On Jan. 16, 2026, rock band Human Bondage returned to the stage, but funnily enough, as a tribute act to themselves.

Call it marketing or just a careful reverence for their legacy. Still, longtime members are now back, performing with Mumbai act Rajeev Raja Combine as part of a three-city tour that kicked off in Bengaluru and will travel to Goa (Jan. 22 at Cohiba, Jan. 24 at Take 5, Jan. 25 at Chitra Museum) and Mumbai (Feb. 8 at Antisocial).  

Henry Babu Joseph (vocals and guitars) joins on all shows, while Ramesh Shotham (drums and percussion) has performed at two of the three Bengaluru dates. Meanwhile, Radha Thomas, although now known as a jazz vocalist, returns to rock and roll for a special show with Joseph and Shotham as part of BLR Hubba’s Kantha Festival on Jan. 19, 2026, at ADA Ranga Mandira in Bengaluru.

Shotham — who shuttles between Germany and India — points out that it was Babu and Rajeev Raja who first got in touch about putting the shows together. Barcelona-based Babu adds that talks began when Rajeev Raja Combine’s guitarist Paul Santiago and he were recording virtually. “We recorded some bossa novas and Spanish boleros. The recordings were not very satisfactory, so Paul suggested going to Bombay and doing it at Rajeev’s studio. Rajeev agreed to do that and came up with the idea of doing some concerts in Bombay as well as a tribute to Human Bondage,” Babu recalls.

The tour plan matched with Shotham’s India travels as well as Human Bondage’s keyboardist Fred Manrics, although the latter had to drop out due to health issues. The artists are backed by Rajeev Raja Combine’s eponymous flautist, Santiago, and Hitesh Dhutia on guitars, drummer Adrian D’Souza, and bassist John ‘JD’ Thirumalai. “I know Rajeev from Bangalore and have been following his musical journey. I put a setlist together and Radha added her songs to it. Our rehearsals with Rajeev’s band have been smooth and a lot of fun. They are a tight band and have been very enthusiastic,” Babu adds.

Raja, who grew up in Bengaluru and looked to Babu as a mentor, particularly during his shift from playing Carnatic flute to a more “Western key,” says the tour also came together with help from sponsors BLR Airport, Paul John Visitor Centre in Goa, and Air India Express as Travel Partner.

Thomas, for her part, is returning to perform rock songs for the first time since the Seventies. She recounts, “The very first time I sang with HB was, I think, 1973. Honestly, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I idolized them and couldn’t believe they let me sing. But that’s a long time ago… We haven’t all gotten together in, I guess, 50 years, so this quasi-reunion is half a century later.”

Among the earliest rock to emerge from Bengaluru (then known as just Bangalore), Human Bondage included members Babu, Thomas, Shotham, along with his brother Suresh on guitars, keyboardist Steve Law, Manrics, Xerxes Gobhai (who passed away in 2023) and Vinty Bunyan on bass, all managed by Gasper D’Souza from 1970 to 1976.  Their setlist today, like back then, heavily leans into rock, ranging from Fleetwood Mac and Janis Joplin to extended jams.

Although there was a brief and private jam-led reunion in Goa in 2013, Babu says the last time Human Bondage played together was at the Blow Up disco at the Taj Mahal Hotel in Mumbai (then Bombay) in the Seventies.

Back then, touring was not nearly as easy as it is today, Babu says. “We traveled by train and carted all our equipment, but we had long contracts to play in hotels. Now things are a lot better; most venues have their own equipment and sound engineers. It’s very professional,” he explains. Shotham adds, “We had to improvise with standard situations like travel, rehearsal spaces, equipment, etc. Now things have changed, and things have become much more professional for bands on the road.”

What they’re happy about is that live music has only grown in the decades since, and “the standard of musicianship is very high,” as Babu observes. “There are rock music schools and good equipment is available now compared to our times,” he adds.

Shotham, who recently released his new album Weirdly In Time, says he’s been coming to India often over the years to interact with artists out here. “I’ve been impressed with the quality of music and equipment here,” the drummer adds.

Thomas, too, has been a regular in the Bengaluru and Indian jazz circuit for decades now, releasing albums on the regular and performing with pianist-composer Aman Mahajan. While she’s excited to perform with the Rajeev Raja Combine as well, she admits she’s “quite nervous to sing rock and roll again.” She adds, “It requires a different energy and feeling than jazz, which is what I’ve been up to… and I hope I can do it justice. But it is great fun. I’m enjoying it.”

Raja adds, “It’s been an amazing journey so far. The musicians in my band are enjoying re-creating the sound of Human Bondage, and we’re having a blast on and off the stage.”

The post Human Bondage on How Much Indian Rock Has Changed Since the 1970s appeared first on Rolling Stone India.

Forget the capes and spandex because the best K-drama “superheroes” are often everyday people wrestling with extraordinary gifts. Unlike their Western counterparts, who usually punch their way through problems, these characters personify the messy, compelling interplay between power and the very human struggle to control it. The real struggle, though, is watching them deal with the fear of hurting someone, the heavy emotional burden of their powers, and just being plain exhausted from trying to live a normal life while totally bending the rules of science. They feel real and exposed, like a reminder that being a true hero isn’t about being invincible. It’s about surviving the personal battle with the amazing (and crazy) power you have inside. 

The Burden of the Gift

In K-dramas, some heroes don’t have super-strength; they have super-sensitivity, which is often more of a burden than a blessing. In I Hear Your Voice (2013), Park Soo-ha’s (Lee Jong-suk) ability to read minds makes him a “superhero” in the courtroom, but a victim in the real world. His ability isn’t a strategic advantage; it’s a mix of human malice and hidden insecurities that made him grow up too quickly. The constant noise of human dishonesty is a sensory overload that makes him profoundly lonely, while his power makes him a target for a vengeful killer, proving that knowing the truth doesn’t always make you safe.

It’s a similar story in He Is Psychometric (2019). Just like Soo-ha, Lee Ahn (GOT7’s Jinyoung) can see the past just by touching someone or something. The problem is he can’t really control his power, which turns him into a total loner. He can’t even hold hands without being hit by a wave of someone else’s memories. His vulnerability is his inability to connect with people without the “filter” of his power, and his touch-based visions are a curse of unwanted intimacy, revealing the darkest secrets of those he loves.

These characters are essentially vulnerable because they cannot “turn off” the world. Their abilities are a breach of their own boundaries, proving that knowing everything or being extraordinary is often the quickest way to lose your peace of mind.

The Physicality of Vulnerability

Strong Girl Do Bong-soon (2017) went against the grain by linking morality to power. Bong-soon (Park Bo-young) is very strong, but she is afraid of losing that strength if she uses it for selfish reasons or hurts someone innocent. This makes her feel tense all the time because she has to check her morals and ego before every punch she throws. Her “weakness” is her conscience, and her “vulnerability” is her strong desire to be “delicate” for the man she loves. This shows the classic K-drama struggle between who she really is and what society expects of her.

Likewise, the “Counters” in The Uncanny Counter (2020–2025) are literally dead-adjacent; they only have power because they are in a coma or on the brink of death, literally given a second lease on life in exchange for hunting demons. Their vulnerability is their mortality: if they break the rules of their “Yung” (the line between this world and the next) partners, they lose their second chance at life. This team-up is driven by shared grief and the collective trauma of being outcasts, with their vulnerability acting as a ticking clock that makes every attack a gamble with their existence.

On the other hand, the 2023 megahit Moving took a visceral approach. Healing factors and flights aren’t used for flashy battles in this drama adaptation of Kang Full’s super-successful webtoon of the same name; they are used to endure torture and protect one’s family. Here, the weakness lies in the role of parents. The “super” parents are terrified, not for their own lives, but that their “super” children will inherit their “curse” of being hunted by the state. So, the vulnerability, again, isn’t just physical; it’s the desperate need of parents to hide their children’s gifts so they can lead a “normal” life. Their greatest strength, their love for their family, is also used as a leverage chip by those in power.

The Next Chapter: Economic Heroism

As we look at the latest sensation in K-drama superheroes, Cashero (2025), we see a hero whose strength is proportional to how much cash he has. The show makes the fight between “power and vulnerability” real. Kang Sang-woong’s (Lee Jun-ho of 2PM) strength depends entirely on the amount of cash he carries. To be a hero, he must literally bankrupt himself. It’s a brilliant but cynical metaphor for modern life. His power is based on actual capital, but his weakness comes from financial vulnerability and his bank account, a deeply relatable modern anxiety. The K-drama brilliantly transforms the superhero genre into a critique of late-stage capitalism — you can save the world, but only if you can afford the bill.

Simply put, K-drama superheroes aren’t interesting because they can fly or catch bullets; they are interesting because they still have to face the NIS, the local bully, or an empty bank account. They bleed, they go into debt, and they cry over cold noodles. And by 2026, the genre has mastered this “interplay”—reminding us that true heroism isn’t the absence of vulnerability, but the choice to act even when your power makes you more exposed than ever.

The post Heroes with a Hitch: How K-Drama Superheroes Rewrite the Western Trope appeared first on Rolling Stone India.

When you think of Westerns you think of tumbleweeds rolling away across the sands, “wanted” posters displaying hardened faces and with large bounties, and swinging saloon doors where patrons watch with bated breath as gunslingers face off in a quick draw match.  

Now think of all that set in space.  

Spaces Westerns are a very interesting genre, blending sci-fi tech with the gritty Wild West. And when it comes to anime-manga, Trigun is the quintessential Space Western.  

Trigun follows Vash the Stampede as he journeys across the barren, scorching planet known as No Man’s Land. Vash’s reputation precedes him:, known as the Humanoid Typhon, he has a staggering $$60 billion double dollar (Trigun’s currency) bounty on his head. Although in Vash’s defence, he didn’t mean to level a city, it was an honest accident.  

Vash isn’t your stereotypical Western protagonist.  

He’s an incredibly skilled gunman who loathes violence and preaches pacifism. In fact, it’s often his pacifism which has violent consequences and terrible collateral. Vash sees the good through the bad and the ugly, choosing to save the inhabitants of his world, cruel and harsh though they may be. He wants to spare everyone, even his enemies. This is in stark contrast to his twin brother Knives, who is his opposite in every way.  

There are three iterations of Trigun: the manga which ran from 1997 to 2007, the 1998 anime adaptation and the 2023 anime adaptation, Trigun Stampede, followed now by its direct sequel in 2026, Trigun Stargaze. Every version of Trigun is inherently different except for the basic plot outline and its characters, especially Vash whose ideals and motivations remain constant.  

The original Trigun anime aired in tandem with the ongoing manga, which meant that the plot had to diverge from the source to fit the airing season. Up to a certain point, the anime and the manga remain the same, but once the anime caught up to the manga, there was a significant departure in story beats. It was also much lighter in tone than the manga’s darker storyline due to the restrictions on what could be aired at the time. Westerns are gritty, harsh, violent and bloody. Space Westerns like the Trigun manga are the same, so the anime had to censor a lot of what was happening in the manga. There was also a lot of self-contained filler material inserted to pad up the story which made it feel more like a slow burn. The animation was clunky at times due to the technological constraints, but there’s something charming and oddly fitting about having a rough style for a story like Trigun. However, visually the original anime follows the manga’s character designs to the letter.  

Trigun Stampede and Stargaze is essentially a reimagining of the manga’s events. The characters are aged down for one. At their core they are the same, but the journey to get there is different. Compared to the 1998 anime, Stampede and Stargaze follow the plot more faithfully, even though the timeline has been altered. It is darker, more befitting of the manga, and doesn’t shy from blood, gore or violence. For one, Vash is more naïve, handling things differently than he does in the manga because he’s still growing as a character. The new anime also raises the stakes by revealing the major players of the story in advance to better encapsulate the manga’s mammoth of a plot. It also has a lot of scenes adapted directly from the manga and cuts off the frills that the anime added in 1998 . Both Stampede and Stargaze do a good job of characterising Vash’s struggle with guilt and loneliness than the original anime did. The trajectory of the story is bittersweet, much like the manga.  

The biggest departure from the manga and the original anime is the aesthetic and visuals.  

Stargaze, like its predecessor Stampede, employs the use of CGI as opposed to the more traditional art style of the manga. Studio Orange, responsible for animating the show, uses a technique called limited frame animation wherein the framerate is lower than the standard framerate for 3D animation, saving time and money. An anime like Trigun is action-heavy with a lot of angular perspectives, intense fight scenes and intricate weaponry. The CGI allows certain character designs as well as attacks to be rendered more fluidly.  

The range of emotions that play out on the characters’ faces is also given a bigger focus. From dead-eyed vacant stares to wide-eyed bewilderment, the minute shifts in temperament make them feel all the more expressive. The choreography in the action scenes stand out. The CGI lends itself much better to fluid movements and highly stylized cinematography, letting the new anime really push the boundaries of aesthetics.  

No version of Trigun is going to be the same. The 1998 anime proved that you can honor the source material while bringing something entirely new to the table by retaining characterizations and the core storyline. Stargaze strives to do the same, this time presenting a retelling that is strong enough to make new fans understand why Trigun is so beloved and leave old fans guessing about what happens next. Stargaze is what remakes need to be: keep what works best and make it better.    

Watch on Crunchyroll.

The post Every Gun Makes Its Own Tune, And So Does Vash the Stampede in ‘Trigun Stargaze’ appeared first on Rolling Stone India.

As soon as I step onto the concrete floor of Bangkok’s FVTURE hyperclub on its opening night, the bass thrums beneath my feet, while the pulsing flash of LED lights keeps my eyes in a near-perpetual blinking state. Its scale hits as hard as the bass pounding through the L2 and L2D acoustic system, with snaking, labyrinthine levels leading backstage, where a massive LED screen stretches from floor to ceiling. 

Even as hostesses in shiny silver costumes slink past customers jostling for drinks at the bar, the walls remain bare, the ceilings expose hanging sockets, and the whole space has this unfinished, industrial ruggedness that almost feels intentional. And as co-founder Victor Wang points out, it is. “This is not the final version of FVTURE,” he tells Rolling Stone India. “What you’re seeing now is FVTURE 1.0 that everyone can experience in a more raw industrial look and feel.“

Referring to FVTURE as an evolving stage isn’t simply a design strategy. Bangkok, once known for its backpack-slingers, beer pong battlers, and nightlife that thrived on excess and the illicit, has been steadily undergoing an upheaval, one that’s pushed major EDM festivals like Tomorrowland, Creamfields, and EDC to consider it a serious stop in their global expansion plans. As the city grows into its own, FVTURE feels like an attempt to catapult that culture forward without erasing the often unruly, DIY energy that makes its nightlife simultaneously notorious and magnetic.

“We saw a lot of potential and a big gap in Bangkok: a large-scale club to put Bangkok on the world stage of electronic music was missing,” Wang says. The process of building the club, from assessing the market to locking the venue, was fairly swift, likely owing to the founders’ decision to roll it out in stages. 

FVTURE also positions itself as a “hyperclub,” a cross between a high-capacity nightclub and an arena-style event space, interpreting it as a format that uses cutting-edge technology to dismantle the barriers between the artist and audience. “Hyperclubs have their own story, personality, and future, and also have a lot to do with the geographical location,” Wang says. “FVTURE has its own unique story that can’t be associated or compared to any other hyperclub. I think what will define FVTURE is the team, the ideas, and the dedication in the months and years to come.” 

It’s on the dance floor that FVTURE’s hyperclub vision truly materializes. Backstage, opening DJ Axl Stace helms the decks, firing up breakneck jolts of EDM that set the night’s pace. By the time headliners Artbat arrive, the sprawling 4,000-square-foot venue, capable of holding 6,000 people, is packed with ravers ready to be beamed up in the DJ duo’s visual vortex.

Enlisting Artbat, the Ukrainian duo of Artur Kryvenko and Vitaliy “Batish” Limarenko, feels like yet another strategic bet. Known for sensorial performances that play out like an interdimensional interplay of sound and visuals, their humanoid figures and cyber-futuristic avatars move fluidly across FVTURE’s 360° LED canvases as the duo tears through familiar bangers like their remixes of Camelphat’s “Cola,” Monolink’s “Return To Oz,” and Gotye’s “Somebody That I Used To Know.” The set ends on a turbulently emotional high, before deck duties are handed over to Thai DJ Nakadia, who keeps the momentum going with her built-for-blast-off techno. 

FVTURE’s roster mixes global dance music heavyweights like Camelphat (performing on Jan. 23, 2026) and Danny Avila (who performed on Jan. 10, 2026), with rising electronic acts, including Spain’s Prophecy and Brazilian‑Italian DJ/producer Nobilee. “Our main goal is diversity in music and sound. We will have a bit of everything for everyone.” From D&B to trance, everything seems to be on the table. “In general, we like to approach music by feeling as an art, not as a science.”

FVTURE doesn’t exist in isolation. Its opening reflects a recalibration happening across Bangkok’s club landscape, where size and production value are becoming just as important as lineups. Large-scale venues and superclubs like Atlas and MUIN have begun cropping up across the city, each leaning into high-impact sound systems and larger-than-life visual environments. Some are even experimenting with multi-format rooms that mirror the logic of festivals. These are spaces designed to hold bigger crowds and multiple moods at once, drawing in locals, expats, and globe-trotting ravers who want something that feels closer to a festival without leaving the city.

In the broader context of Asia, where electronic music audiences are growing faster than the infrastructure built to serve them, this shift feels consequential, especially as global touring circuits look eastward. Clubs like FVTURE feel built to absorb the city’s energy and push it back out with the bass cranked all the way up.

Update: Nina Kraviz was previously mentioned as part of FVTURE’s upcoming slate. Her appearance is no longer confirmed and has been removed from the article.

The post What Bangkok’s New Hyperclub FVTURE Signals for The Next Phase of Asia’s Club Culture appeared first on Rolling Stone India.

After nearly four years of military service hiatus and a lifetime of anticipation, BTS is officially back. Together again, they are unveiling new music this March that marks the revival of a worldwide sensation. But beyond the music, they’ve also unveiled a new BTS logo, with their latest “Three Red Circles” drawing widespread attention and sparking new fan theories.

It all started on Dec. 31, 2025, when BTS’s gold membership fans received a New Year’s postcard featuring a brand-new logo with three distinct red circles. Beneath them was a date, now etched into every fan’s calendar: March 20, 2026, the release date for their upcoming album.

If you’ve been following the K-pop scene or the global music industry at large over the last decade, you know that BTS has evolved from a boy band to a cultural phenomenon. Having grown up alongside their fans, the ARMY, their journey from “Bulletproof Boy Scouts” to “Beyond the Scene” perfectly captures the essence of an evolving brand identity. Every iteration of their logo has been a visual diary, a declaration of a new era and message, and a deeper connection with their audience. From the rugged detail of a bulletproof vest to the sleek, symbolic imagery of 2026, here’s how the Bangtan identity has shifted through the years.

2013–2016: The Bulletproof Era

Back when they released their debut album 2 Cool 4 Skool, BTS were underdogs with a serious message, using their music to speak about the pressures of their generation. And their old-school bulletproof vest logo perfectly captured this early grind. It was cluttered and rough around the edges, featuring a tactical vest flanked by a grenade, lightning bolts, and sharp rays. A visual manifestation of “Bangtan Sonyeondan” (Bulletproof Boy Scouts), it underlined the fire and power of their mission: to shield themselves and their generation from the bullets of social prejudice, scrutiny, criticism, and expectations. Perhaps the logo was less about branding and more about rebellion, almost like visual armor against a world filled with judgment. It screamed attitude, just like their music at the time.

2016-2017: The Wings Era

In this era, BTS ditched the bulletproof vest look for a more abstract design featuring four distinct circles, each with its own texture and mapped to songs from their Wings album. Far from random, the shapes represented the individual members, which changed and connected through the era’s iconic short films. For example, Jungkook’s circle from Begin eventually connected with RM’s circle from Reflection, just like Suga’s circle did with Jimin’s. Hermann Hesse’s novel Demian heavily inspired the design, reflecting themes of temptation, growing up, and lost innocence. The logo changed again slightly when the repackaged version of You Never Walk Alone was released in 2017, with the circles morphing into a fancy navy blue knot to signify their departure from the “Bulletproof Boy Scouts” to a more refined “Beyond the Scene” identity.

2017: The Doors—Beyond the Scene

Then came the significant rebrand in the summer of 2017, when BTS expanded its name to also signify “Beyond the Scene” and introduced a sleek, minimalist logo featuring two black trapezoids that resembled half-open doors. The design represented a meeting point between BTS and ARMY, symbolizing solidarity, progress, and the exploration of new horizons. Additionally, it evoked their origins, remaining true to the protective spirit embodied in their “bulletproof vest” logo.

2022: The Proof Period

The Proof anthology era acted as a bridge. While the 2017 “doors” remained the official brand identity, the Proof logo — a blocky, metallic typography — cemented their purpose. It was a visual anchor during their solo chapter, reminding everyone that their history was bulletproof even as they stepped into separate rooms for a while.

2026: The Comeback

Now that we’ve reached the 2026 comeback, the branding has shifted once more. To signal their fresh start after military discharge, BTS reset their digital presence and introduced a new visual language for their fifth studio album. Recent postcards sent to ARMY gold members and social media updates feature the new logo, described as vibrating waves of sound and harmonics. The design uses symbols like ⊙⊝⊜, with fan theories flying left and right, decoding the new logo as symbols of music, journey, and harmony, marked by a shift to red. This era is about resonance; after years of individual growth, the seven members are syncing together again to create a unified sound.

The post Decoding BTS’s Comeback: The Evolution of Their Iconic Logo appeared first on Rolling Stone India.

There was something hauntingly tranquil about watching American DJ Thomas Wesley Pentz, known more popularly as Diplo, play a set to a seemingly inanimate audience. Washed away pebbles, roughly-cut boulders, and the perennial flow of the Ganges River stood in for cheering fans. Amidst the earthy-green and aqua landscape, the pink-haired Diplo stood out instantly. Set against the serene backdrop of the holy city of Rishikesh, the video, which is a part of the DJ’s “Diplo Live Sets” series, amassed over 1.6 million views and also featured DJ Naveen Kumar’s “Pal Pal” remix, which left the Indian audience in a chokehold. 

The livestream resists the obvious signifiers of spectacle. No hyper-curated sets, strobe lighting, overcrowded dance floors, or overplayed remixes. Nothing that could give you that instant rush of adrenaline. Instead, it’s an exercise in restraint. Playing with proximity and distance, the video intersperses music with the textural mysticism of Rishikesh. Grooving in solitude to his own transitions and musical cuts, Diplo becomes one with nature. It’s an audio-visual palate cleanser from the overbearing everyday overstimulation that invites you to both fixate and zone out.

For Diplo, this was beyond another “exotic” location. Years ago, a near-death encounter during a visit to the Ganges became a turning point in his life. When the enormity of the river swallowed him whole, it taught him the true meaning of complete and utter surrender. Paying homage to that very incident, the Rishikesh set embodies the true essence of what it means to have a “full circle moment.”

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Behind The Making Of A Mammoth Project

Capturing the visual spectacle behind the camera was Cambron Lyles, the lead director and camera operator who’s also Diplo’s long-time collaborator. He understands the DJ’s visual tonality more than anyone else, like a silent accord. Joining him were Delhi-based photographer Kartik Kher, who aided as a camera operator, and Adeeb Raza, a DGCA-certified Drone Pilot. 

The process was a meditative, larger-than-life experience for everyone involved. “The concept for the Rishikesh stream started to develop all the way back in 2023,” Lyles told Rolling Stone India. While the idea had been brewing for quite some time, narrowing down on the perfect location took some scouting and a whole lot of patience. Amidst the Cherry Blossom festival in Shillong and Motoverse in Goa, Lyles and Avery, Diplo’s tour manager, were on a quest to find the perfect backdrop. This is also where he was acquainted with Kher for the first time. “Our original idea was to do it in the Beatles Ashram, but there were a lot of permit issues; we couldn’t necessarily get things in order quickly enough to do it there,” Lyles admitted. Wading through logistical bottlenecks, however, they finally landed on the Ganges River in Rishikesh, a fateful encounter. 

The set is probably the antithesis of any big-budget music video production. A humble blanket, a bar table, some JBL speakers, and an Alpha Tetha Omnis Duo. Just 4 people on set: Diplo, Raza, Kher, and Lyles. Seasoned players of the game, Lyles and his team had already done their homework. Locations were scouted way in advance. Even the tiniest of details, such as the sunrise and sunset timings, were factored into the making of this mammoth project.

A Cross-Border Collaboration

Kartik Kher recalls the day vividly. A six-hour drive, a 15-minute down-slope hike with tonnes of equipment. A sublime sunset. A two-hour shoot wrapped inside a twelve-hour journey. The real challenge came after, which was getting everything back up. “Watching an artist of Diplo’s scale play in such a setting was surreal, a once-in-a-lifetime experience,” he added.  Locals barged into the set, creating moments of unplanned comedy, while rafters floated by in the background, unknowingly becoming part of the livestream.

Recounting the sourcing hassles and makeshift measures, Lyles added how he and Avery had to solve the biggest crisis of all: sourcing speakers. “Since we came from America, we weren’t able to bring normal speakers. I don’t really know a lot of people in India, but I know I wanted to use people who were local. ” Luckily, here’s where Kher came in clutch. Not only did he source two JBL speakers, but he also managed to drive down the other necessary gear (drones, tripods, cameras) all the way from Delhi, along with his team. “Kartik played such a crucial role in helping me out,” Lyles added. Other miscellaneous equipment was also sourced locally via markets in Shillong, India. “Avery and I went into the local market in Shillong. We picked up an RCA to 3.5 millimeter jacks to be able to plug in so that we could hear the music playing and Wes could play the set,” Lyles said. 

Overcoming Nature’s Hurdles

Getting to the actual site was no joke either. A vertically steep hike down to the riverside meant dragging nearly 300 pounds of equipment by hand. “The hotel that we were staying at was probably a thousand steps up and down. Adib, Kartik,  I, as well as Avery, all had to lug down probably 300 pounds of gear all the way, set it up, and then shoot this live stream.”  

Nevertheless, the hotel staff graciously lent them a bar table for the shoot. Even the most humble items on set, such as the ornate Orange blanket thrown over the bar table, which stood in contrast to the azure and grey landscape, heightened the creative direction. “It kind of centers the frame on Diplo playing the set,” Lyles remarked. 

Another issue came up after the shoot. Lyles noticed how the video lacked the vibrance of Rishikesh, B-rolls, and all. Once again, Kher and his team went back to shoot some more drone footage. “I couldn’t have asked for a better partner to be able to shoot this with. He saved my life ten times over.” 

Going With The Flow 

As topsy-turvy as the pre-production hurdles were, the actual shoot was easy-going. As the cameras rolled, local fishermen and rafters showed up in the frame right behind Diplo, completely unbothered by the allure of disrupting an MV shot. Lyles and his team chose to embrace these oddities instead of achieving the “perfect” money shot. 

“We didn’t want to tell them to go away because it’s not our place or position to. We wanted it to be natural, that music and life can coincide together.” Not wanting to shake up the natural sanctity of the location, Lyles and his team truly went with the flow: “We wanted to keep the natural beauty and not disrupt anything. Only Wes (Diplo) could hear the music. If you listen to any of our camera microphones, all you can hear is the Ganges running.”

Lyles, who’s worked with Diplo for four years, describes their relationship as that of brothers. “Every single time he pushes me harder, just like a sibling would. He really put a lot of faith in me to be able to organize this team together,  get the video edited in time for New Year’s, to get the color grading right, and really show off the beauty of Rishikesh,” he said. 

In the end, the future of music lies beyond the stage, in stillness, outside muggy coop-like rooms and tiny boxed screens. Stepping away from hyper-accelerated visual stereotypes and tokenistic symbols of snake charmers, turban-clad men, and bearded saints, India is slowly becoming the most sought-after global backdrop for sonic world-building, not just for homegrown heavyweights like Hanumankind, but also for international renegades like Diplo.  Remote. Offline. Onsite. That’s where it’s at. 

The post Inside The Making of Diplo’s Live Set in Rishikesh appeared first on Rolling Stone India.

India’s K-pop explosion shows no signs of slowing down. What probably began with a BTS, Blackpink or EXO track in a cybercafé has now evolved into a full-blown cultural remix, sweeping across dorm rooms, school corridors and midnight bus rides nationwide. Fans are swapping lyrics, staging campus flash mobs and dreaming of seeing their idols perform live on home turf.  

In the 2025 Global Hallyu Survey (based on 2024 data), India recorded the third-highest affinity towards K-content globally at 84.5 percent, after the Philippines and Indonesia, according to the Financial Express. And at roughly 185 million users, India’s K‑pop streaming numbers are a beast in themselves. In fact, when Korean entertainment giant Hybe, the agency behind K-pop supergroup BTS, recently rolled out its Indian arm in Mumbai, they said India’s streaming market is the second‑largest in the world, and “the perfect market to implement our growth strategy,” especially given the “remarkable rise of K‑pop in India.” Not to be outdone, K-pop icon G‑Dragon’s agency Galaxy Corp. is reportedly scouting the subcontinent and plans to open an Indian branch by early next year. 

The influence of K-pop has also trickled down into fashion, food, beauty, language and everyday culture. Korean restaurants, beauty aisles and language classes are booming, with Korean Culture Centre (KCC) registrations jumping from 814 in 2020 to 4,680 in 2021, while KCCI-supported school programs reported a rising trend from 1,535 enrolments in 2023 to 2,572 in 2024.  

Yet, despite all this frenzy, the dream of a full-scale K-pop festival in India remains frustratingly out of reach. Physical festivals, the beating heart of the K-pop experience, keep getting stuck in a stuttering loop. Online, the craze is deafening, but live K-pop events on Indian ground remain a shaky, under‑cooked affair. It’s a crazy catch-22: everyone’s hyped, and the hype is off the charts, but the practical side just can’t keep up. 

The Infrastructural Choke Point 

India’s live‑event scene is unarguably on the rise — estimates based on a joint report by the Federation of Indian Chambers of Commerce & Industry (FICCI) and Ernst & Young (EY) say it’s expected to steadily grow from ₹88 billion in 2023 to a whopping ₹143 billion by 2026. It’s an exciting time for the concert economy in theory, but on ground, the country’s sheer scale and diversity can turn any big‑ticket festival into a Herculean puzzle. Outside the usual suspects — Delhi, Mumbai, and Bangalore — there are barely any venues that can handle the volume of sound, lighting, security, and crowd‑control gear that a world-class concert demands.  

Nikita Engheepi, a pioneer of India’s K-pop concert scene and Co-Founder of Pink Box Entertainment (a premier K-pop event agency) and Namaste Hallyu (Korean media website), says, “India has pulled off big concerts, but we don’t yet have enough venues for a country this massive. With faster permissions and more mid‑to‑large spaces, K-pop events could scale instantly. The demand is already huge, but the ecosystem just needs to catch up.”  

The ground reality of staging a K-pop show is that the whole production often has to be airlifted in, which spikes costs and makes organisers think twice. Jason Manners, CEO of Rockski and Festival Promoter of Shillong’s Cherry Blossom Festival, highlights, “Logistical and financial constraints are killing [these experiences]. Flying in international artists is expensive, and sponsors are hard to come by. India’s festival infrastructure isn’t exactly top-notch either.” The result is that fans are left scrolling through livestreams while the live experience remains just beyond our grasp. 

The market is still finding its feet. Most big domestic events happen in open-air spaces that aren’t actually designed for concerts and end up running short on creature comforts. Take the case of the Bryan Adams gig last year in Mumbai, where just three bathrooms were available to accommodate a thousand attendees, resulting in a spectacular screw-up. A bigger challenge is technical flexibility: adjustable decks, elaborate rigging, and premium audiovisual setups aren’t always easily available, so delivering the high-octane spectacle K-pop fans expect is a logistical nightmare. Traffic jams, unsafe parking spots, and insufficient safety precautions make the situation more difficult. Popular Indian singer and actor Diljit Dosanjh even called out some of these inadequacies during his December 2024 “Dil-Luminati” tour, saying there isn’t enough infrastructure to support live shows in India and urging authorities to act. His remarks definitely stirred the pot — some called him out for being a bit too harsh, given the success of Coldplay’s 2025 gigs, while others agreed he had a valid point about the urgent need for better venues. Bottom line: when you’re booking a big, international concert or music festival, the whole setup has to meet global standards. 
 
Sukanya Bandopadhyay, a longtime K-pop enthusiast, sums it up: “Korean entertainment companies work with a level of structure and predictability. They look for venues that can support heavy production, organizers who understand the pace of Korean concert routines, and a local ecosystem that can handle a crowd without losing control. India has the enthusiasm, no doubt, but the infrastructure is still catching up.” She points out how events like the K-Town Festival made that painfully clear—long lines, patchy communication, delays, and a sense that organizers underestimated what the audience needed. “For fans who’ve seen how Korean concerts run, even through videos, the difference was obvious,” she states. “And for Korean agencies watching from afar, these lapses don’t inspire confidence.” The broader issue is that India still lacks enough mid-sized, technically consistent venues. A K-pop show isn’t just a musical performance; it’s a tightly choreographed production with lighting cues, live screens, sound precision, and safety checks. Without that baseline, it becomes hard for international acts to commit and even harder for festivals to grow into something stable, she adds. 

The Economic Equation 

The economics of pulling off a K-pop show in India are a tough equation. K-pop has established itself as a global brand with a premium price tag, and that premium shows up the moment you start ticketing a concert. Bringing A-listers to the country means shelling out massive performance fees, flying in an entourage of dozens, and hiring state-of-the-art audiovisual setups that most Indian venues simply don’t have. Against a still-developing live event market, those costs push ticket prices into a range that easily outprices a big chunk of the young, passionate fanbase that fuels the hype. 

The primary hurdle, whispered in back-room meetings, is plain old financial viability.  Even a single established act can feel like an astronomical undertaking: artist fees that sit firmly in the big-league bracket, complex logistics for travel and security, and technical riders that demand gear you can’t just rent from the local shop.   

“Too often, ticket prices here make promises the event can’t keep,” Bandopadhyay notes. “Fans are willing to spend, but not to be shortchanged. When organisers charge global rates and deliver shaky execution, the devotion they rely on starts to feel exploited rather than celebrated.” The result is a tightrope walk between affordability and breaking even, and, more often than not, the rope snaps before the show even starts. 

Production costs pile up on top of the artist fees, which pushes the budget north of what a typical Indian festival spends. Venue scarcity doesn’t help either: India has few globally compliant arenas, so organizers end up converting stadiums or hiring makeshift spaces, then pouring money into extra infrastructure—public transport links, parking, toilets, waste management— just to make the venue work.  Plus, licensing is a bureaucratic maze, with over ten separate permissions required, from venue booking to security clearances. The whole process tends to be lengthy, unpredictable, and, at times, opaque, and an added 18 percent GST (Goods and Services Tax) squeezes margins even further.  

As Ashish Hemrajani, Co-founder & CEO of BookMyShow, told The Economic Times: We need a clear policy at the national and state level that makes it easier to host events, keeps people safe, maintains decent sanitation, and gets the logistics sorted. Audience spending power is another weak link. While India boasts a massive young population that lives for K-pop, the average fan’s disposable income is modest compared to fans in Japan, South Korea or even Southeast Asia. Ticket prices for a K-pop festival can start at ₹2,499 (as seen with the K-Wave Festival 2024 featuring Hyolyn and Suho of EXO) and keep spiking upwards, shutting out many would-be concertgoers. According to a Reddit user, going to a concert in India has become a status flex — tickets are sky-high because venues are scarce and the rich can overspend without hesitation. The top 0.1 percent hold about 40 percent of the wealth, so expensive tickets barely make a dent for them. That elite spending sets the bar, pushing K-pop concert and festival tickets far beyond what most fans can afford.  

But there’s a bigger narrative here: the contrast highlights the evolving dynamics of K-pop fandom in India. As Engheepi puts into perspective, “When we started in 2015, the real challenge wasn’t logistics, it was proving that India even had a K-pop fandom and getting fans used to paid experiences like fan meets and hi-touch sessions. Our goal has always been to put Indian fans on the map and grow the market.”

When you look at the actual shows that have happened, it’s a patchwork of trial runs. Jackson Wang (GOT7) performed at Lollapalooza Mumbai in 2023, but India wasn’t on his “Magic Man World Tour” at the time. KARD toured pre-2020, and Kim Woojin (ex-Stray Kids) played smaller venues. In late 2024, a slate of names—Suho, Hyolyn, Chen and Xiumin of EXO, B.I, and Bambam of GOT7—played at the K-Wave and K-Town festivals. This year, Taemin (of Shinee), Super Junior-D&E, Yedam, Jey, and OneWe headlined K-Town 3.0, and Everglow was one of the headline acts for the Orchid Music Festival in Sikkim. These multi-artist festivals are a safer bet, a way to spread the risk while still feeding the frenzy. Yet the underlying pattern remains: fans can’t afford the high prices, so big artists often stay away, and without regular big-ticket shows, the market never builds the concert culture that could justify those prices. And until that loop breaks, K-pop concerts in India will stay rare.  

An Indian event organizer, who requested anonymity to protect his privacy, reiterates, “Everyone talks about demand, but nobody mentions that the real barrier is affordability. We’d love to keep tickets at ₹2k or maybe even less, but with the exchange rate and the artists’ fees, we’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. At the end of the day, it’s a vicious cycle: high costs mean high ticket prices, and low attendance from the youth who drive the K-pop craze. Until the cost structure changes, these festivals will stay niche, no matter how loud the fans may scream.”

A Narrative of Unmet Demand 

The result? A passionate community that’s forced to live the love second-hand. Instead of waiting for a marquee name to show up, they’ve taken matters into their own hands, setting up meet‑ups, fan projects, and streaming bashes that turn the digital space into a lively subculture of its own to keep the hype alive. As Tanvi Lahiri, a member of a Kolkata-based K-pop fan club, says, “Honestly, we can’t wait for a big city K-pop festival — so we just create our own mini-fest every month. We rent a tiny community hall, set up LED lights, and stream the latest MVs together, celebrating our biases’ birthdays, and engaging in fun karaoke while we snack on our favorite ramen and kimbap. It’s our way of living our K-pop dreams without breaking the bank.” 

Elaborating on this narrative that speaks to the unmet demands of K-pop fans in India, Jason Manners points out that “language barrier, low buying power, and lack of emotional connection with the content” are some of the main reasons behind the struggle. He asserts, “Indian fans aren’t used to the fandom marketing strategies that work in other countries, and K-pop companies don’t have a strong presence here.” This one-sentence rundown sums up a whole lot of friction: language, money, and a feeling that the music is still just out of reach for most fans. There’s an eager audience, but the industry hasn’t quite figured out how to tap into this market effectively just yet. 

“To make K-pop festivals work, we need to get creative.” Manners theorizes and adds that collaborating with local artists, offering affordable tickets, and providing English subtitles or dubbing are key. “Most importantly, K-pop companies need to establish a presence in India and engage with fans.” In other words, the formula is part local flavor, part smart pricing, and a lot of genuine fan interaction. Having worked with artists like Kim Woojin, Alexa, Pixy, Lucas, and Everglow in cities ranging from Shillong to Bangkok, Sikkim, Delhi and Mizoram, Manners states, “I’ve seen firsthand what works and what doesn’t,” stressing that smaller K-pop companies are more likely to succeed here because “they’re willing to adapt and lower prices. Online events or streaming could also help reach a broader audience.” 

It makes sense that the struggle is a clash between a global cultural phenomenon and the gritty realities of Indian logistics, economics, and bureaucracy, causing the dream of a massive K-pop festival in India to remain a far-fetched one for millions of fans. At the same time, things are definitely shifting, with more and more K-pop idols and their agencies showing interest in India as a potential stop for performance and marketing. “Now, the landscape is unrecognisable,” admits Engheepi. “Everyone can see K-pop’s impact here, and watching Indian fans finally get the recognition they deserve has been incredibly fulfilling.”

The momentum is building with Jung Kook’s (of BTS) highly anticipated exhibition, Golden: The Moments, finally arriving in India — a clear signal that the exhibition is a trial run for larger events. Hybe’s statement underscores the strategic angle: “Our goal is to build meaningful cultural bridges, connecting our global artists with Indian fans, where the voices of India become global stories.” 

For now, however, until the big stage arrives, the fans are keeping the party alive in community halls, Discord channels, and cramped living rooms – proof that when the big stage is out of reach, the subculture simply builds its own. 

The post The Struggling Beat of K-Pop Festivals in India appeared first on Rolling Stone India.

In his book India Psychedelic: The Story of a Rocking Generation, Sidharth Bhatia recounts how India in the 1960s was pushing against all odds to birth a culture of rock music.  

At Shanmukhananda Hall in Mumbai, where a band competition called Simla Beat Contest took place, he describes young Indians gathering for a show that was perilously put together. “Electric guitars were almost impossible to find, and amplifiers were even rarer; enterprising musicians managed somehow with tricks that would be laughed at today, such as using a valve radio or even PA systems better suited to public meetings rather than for music. Local guitars, such as ‘Givson’ (whose name bears a close resemblance to the iconic Gibson), manufactured in Calcutta, were available but hardly comparable to the real thing. Very basic drum sets were made in local workshops,” Bhatia writes.  

Inspired by the iconic Woodstock festival of 1969 in the U.S., a music festival called Sneha Yatra was held on the outskirts of Mumbai in 1971. Featuring backdrops of instruments, hippie-like caricatures and typography that was downright groovy, it reflected the Flower Power-inspired aesthetic seen in the U.S. from the Sixties onwards. In 1978, Jazz Yatra came to the front, and later led to festivals like Jazz Utsav. 

Described as India’s first jazz festival, Jazz Yatra was held at Rang Bhavan with generous help from travel partners like Air India, who covered flights, and support by the American consulate and embassy. Through the latter’s push, jazz greats like Sonny Rollins, Wayne Krantz, Larry Carlton, and Stan Getz made their way to India. 

Rolling Stone India Contributing Editor and Jazz Yatra team member Sunil Sampat says the atmosphere at Rang Bhavan was a sight to behold. “People would come with their whole family, it would be like a picnic. One guy would come with an ice cooler, his driver or help would bring that heavy cooler. After a while, the cooler would be opened, drinks would flow, you could have your alcohol. Somebody brought some samosas and pakodas, and you’re just sharing it with everyone. It was a great way enjoy to jazz,” Sampat recalls.  

He says it didn’t matter so much if people didn’t enjoy the sometimes esoteric, obscure forms of jazz being hosted. Jazz Yatra went on to set a precedent for jazz festivals in New Delhi and Kolkata. More than that, Sampat recalls that the connection between the organizer, the artists and the audience was completely different. “All the musicians were accessible to you as an audience member. Some of them would finish their set and come sit with you in the audience to enjoy the rest of the concert,” he says, noting how any barriers between the two were dismantled.  

Rang Bhavan would cost about ₹800 rupees to rent out in the Seventies and an additional ₹200 would go into renting chairs for a seated audience.  

By 1985, Rang Bhavan became the home of rock in India, mostly thanks to gig organizer Farhad Wadia setting up Independence Rock. It was largely about giving bands a stage and giving audiences a space to watch a band live, which was often where the concert experience began and ended in its initial years. Later, with sponsors coming in and the venue shifting to Chitrakoot Grounds in the 2000s, there was more activity around the festival grounds, including sponsor stalls and the like.  

Among bands like Pentagram, Agnee, Parikrama and more performing, metal band Brahma was active in the Nineties and 2000s, fronted by Devraj Sanyal. Today, he’s the chairman and CEO – India & South Asia of Universal Music Group and runs a wellness label called Vedam Records, but there’s plenty of footage of him and his bandmates at I-Rock editions, alongside favorites like Millennium, Parikrama and Pentagram.

Sanyal recalls performing at I-Rock and Great Indian Rock Festival (GIR), Rock ‘N India and several other concerts across the country, ranging from clubs to bigger stages. “Playing these crowds was the most fun I’ve ever had being on the other side of the music business, and it was always a thunderous, heart-pounding rush,” he says. Bands couldn’t have had it better, even if playing conditions were less optimal for them compared to the international headliners who were walking in with tech riders and demands. He recalls seeing everyone from Deep Purple to Bon Jovi to the Rolling Stones to Iron Maiden and the Scorpions. “As fans, we felt a cacophony of pure energy, and for us diehards, it was always a maelstrom of sound and sweat. And we left feeling richer for having experienced the greats,” Sanyal says.  

Sampat, for his part, recounts the Rolling Stones concert at Mumbai’s Brabourne Stadium in 2003 as “badly done.” He says, “The concert was done at a venue near the road, so you could hear buses and taxis honking. They had to turn up the volume of the stage sound to counter that.” What was rewarding, however, was the chance to meet Mick Jagger at the Cricket Club of India (CCI), where Sampat was a member. That kind of chance meeting and willingness to spend time with fans is now lost, Sampat laments. “Today, you’re nothing more than a number. You’re taken for granted. It’s also become more of a social event,” he adds.  

By the Nineties, the Great Indian Rock festival became a traveling series across the country. On the other end of the spectrum were beach raves in Goa that birthed the Goa Trance movement and made the territory inextricably linked to electronic music. Where crowds flow, capital usually follows. And it could be argued that that’s where the corporatization of music festivals began with companies like Percept launching their own international-focused EDM festival Sunburn in 2007. Back then, it was an attempt to consolidate the market and give a home for electronic music fans around the country. Promoters like Submerge had already been in action since 2003, fostering electronic music as an underground movement that was about to blow up. Submerge co-founder Nikhil Chinapa, who was festival director at Sunburn, recalls, “The early editions were a lot more about music, because they happened in the absence of Instagram-led FOMO [fear of missing out] and fans came for one of two reasons — either they knew the artists, or they knew that being part of a festival experience was something unique and not seen before in India. They had seen festivals online across the world, and they wanted to participate in the birth of this new form of cultural and community togetherness.”  

As stage production and lineups grew bigger to emulate EDM festivals overseas, promoters like Submerge and Percept got sponsorship backing in a big way, which shaped the way brands came into the music festival experience. Back then, it also helped that artists were willing to waive their fees so that they could come to India. “When I brought Above & Beyond to play at the first edition of Sunburn in India, they charged me no fee and only came for the price of their flights and hotels. They wanted to experience what India was like,” Chinapa says. Interestingly, Above & Beyond headlined the Mumbai edition of Sunburn between Dec. 19 to 21, 2025.  

Chinapa moved on from Sunburn to become a key curator at festivals like Vh1 Supersonic and Satellite Beach Party and is now festival director at Arunachal Pradesh’s Euphony Voyage, taking place on Feb. 13 and 14, 2026 in Itanagar.  

After the likes of Sunburn, Big Chill, NH7 Weekender and others slowly came up, the idea of a music festival had also changed massively from just seeing your favorite artists on stage to a lived experience that you could keep going back to. Social media, according to Chinapa, is a large driver of FOMO-anxious audiences. But there’s another reason, too, for musical festivals finding favor. “While experience is still important, people think or people find that culture and community and their tribe and being a part of that movement together is as important as experience,” he says.  

It’s those intentions that set the tone for the music festivals that have come up around the country today. They were largely accessible in terms of location, offered exclusivity when it came to top-notch artists (who may or may not have returned to India in the decades since), and built a brand value that has turned into legacy. They also likely served as a compass or litmus test, becoming the events that experimented, failed and succeeded in their curation, organization and pricing so that future festivals would navigate with a little bit of knowledge of what has grown from a national music circuit to a concert economy.  

The post What India’s Earliest Festivals and Big Concerts Looked Like   appeared first on Rolling Stone India.

For years, music festivals in India existed on the edges: sporadic, experimental, often treated as outliers rather than anchors of the live ecosystem. Today, they sit at the centre of it. Festivals have become the places where touring routes are tested, new audiences are introduced to unfamiliar sounds, and entire cities briefly reorganise themselves around music.

Their growth has been gradual, then sudden. What started as a handful of destination events has expanded into a dense, year-round calendar that stretches across regions, genres, and scales. With that expansion has come influence over who gets booked, who gets discovered, how audiences spend, and what live music in India is expected to look like. Questions around representation, access, sustainability, and scale, now more than ever, are no longer side conversations. They surface with every season, lineup announcement, and sold-out weekend, followed by vigorous online debate.

This moment calls for more than celebration or criticism. It asks for a closer look at what India’s festival circuit is actually building — the communities it nurtures, the economies it fuels, and the structural gaps it continues to expose.

PRO: GIGS & FESTIVALS BUILD ACTUAL ECONOMIES

Festivals have become confluence points for culture, with the same artists, crews, and audiences returning year after year, and in the process generating real economic ripple effects. Large-scale festivals and arena shows routinely pump hundreds of crores into host cities, filling up flights and hotels as well as local bars and restaurants with a buzz that lasts well beyond the festival gates.  

CON: FESTIVALS TAKE THEIR FANS FOR GRANTED

With multiple festivals all chasing the same weekend dates, everything is being branded as “can’t miss,” making very little actually feel that way. A sense of oversaturation has set in, especially since the purchasing power for most of India’s population has plateaued. This glut has also made some promoters complacent: reshuffling venue layouts, quietly discounting or repricing tickets when sales don’t hit targets, and tweaking experiences on the fly, treating audiences like numbers to be adjusted. 

PRO: REGIONAL STORYTELLING THAT BOOSTS TOURISM THE RIGHT WAY 

The best festivals let the region lead with intent, not merely as decoration. Often working in ways to honor the local texture, terrain, flavors, communities, and culture, regional music festivals have the potential to drive tourism without flattening the local scene. 

CON: LOCAL ARTISTS FEEL THE PINCH FIRST

As festivals grow bigger, local artists quietly get squeezed. Playing your own city’s biggest festival shouldn’t feel so financially impossible, yet these artists are often being subjected to lower fees, tighter set times, or payoffs framed as “exposure.” Meanwhile, audiences, having already spent heavily on headline tickets, are less willing to arrive early or spend more on discovering and supporting homegrown talent.

PRO: SUSTAINABILITY IS GETTING SERIOUS

It’s still uneven, but sustainability has moved off banners and into operations. More festivals are now thinking about things like recyclable glasses, energy-efficient power systems, and better waste management. Audiences are watching closely, and festivals know they can’t fake it anymore.

CON: A BROKEN TICKET RESALE SYSTEM

Ticket resale has become a largely unregulated free-for-all, with little oversight from organisers or platforms. Scarcity marketing and staggered ticket drops often push fans toward exorbitant prices in the secondary market, while recent examples have also seen resale tickets dip below original prices, undercutting both the artist’s value and the live experience itself. 

PRO: THE PROGRAMMING IS GETTING BETTER 

Festivals finally seem to be trusting their audience’s taste. Fewer filler slots, better flow, and lineups that feel considered instead of crammed, with more niche artists being welcomed into the mix, further punctuating how thoughtfully curated the programming has gotten. 

CON: NOT ENOUGH REPRESENTATION ON LINEUPS OR CURATION PANELS

This conversation hasn’t moved fast enough. Women and LGBTQIA+ artists continue to be underrepresented where it matters most: at the top of the bill and in decision-making rooms. While economic realities and ticket-selling logic often underpin these choices, the harder truth is that audiences themselves haven’t yet fully warmed to women or LGBTQIA+ artists as headline draws.

PRO: BUILDING LARGE-SCALE VENUES FROM SCRATCH

Entire festivals are built overnight and dismantled days later. It’s chaotic, impressive, and the reason live music now reaches places it never used to. Many festivals also do this with a whole lot of consideration and care to site-specific conditions, sometimes even folding it into the larger festival experience. 

CON: ROLLOUT STRATEGIES THAT KILL THE BUZZ

Lineup drops are still messy and dragged out. In an era of instant information, unclear communication kills excitement faster than you can say “festival season.”

The post Festival Temp Check: What India’s Music Festivals Get Right and Wrong appeared first on Rolling Stone India.

Let’s face it, 2025 was the year of  India’s great concert boom. At this point, if you’ve lost a friend while navigating your way to the main stage, fuelled purely by vibes and no internet connection, then congratulations: you’ve passively contributed to the country’s GDP. Apart from bolstering the economy and bringing a stellar lineup of global headliners, music festivals have also paved the way for some slang words and phrases that have now been absorbed into the pop culture and entertainment landscape. 

Powered by circumstantial occurrences, subculture references, and euphoric instances, these terms are like secret codes to describe that indescribable feeling concerts and festivals tend to leave you with. Be it the wicked “bassface” you and your friend bust out as your favorite track drops, or getting a “pit rash” from moshing too hard, there’s an entire live music vocabulary that continues to evolve across eras, cultures, and fandoms. From mainstages and fan pits to dance floors and bad porta-potties, Rolling Stone India spotlights the ultimate live music and concert vocabulary guide. 

Trustafarians

The final boss of cultural appropriation, trustafarians are obnoxiously rich trust fund kids who whittle down cultural movements like punk rock or neo-hippie, into a flattened Instagram “aesthetic.” A combination of “trust fund” and “rastafarian,” this term, that can be traced back to the Seventies,  applies to the kind of concert-goer who treats counterculture like a costume, and will probably tell you where the nearest bathroom is with an unsolicited namaste.
Usage: “The trustafarian I met at the gig last week told me he ‘found himself’ during soundcheck.” 

Marinate

The highest form of sonic surrender at a gig, to marinate is to sync with the music, soak in the vibes, and be fully present as the beats drive you to parallel dimensions, all without moving an inch from your hard-earned spot in the crowd. You’re neither tempted to record a video nor bothered by the constant shuffling of people around you.
Usage: “I marinated at Kaytranada’s set till the very last track.”

Wooks

Riddled with their own set of side quests and lore, wooks are a subset of the rave and EDM community who embody a nomadic lifestyle by traveling and camping onsite at music festivals. Presently, they’ve gained quite a reputation, mainly due to negative stereotypes surrounding their poor hygiene. Nevertheless, they’re the designated wanderlings at a concert who are easily identifiable by their eccentric yet warm nature.
Usage: “Echoes Of Earth had such an elf-like Wook this year.”

Turbo Mode

The personification of “God is the DJ and life is the dance floor.” Cranking the barometer of fun, you’re basically a human confetti canon. More than the idea of letting loose, it’s about maximizing your individual lore, leaving you with a night to remember (even if it’s not for the best reasons).
Usage: “This weekend I’m activating Turbo mode for the Indian Sneaker Festival.”

Bang-over

Probably a by-product of hitting “turbo” extremes, a bang-over is nothing but the soreness you feel post a night of headbanging too hard at metal and rock concerts.
Usage: “I am still recovering from the bang-over from the Guns N’ Roses concert.”

Post Concert Depression (PCD)

That feeling of melancholic dread you get the day after a concert? Yes, it has a name. Before you roll your eyes, yes, this is an actual condition. Although it is not officially recorded as a formal medical diagnosis, Post Concert Depression is characterized by an emotional lull caused by endorphin crashouts, leading to prolonged periods of emptiness and disconnectedness. 
Usage: “Bro, my PCD flared up so badly after the Coldplay concert weekend.”

Ground-score

Music festivals also function as unofficial scavenger hunts, thanks to the boatload of paraphernalia that you’d find onsite. From drug stashes to funky accessories, the range is as wide as a concert lineup.
Usage: “Yo I ground-scored a digi cam at Lollapalooza!”

Front of House (FOH)

Undoubtedly the best “seats” one could have, FOH is where the true magicians of the festival, i.e, lighting and sound engineers, operate from, usually 100 ft away from the main stage. All those gram-worthy concert moments, where the lighting hits just right, and the venue acoustics that make you transcend time? Yeah, it’s all thanks to the crew working tirelessly in real time to give you the experience of a lifetime. 
Usage: “My friend is working FOH at Post Malone’s concert!” 

Throwdown

Originally borrowed from the idiom “throw down the gauntlet,” the term is synonymous with all the shenanigans that go down in a mosh pit. Think epic full-body collisions and endless windmilling, all while your favorite artist scores the core memory in making.
Usage: “I can already tell that the throwdown at Bandland 2026 is going to be epic.”

Idiot Zone

A synonym for mosh pit, wherein “pit rashes,” or injuries sustained in the idiot zone, occur.
Usage: “The idiot zone at Carti’s set was wild. My pit rash is the size of a golfball.”

Excitement pie

Essentially embodying the same rush that you felt before school picnics, the term accounts for the anticipatory euphoria before attending a music festival/concert. Outfits decided, storage cleared, travel routes finalized, all while exhilaration courses through your veins as the thought of seeing your favorite artists live plays like a mental loop.
Usage: “I’m already prepping to chomp my slice of excitement pie for Linkin Park.”

Driftwood

The most hated people at a concert are always the patrons who walk at a snail’s pace, creating human traffic as everyone tries to leave. There’s nothing more annoying than that post-concert walkout when the crowd is buzzing, the energy is high, and yet the people in front of you take their own sweet time, already possessed by the ghost of PCD’s future, while the rest of us just want to get to the exit.
Usage: “The crowd moved like driftwood post the concert.”

Vamp

 Before the musician even steps on stage, concertgoers often drift into the kind of pre-concert banter that can feel more interesting than the show itself. You mentally note the couple arguing nearby, casually befriend strangers, and join in on collective complaints about the evening heat. In those moments, the crowd transforms into a real-life mingling pit, and the shared chatter leaves you with an unexpected sense of solidarity.
Usage: “I added that guy I vamped with before Don Toliver’s set on Snapchat.” 

Muggy

Sigh. We’ve all been there, sandwiched between bodies in a near-stampede situation while the notorious odor of sweat engulfs the air. A bonus, of course, is the near-death humidity, all while somebody’s elbow continues to egg on your face. “Muggy” captures the overall suffocation, tiredness, and dampness of the atmosphere at jam-packed shows.
Usage: “Even the VIP section was muggy, can you imagine?”

Edgewatcher

The silent protectors of the fallen, these are the people who circle the outer circle or wall of a mosh pit, helping out those who’ve been brutally tackled or pushed away.
Usage: “The edgewatcher at the Guns N’ Roses concert was incredibly sweet.”

Bouncer Bait

That one defunct person who eats social anxiety for breakfast and pulls off a little bit of everything that would alert the security at a concert, almost asking to be escorted away. A walking safety hazard to everyone, they are a combination of all the annoying festival attendee tropes, from lacking spatial awareness to violating concert rules.
Usage: “That guy was straight-up bouncer-baiting the crowd to be honest.”

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