Featured in Farrago Magazine Edition Six 2026

When I was eight years old, I put on a white dress covered in iridescent sequins the size of Cadbury buttons, and Mum threaded a sickly-sweet gardenia into my hair. With a swipe of Father Jim’s thumb, I was ordained Stella Rose Cecilia Hannagan, and it was decreed that I would one day ascend into heaven. 

I chose Cecilia because she is the Patron Saint of Music, an innocent enough decision that still rings true for my 21-year-old self. Only now, I know that worship doesn’t just occur in the presence of a preacher. In fact, the closest I’ve ever come to complete and utter absolution is outside of the church altogether.

A month ago, I whispered a prayer under my breath in a stadium full of 15,000 people, bathed in sweat and multicoloured strobe lights.

Émile Durkheim coined the phrase “collective effervescence” in his 1912 book Elementary Forms of Religious Life, referencing a kind of heightened euphoria, release and connection experienced by members of a group engaged in a collective ritual or activity. This ecstasy is multiplied and burgeoned by its group expression, and fed back into the individual members of said group.

In a hyper-digitised secular world where citizens are growing increasingly connection- starved, live music events facilitate a neo-religious collective effervescence which allows people to pray, worship, attend a ceremony and achieve momentary salvation. In other words, the spaces that people congregate to and where they partake in a live music experience provide attendees (or “adherents”) a devotional outlet in which the stage becomes the church—free from the many limitations and costs of institutionalised religion.

Historically, it is evident that Gods have indeed walked amongst men, taking the form of the most influential and genre-defying music makers of our time: The Beatles, Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson, to name a few. Inspiring extreme devotion, myth-making and fervent support from millions of fans, music has been a longstanding arena for the deification and subsequent worship of quasi-religious figureheads beyond a mere “icon status”.

However, cracks steadily emerge. 

John Lennon admitted to being abusive towards his first wife. Elvis had a long-term prescription drug addiction that eventually stopped his heart. Michael’s legacy was forever tainted by horrific accusations of paedophilia (which are still contested by supporters today). Such idols are inevitably, chronically, deeply flawed. 

What then, still elicits this undying, collective reverence? Is it simply a need to be a part of a collective, in and of itself? Why do we linger at the altar?

The unquantifiable synchronicity of a live music event provides attendees with a shared language for an experience that only the people in the room, witnessing the event, can intimately understand—simultaneously unifying and individuating.

In a 2024 article for the National Catholic Reporter called “What Live Concerts Can Teach Us About Spirituality”, Daniel Horan writes about the transcendence of “participating” in a live music performance “unfolding in real time”. Emboldening the attendee through their self-reflexive, active participation in this performance, this emphasises the importance of one’s self-directed surrender to a musical experience in facilitating collective effervescence.

Moreover, Horan states the importance of recognising that “everyone has a unique relationship to the same God”. Contextually, he is addressing the many iterations of “God” as dictated by organised religions. However, I think there’s some merit to interpreting this sentiment a little more fluidly; perhaps, we all find God in our own way, whether that’s through the church or a pair of wired headphones.

Interestingly, fame and stardom can sometimes lead to religious awakenings. Many famous mainstream musicians have altered their set career path to pursue their faith—born again in the eyes of their chosen God. Bob Dylan became an Evangelical Christian in the late 1970s following a personal crisis. Godfather of shock rock Alice Cooper became a Christian in the 80s. M.I.A. converted to Christianity in 2017 following a “vision of Jesus”. Justin Bieber was first baptised in 2014, and again in 2020. 

The convergence of music with institutionalised religion is a particularly interesting fusion here. Perhaps the overwhelm of being in the public eye is the driver. Perhaps it’s about finding community. Perhaps musicianship itself is so deeply spiritual that after a while, music-making and religious devotion appear to be more congruent than not.

I’ve been lucky enough to attend and perform at countless live music events throughout my life. Arena concerts, folk music nights in dingy wine bars, mildly sketchy drum and bass warehouse raves. Whether the night is a complete disaster or completely spellbinding, everyone in that room walks out forever changed in some unexplainable, totally unquantifiable way. Music connects us to something greater than ourselves—something we can tap into even in the foreign embrace of a stranger at a mediocre, white guy indie band headliner in Brunswick. 

In a 2026 article called “Collective effervescence: how the positive effects of a performance linger on”, Kate Hogan Berger talks to the sentiments of Dr. Shira Gabriel, a professor in the Department of Psychology at the University of Buffalo: “It’s a combination of feeling a connection to the other people who are there, and a feeling that something sacred is happening… [giving] us a joint focus… and [uniting] us with people who may be complete strangers”. Gabriel goes on to detail that trying to “achieve” effervescence is not the goal here. Rather, it is something that comes over you when you abandon your inhibitions and devote your tunnel-vision focus to what’s happening on stage.

Music, in this vein, becomes a kind of north star, a Prophet—the intangible magic of live music events able to facilitate even a second-hand collective effervescence with the person holding the phone and watching the performance via a digital conduit.

The truth is, we all need our Gods. Deities. Idols. Something, or someone, to look towards, to tell us where to go next. 

I see God in crowds poised in anticipation, waiting with bated breath for the singer’s next move. I see God in phone flashlights rippling across my field of vision like stars to in the night sky. I see God in the thousands of people lined up outside Rod Laver Arena in the bitter cold. I see God in the deafening first chord that prompts me to rummage in my handbag for my Loops. I see God in the sea of too-high, half-full plastic cups. I see God in my hands, flexed atop the keyboard.

Heaven, connection, prayer, salvation and redemption so often reside in the most unexpected places. 

We just have to look for it.