First in Line, Last to Sleep: Inside Concert Camping Culture

Written by Ana Ladaniuski

Ladaniuski, Hookstra, and Sefcik "camping" for Inhaler in Houston, Texas

Sleeping bags, folding chairs, and empty Red Bull cans line the pathway. The sidewalk outside House of Blues in downtown Houston has become a campground. 

Mckenna Sefcik, her hand inscribed with “#36” with a black Sharpie, is lying beneath a pile of blankets. It’s her place in line at

8:36 p.m. Sunday. The show won’t open for another 24 hours. 

“I just want to be as close as possible,” she said. “I didn’t drive down from Austin and book a hotel to end up in the back of the venue.” 

For fans like Sefcik, camping out before concerts isn’t just a ritual — it’s a lifestyle. But as artists grow bigger and fanbases more intense, what once was a quirky show of dedication has morphed into a full-blown endurance sport. The result? A mix of community, obsession, and rising concern over safety, burnout and access. 

Concert camping, colloquially known as “barricade culture,” began gaining traction in the early 2010s with fandoms like One Direction and The 1975. But in recent years, it’s escalated. Pop-punk, indie rock, and even country concerts now regularly see fans arriving days — sometimes a full week — before showtime. 

“I’ve camped out for 5SOS, Role Model, and Inhaler,” says Claire Hookstra, a junior at UT Austin who plans to work in the music industry, “you learn that different fandoms take camping different manners, some were cool and let people leave and come back in line at any time, other’s did hourly check ins like it was the navy, and mind you– these weren’t venue staff but the line leaders at the front.” 

Unofficial “fan-run lines” — self-organized systems to prevent chaos — have become the norm. The “line leaders” are the fans that show up first and start the line, usually they will have a sharpie in their hand, and personally write the numbers on the rest of the lines’ hands as they arrive, monitoring and ensuring no one skips the line. However, due to all of this authority being self-designated by fans, these informal systems often create tension and confusion, especially when venue security refuses to recognize them. 

A viral TikTok earlier this year showed fans yelling at each other over line-cutting outside a venue in Chicago. In Dallas, police were called after a fight broke out over the venue staff not wanting to honor the fan line that had been camping across the street for over 3 days at the opening night show of Louis Tomlinson’s “Walls” tour in 2022, in which I was at. 

“It was intense,” said Rian Timmermans, an attendee of the concert. “We try not to interfere with the venue’s rules but it was ruthless to say that to people who have been camping out for days in the street on the morning of the show.” 

The pursuit of front-row access doesn’t just take time — it takes money, energy and, sometimes, personal sacrifice. 

“You sleep on the street, you eat cold protein bars, you’re dehydrated, your phone’s dead,” said Austin Miller, who camped for 26 hours to see Charli XCX in Austin last week. “You have to really love the artist, because it’s brutal.” 

According to a recent report from Billboard, nearly 60% of concertgoers aged 18–25 have either camped out or arrived at least six hours before doors opened. Among those, 30% reported missing school or work to do so. 

But for many fans, the experience is about more than just seeing their favorite artists up close. 

“It’s a social thing,” said Hookstra, who met up with online friends while lining up for Role Model’s most recent tour No Place Like Tour this past March. “You get to finally talk to people that understand the love you have for the artist and bond over the shared misery and hypocrisy of having to be there so early. It’s weirdly fun.” 

In online communities, fans share tips: pack instant oatmeal, bring a Sharpie to mark your number, and never trust a venue that says “no lineups before 8 a.m.” There’s always a line. 

As the live music industry rebounds from the pandemic, a yearning for in-person connection is at an all-time high. But with that comes a need to rethink how we balance fan access with health and fairness. 

Some venues, like Toyota Music Factory in Dallas have begun adopting the numbered wristband system to deter line culture. Others, like Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour venues, don’t offer a pit option for sale but instead floor seating for the same reasons. But until those systems become universal, fans are left to police themselves — with varying results. 

“I can’t say it's the preferred way but after camping for dozens of hours there comes a sense of pride in doing it the hard way,” Miller said. “Like, when you get to touch the barricade, and see the best show of your life with a full view of the stage and be so close to your idols that you can see the sweat on their face, all of it becomes so worth it and next thing you know you’re back at it for another show.” 

Still, not everyone is sold. 

“I used to think camping was the only way to prove how much I cared,” says Timmermans, who now opts for seated tickets or last-minute resale deals. “Now I just want to enjoy the music — without having to sleep on concrete.” 

As the sun rises over the Houston skyline, Sefcik crawls from under her blanket and sits up. Her number is still intact written in her hand– and the concert is still 16 hours away. 

“Almost there,” she grins.