You're All Individuals

I was watching The Ezra Collective at Glastonbury the other day – or rather, watching them watching us, egging on the crowd, striding out into it trumpet-first like jazz-funk missionaries. There was this electric moment when half the audience was clapping in time, swaying like a tide of limbs. You could feel the buzz ripple through the screen. Even I, sitting in a chair that’s seen off three cats and a decade of rear ends, felt it in my bones.

And it got me thinking – synchrony does something strange to us.

Get enough people doing the same thing at the same time – clapping, dancing, chanting, marching – and we go all gooey inside. We love it. We need it, even. It’s why flash mobs are a thing. Why people cry at choirs. Why Riverdance could sell out every venue from here to the Urals by simply stamping in formation. It speaks to something tribal in us, something ancient and comforting. The individual melts away and we become part of the we – however temporary, however bonkers.

But like most things that light up our brain's pleasure centres, there’s a darker side.

Because the moment you surrender to that synchrony – the moment the ‘I’ dissolves into the ‘we’ – you're also switching off the bit of your brain that asks awkward questions. Like: “What are we clapping for, exactly?” Or: “Why am I in a matching shirt waving a flag and singing about blood and soil?” You stop thinking and start feeling. And feelings, as history has shown us time and again, can be a gateway drug to all sorts of regrettable behaviour.

It’s the Life of Brian moment, isn’t it? Brian stands there, desperately trying to convince the crowd to stop following him:

“You’re all individuals!” And they chant back in unison: “Yes! We’re all individuals!” Then, a lone voice pipes up: “I’m not!”

Mass participation, for all its power to lift and unite, also has the terrifying capacity to erase. It can erase doubt. Erase dissent. Erase nuance. You’ll cheer the leader, burn the books, and stomp in time with your neighbours if the atmosphere’s right and the bass is heavy enough.

It’s not the rhythm that’s the problem – it’s who sets the beat.

So yes – go to the gig. Dance in the mud. Join the clap-along. But do keep one eye open. Keep the other on your critical faculties. And for heaven’s sake, if anyone starts handing out uniforms, chanting in Latin or saying he's the only one who can stop the Boats, maybe head for the exits.

After all, it’s one thing to be moved by the music – quite another to be marched.