai’s Self-Service Concert (伍佰自助演唱会 Wǔ Bǎi zìzhù yǎnchànghuì).” With their throats still sore, fans log on after the show to express how the experience was worth every penny:

After such an event, who’s to say how much is too much to pay for a concert? The shared experience, enveloped in darkness and flashing lights, surrounded by endless screams, shouts, and songs, can foster a deep sense of belonging and offer an immense psychological payoff, providing many audience members with a safe place to let go of pent-up emotions. As one fan put it:

Leaving the stadium, noise, and frenzy behind, the adoring fans may encounter the first pangs of what will be a long 演唱会戒断期 (yǎnchànghuì jièduànqī, concert withdrawal period). Only the news of the next concert will be able to lift their spirits again, reigniting the cycle of planning, ticket-snatching, and revelry. After all, they firmly believe: