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The Creation of a Groundbreaking Festival

It wasn’t a big plan at first. It was just a quiet frustration. Sarah McLachlan was getting popular. Her albums, like ‘Fumbling Towards Ecstasy,’ were beautiful. They had lots of little details, and they felt really emotional. Millions of people bought them. She sold out her own shows, every night. But when her team tried to get her on festival lineups, or pair her with another female artist for a tour, they kept hitting a wall. Over and over.

Promoters would shake their heads. Radio people would say no. “It won’t work,” they’d say. “People don’t want to see a bunch of women.” It didn’t make sense. These were artists with platinum albums. They had big fan bases. Their songs played on the radio. You could see they were successful—just look at the Billboard charts. You could hear it too, when thousands of fans sang every word at their shows. But the people in charge of the industry didn’t care. They stuck to a formula that already felt old.

The last straw for McLachlan was simple. She wanted to tour with her friend, Paula Cole. Cole was a great singer and songwriter. Her song “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?” was about to be everywhere. Touring together made sense. Artistically, it was perfect. Money-wise, it seemed like a sure thing. But the answer from the industry was a loud, predictable “no.” They said it would fail. It was pure frustration. Like, enough was enough. A breaking point.

So Sarah McLachlan did something bold. She just ignored them.

She decided to test their idea herself. In 1996, she booked a few shows with Paula Cole. Just to see what would happen. They weren’t big arenas. They were smaller places, more up close. But as soon as the doors opened, something felt different. The energy in those rooms was electric. It was happy. It didn’t feel like just a concert. It felt like friends getting together. And the shows sold out—right away.

That little test proved what she’d thought all along: the audience was there. And they were hungry. Hungry for a space that felt like theirs. Hungry to see their own lives and stories on stage. Not just once, as a token. But for a whole night. It was proof. Real proof, in the form of ticket stubs. The industry wasn’t just wrong. It couldn’t see a huge, passionate group of people who weren’t getting what they wanted.

That’s when the small idea got bigger. What if it wasn’t just a few shows? What if it wasn’t just two artists? What if you could build a whole traveling thing around that feeling? A festival not just for women, but made by them. A whole group of female artists creating together. That’s how Lilith Fair started to take shape.

The name was a statement. Lilith, in old stories, was Adam’s first wife. She was made equal to him. But she wouldn’t be bossed around. So she was kicked out of the Garden of Eden. People often called her a demon. For years, her name was a warning. But McLachlan and her co-founders—Terry McBride, Dan Fraser, Marty Diamond—saw her differently. They thought she stood for independence. A woman who refused to be second. They wanted to take her story back. So the festival was called Lilith Fair.

The mission was clear right away. It wasn’t going to be Lollapalooza with a different set of artists. The whole feel had to be different. It had to be open, positive, and about community. They left out the anger and chaos of other festivals on purpose. Instead, they imagined a space that was safe. Welcoming. Celebratory. They decided to give a dollar from every ticket to a local women’s charity in each city. That was almost unheard of back then. They also planned booths for non-profits. And spaces for local artists to sell their work.

It was more than a concert. It was an idea put into action. A direct, strong answer to the industry that had said “no.” It was a moving city of women. Built on one bold thought: their voices, together, weren’t just a small niche. They were a force. And in the summer of 1997, that force got started.

A Lineup of Legendary Voices

Lilith Fair only worked if the artists were good. Really good. And they were. The list of performers for that first 1997 tour—and the two years after—feels like a snapshot of the decade’s best music. It was a group of songwriters, poets, rockers, and folk singers who all belonged there.

At the very top was Sarah McLachlan, of course. She started Lilith Fair—she was the heart of it. So her spot leading the show made total sense.

Joining her on the main stage were different stars each time. There was Sheryl Crow. She’d just put out her self-titled album, and she had that easy California feel mixed with rock. There was Jewel, the singer from Alaska. Her first album, Pieces of You, made everyone know who she was. Her voice was soft, but it had weight—delicate, but it could stand out.

The Indigo Girls—Amy Ray and Emily Saliers—were big names in folk-rock. Their harmonies fit together perfectly. And they cared a lot about important stuff. Fans loved that; they stayed loyal.

Tracy Chapman had a voice that felt both gentle and sharp. With just her acoustic guitar and the first lines of “Fast Car,” she could make a whole field go quiet. And Paula Cole? Her song “I Don’t Want to Wait” would soon be the theme for Dawson’s Creek. That’s how she became a part of pop culture.

Shawn Colvin, Lisa Loeb, Suzanne Vega, Joan Osborne… the list kept going. Every single one of them could’ve been the main act at their own show. Getting to see all of them on one ticket? It felt like a gift.

But Lilith Fair’s magic wasn’t just the big stage. Its smartest move was the two smaller ones: the Second Stage and the Village Stage. That’s where you found new music. You might’ve bought a ticket to sing along with Jewel. But during a break between main acts, you’d wander to a small tent. And suddenly, an artist you’d never heard of would pull you in.

That’s where you’d find a young, fiery Fiona Apple. She was still riding high from her first album Tidal. Her performance was raw—like she was holding back something big until she let it out. You might stumble on Beth Orton’s smoky, mellow soul. Or Meredith Brooks’ sharp, catchy pop. Or Dar Williams’ heartfelt folk. It was a place for new artists to find a huge audience that wanted to listen. For so many musicians, a slot on a Lilith side stage made their career. It gave them a platform, attention they couldn’t get anywhere else. The whole thing was set up to lift everyone up.

The shows themselves? People still talk about them. They weren’t just concerts. They felt like something people were part of. Something that mattered. Imagine standing on a big grassy lawn on a warm summer night. The sun’s going down, painting the sky orange and purple. Then Tracy Chapman walks out. The whole crowd goes quiet. She starts playing, and thousands of people—strangers a few hours before—are all connected by that one song, that one story. It felt strong, almost spiritual.

Or the energy when Sheryl Crow launched into “If It Makes You Happy.” The whole crowd yelled the chorus back at her. A wave of loud, unapologetic joy washed over everyone. And Sarah McLachlan’s set? Hearing her sing “Angel” was something else. The song was already emotional. But there, surrounded by people who got it—who felt the same support—it meant more. It became the festival’s anthem, in a way.

Maybe the best part of what Lilith Fair stood for happened at the end of each night. The grand finale. All the main stage performers would come back out. Sometimes even a few from the side stages. No one acted like they were better than the rest. They’d gather around the mics and sing a cover—maybe an old Bob Dylan or The Band song. They laughed, hugged, took turns on verses.

These were artists the industry had tried to pit against each other. Told them there was only room for one at a time. But here they were, sharing a stage, happy for each other’s talent. It was a nice, strong “no” to the old rules. It showed exactly what Lilith Fair was about: working together instead of fighting. Being a group instead of alone. It was their stage, and they were sharing it. And it was amazing.

The Festival's Enduring Influence

the guys running the music industry were sure Lilith Fair would flop. It didn’t. It became the biggest, most successful music festival that year. In 1997, it made more money than any other festival tour in North America. It even out-earned Lollapalooza and every other rock tour out there. The numbers were crazy.

It ran for three summers first, from 1997 to 1999. More than two million people came to see it. It made over $60 million. And it raised more than $10 million for charity.

That success was too big to ignore. It sent a shock through the industry. The people in charge had been dead wrong—so obviously wrong. They got the audience wrong. They got the artists wrong. They got the money wrong. Lilith Fair proved it with cold, hard cash: female artists weren’t just a small niche. They could make big money.

But Lilith Fair’s influence wasn’t just about ticket sales. What really stuck was the feeling of the place. If you were there, that’s what you talk about first. The vibe. It felt safe. You could walk from stage to stage without that quiet anger you usually get at big music events. Friends lying on blankets in the sun—you saw that a lot. Mothers and teen daughters spending the day together, listening to music. The air smelled like incense and patchouli, not old beer. It was a community.

That wasn’t an accident. The organizers wanted it to feel different, and they made it happen. There were non-profits there—ones that work on women’s health, domestic violence shelters, LGBTQ+ rights. That gave the festival a purpose beyond just having fun. You could listen to a great band, then go sign a petition or learn about a local women’s shelter. The music connected to real life—your life, the people around you.

That safety and belonging hit hard for the people who went. For a lot of young women, it was the first time a big public space felt like it was for them. It made them feel strong. It made them feel like they weren’t alone. You could look around and see thousands of people who loved the same music, felt the same things.

The culture changed fast after that. Radio stations started playing more women. Before, playing two female artists back-to-back felt like a bad idea. Suddenly, it was good for business. More women got signed to record labels. Artists who used to be called “too soft” or “too niche” were now seen as mainstream. Sarah McLachlan kicked down the doors, and they stayed open. A new group of artists walked through—Alanis Morissette, Dido, later Taylor Swift and Katy Perry. The industry slowly started to see their value.

People criticized it, though. As it got bigger, some said the lineup wasn’t diverse. It focused too much on white folk-pop singers who write their own songs. That was a fair point. The organizers listened. In the later years, they tried hard to add more genres and more diverse artists. Erykah Badu, Queen Latifah, Missy Elliott, even the legendary Mavis Staples played Lilith stages. They brought soul, hip-hop, R&B into it. It wasn’t perfect. We still talk about representation in music today. But it showed they were willing to change, to listen. The community they built was trying to do better.

The original Lilith Fair ended in 1999, after three great summers. McLachlan and the organizers thought it had done what it needed to. They didn’t want it to get stale. They wanted it to stay a special moment. They tried to bring it back in 2010, but it wasn’t the same. The world had changed. In a way, its success made it less necessary. The unfair industry it fought against was different now—permanently.

Maybe that’s its real, longest-lasting legacy. Lilith Fair wasn’t just a concert. It fixed something. It was a loud, beautiful, super successful way to say the old system was broken. It proved women’s stories—sung in their own voices—weren’t just okay. They were necessary. For a few summers, it made that truth feel huge, like everyone could see it. The festival itself is a memory now, something to look back on. But the stage it built for everyone after? That’s still there.

Lilith Fair was a special moment in music history with an incredible roster of artists. Who was the one artist you would have been most excited to see perform? Post your pick in the comments.

A Stage of Their Own: Chronicling the Lilith Fair Phenomenon

The Creation of a Groundbreaking Festival

A Lineup of Legendary Voices

The Festival's Enduring Influence