A recent tour by Little Mix, a British pop group, gives an idea of the new normal.
The trio played 24 dates in April and May, in arenas packed with giddy teenagers.
They commissioned Driift to live-stream the final show, which sold nearly 60,000 tickets at 13 pounds to fans in 143 countries.
Another 29,000 paid to watch the feed in cinemas, suggesting total streaming ticket sales of a little over 1.1m pounds.
Producing the live video cost about 250,000 pounds.
“There's nothing like being in the room,” says Steve Homer, the chief executive of AEG Presents, a live-events giant which promoted Little Mix's in-person gigs.
“任何形式都比不過親臨現場，”AEG Presents的首席執行官史蒂夫·荷馬說，AEG Presents是現場活動行業的巨頭，負責宣傳小混混的現場演出。
But streaming has become “a good bolt-on”.
Some artists see it as more than that.
As social media have squeezed musicians into ever shorter formats, an hour-long video-concert is “an opportunity to create beautiful long-form content”, says Mr Salmon.
Digital gigs also provide artists with more data about their fans.
Meanwhile, a new breed of online gaming experience is allowing some artists to transcend the constraints of real-life shows.
In concerts held on Fortnite, an online video game, Travis Scott has mutated into a giant and Ariana Grande has sprouted wings and let her fans ride flying unicorns.
Roblox, another gaming platform, hosted a Wild West-themed concert in which Lil Nas X appeared as a colossal cowboy.
Minecraft, a world-building online game, has held music festivals.
No one thinks such shows are substitutes for in-person performances, but they seem to be outliving the pandemic as an evolving entertainment category in their own right.
These varied formats and technologies hold out the tantalising prospect for fans—and concert promoters—of more opportunities to see artists perform.
Life on the road is draining, especially for ageing stars or those with children.
ABBA's virtual show is in some ways an extension of its early adoption of the music video in the 1970s, which helped the band become world-famous despite doing only a handful of international tours.
“Voyage” can play to hundreds of thousands of fans a year for as long as the band members—or perhaps, one day, their estates—choose.
In theory there is no limit to who could take advantage of this technology.
Already Whitney Houston, who died in 2012, performs six nights a week in a Las Vegas hotel, in what the show's organisers describe as “holographic” form.
Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison, Maria Callas and Tupac Shakur have been brought back for similar posthumous concerts.
The ABBA concert shows how to optimise the effect.
The proof of the show's persuasiveness came at the end of the premiere when, after a closing rendition of “The Winner Takes It All”, the Abbatars departed and the real ABBA members came on stage to take a bow.
It was the final trick played on the audience: the “real” band members turned out to be another illusion.
They vanished and the real-real ABBA came on stage, to a wild ovation.
“Voyage” had sold more than 300,000 tickets before its opening night; the 3,000-capacity London arena is almost fully booked for summer.
A quarter of the tickets have been bought by fans overseas.
If the Abbatars are a hit they may perform simultaneously in other cities: the advantage of virtual talent is that “you can just copy-paste them”, says Svana Gisla, a producer of “Voyage”.
(What's more, she adds, “they don't take days off and they don't get covid.”)
Entertainment companies have sent scouts to the show.
It may give other ageing rock stars something to ponder.
Ludvig Andersson, Benny's son and a producer of the show, is also trying to wrap his mind around the experience of working alongside a recreation of his 33-year-old father.
Digitally capturing the band members reminded him of the “19th-century idea of a camera sucking out your soul…That's exactly what we did.”
He has come to think of the Abbatars as individuals in their own right: a “combination of them being ABBA and them being themselves…A ghost in the machine.”
Whoever or whatever they are, the troupers, immortalised in 120 terabytes, are destined to go on entertaining new audiences, frozen for ever in 1979.