I Used to Fear Artifical Intelligence. Then I Saw ABBA Voyage

The Swedish supergroup's virtual concert in London is so much fun, I didn't mind the lack of humans

ABBA broke up in 1982 and haven’t toured since Jimmy Carter was president.

But seven times a week for the last three years, a version of the band has played in front of 3000 giddy fans at a purpose-built arena in east London.

ABBA Voyage is a 90-minute performance featuring computer-generated avatars of Agnetha Fältskog, Björn Ulvaeus, Benny Andersson, and Anni-Frid Lyngstad as they looked in 1979, when the members of the Swedish supergroup were still young and their costumes were at their most outlandish (and tax-deductible). The one-of-a-kind show has been called a “virtual residency,” a “digital entertainment experience,” and a “hologram concert.”

Having recently attended ABBA Voyage, I would describe it a different way: the greatest night of my life.

Am I being hyperbolic? Perhaps a little. Was my post-show giddiness heightened by the several glasses of rosé I consumed while already loopy from jet lag? Almost certainly.

But ABBA Voyage was an experience of trippy joy and uncanny magic that far exceeded my expectations. It was easily the highlight of my culturally jam-packed trip to London. Generally speaking, artificial intelligence scares the crap out of me. It’s a disaster for the environment, will probably destroy millions of jobs, and is hastening mankind’s transformation into the inert, tech-dependent passengers from Wall-E.

However, after seeing ABBA Voyage, I am ready to welcome our robot overlords with open arms — as long as they’re dressed in velour jumpsuits and singing “Mamma Mia.”

Now, before I get angry comments about this, let me clarify: The “abbatars,” as they are known, are not robots or holograms, but digitally-generated characters created by Industrial Light & Magic, the acclaimed visual effects company that brought dinosaurs back to life for Jurassic Park and has now revived another natural wonder. The four members of ABBA are in their 70s and 80s but very much still alive (unlike Tupac, who appeared via hologram at Coachella in 2012). They donned motion capture suits and spent five weeks performing every song on the Voyage setlist, with 160 cameras documenting every facial expression and dance move. A team of visual effects artists used this data to build de-aged avatars of the band back in their platform-wearing glory days. (It’s a fiendishly clever way of turning back the hands of time without undergoing massive amounts of plastic surgery.)

Originally slated to launch in 2019 but delayed by the pandemic, ABBA Voyage finally debuted to much fanfare in 2022. It reportedly cost $175 million to develop but has been an extraordinary success. The purpose-built ABBA Arena, which can be taken apart and packed up like an IKEA wardrobe, is close to capacity every night, with tickets starting around £55 ($75). It has attracted more than three million visitors and, as of last year, contributed an estimated £1.40 billion to the British economy.

But enough about the money, money, money (Sorry/not sorry.) Let’s talk about the show itself, which feels both nostalgic and futuristic at the same time. Accompanied by a live 10-piece band, the “abbatars” appear on a stage that is actually a massive screen with 65 million pixels. The setlist includes all the hits — “Dancing Queen,” “S.O.S.,” “Waterloo,” etc. — but also enough deep cuts that you shouldn’t panic if you get stuck on the tube, like I did, and arrive 15 minutes late, just as the band was firing up “Knowing Me, Knowing You.” (Getting to the arena, situated in a once-desolate corner of east London that was developed for the 2012 Olympics, requires a literal voyage.) Because we are sensible middle-aged women, my friend and I paid extra for seats rather than braving the standing room-only dance floor. But fear not; we still did plenty of dancing.

Each song brings new costumes, elaborate light displays, and intriguing graphics. “Lay All Your Love on Me” features the group in futuristic Tron-style bodysuits, while “Waterloo” weaves in footage from the 1974 Eurovision win that catapulted ABBA to global fame. The setlist was recently expanded to include “Super Trouper,” a complete and utter banger about the exhaustion of life on the road that was somehow left out of the original lineup.

There are some unexpected upsides to a concert featuring digital performers. Since the stars aren’t actually there in the flesh, no one is elbowing to get closer to the stage. (In fact, the illusion is more convincing from a distance.) There’s also a strict ban on photos and video, presumably to prevent piracy. But the prohibition results in a “digital entertainment experience” with a refreshingly analog feel. Unlike most present-day concerts, where it’s glowing smartphones as far as the eye can see, everyone at ABBA Voyage is focused on the spectacle in front of them, rather than trying to document it for social media.

As for that spectacle, after a few minutes, you get over the utter strangeness of watching the avatars sing, dance, and even banter between songs, and accept them as something close enough to the real thing. Any lingering skepticism is quickly washed away by the sheer joy in the room. As the “band” played “Chiquitita” — which isn’t even close to my favorite ABBA song — I felt the urge to wave my bands back and forth in the air. I looked back and saw a multigenerational sea of people in hot pink boas, sequined halter tops, and Grecian blouses doing the same.

The crowd included plenty of older women, as you might expect. But there were many young people too — particularly on the packed dance floor. At a bar after the show, I spoke to a family from Manchester — grandmother, daughter, and grandson — who’d made the trek from Manchester for the second time.

The size and generational diversity of the audience is a testament to ABBA’s enduring popularity — and the savvy way they’ve used emerging technology and new mediums to build their fanbase. This dates back to the very beginning of their career: ABBA achieved an international breakthrough Sweden by performing — and winning — the televised Eurovision Song Contest in 1974. Well before the start of MTV, the group made music videos (directed by future Oscar nominee Lasse Hallström) to promote their singles around the world, rather than touring more extensively.

ABBA informally broke up in 1982. For much of the subsequent decade, the group was viewed as a kitschy relic of the ‘70s. They were known for ridiculous-looking albums that could be found in the discount bin at Sam Goody, not for their pure pop genius.

That all changed in the ‘90s, when groups like Nirvana began to champion ABBA, however ironically, stoking interest in a younger generation. Then in 1992 came the release of ABBA Gold, a brilliantly curated greatest hits compilation which “capitalized on a simmering, subcultural interest in ABBA’s work and sparked a full-blown revival,” as Jamieson Cox argues in this piece for Pitchfork

It was followed by the release of the dark, strange 1994 Australian comedy Muriel’s Wedding, which harnessed the exuberant melancholy of ABBA’s music. The next wave of the ABBA-ssaince arrived in 1999, with the premiere of the Broadway musical Mamma Mia!, which was adapted into a movie starring Meryl Streep that introduced Gen Z to the magic of Swedish pop. And this fall will bring a Broadway revival of Chess, the musical written by Andersson and Ulvaeus in the early '80s.

ABBA Voyage has enabled fans who weren’t alive when the band split up to travel back in time to the ‘70s. The residency has been extended numerous times and is currently scheduled to continue through early 2026. The arena may be demolished — or should I say dismantled? — to make way for a housing development. It’s hard to get mad about new homes in a city that desperately needs them, but I’m also relieved to know there is talk about taking ABBA Voyage on the road.

When (and if) it comes to this side of the pond, I’ll be there, in my finest sparkly attire, a real human cheering my computer-generated idols.

Meredith Blake is the culture columnist for The Contrarian