For those who know me it will come as no surprise when I confess to being an avowed concert goer. But, let’s be very specific here. Rock concert goer. I am a rocker. I have loved rock n roll since my jazz musician dad put a set of headphones on my head and played The Beatles on his reel-to-reel for me in 1969. I have loved it since I heard “Spinning Wheel” and “Joy To The World”, since I watched The Monkees and snuck out to see Tiny Tim get married on The Tonight Show. A true blue fan since I got my first Alice Cooper album, saw ELO on cable television, and cried when John Lennon was shot and killed. I have chased the concert scene ever since I was old enough beg, borrow and wheedle the cash and rides to shows from my parents, and have spent untold dollars and the better part of 45 years attending rock concerts all over the place, sometimes driving 12 hours to get to a show.
The Early Years – includes the hit Big Girls Don’t Cry
My first concert was, cringingly, The Little River Band in 1978. I know, I know, but mom wouldn’t let me see Peter Frampton because I was too young and she was nervous. Rightly so, as it turned out, but that’s another story. At any rate, I went directly from those mild beginnings to Santana and The Clash and the Dead, and never looked back. I’ve seen U2, Dave Matthews, Beck, Cage The Elephant, The Steve Miller Band, John Cougar Mellencamp, Chicago, White Snake, Robert Plant and Allison Krauss, Foreigner, Chris Stapleton, Supertramp, Blue Oyster Cult, BB King, Muse, Peter Gabriel, Midnight Oil, Ray LaMontaigne, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Nine Inch Nails, Elton John, Billy Joel, Genesis, Van Halen and Tool, and those are just some. Seriously. I could fill the page. Oh, and I’ve consistently been a Dead Head and followed both the Grateful Dead and Dead and Co. and other cover bands for decades now. This is not meant to be some sort of proof of what a rock fan girl I am, or maybe it is, but mostly it’s more of a way of validating my right to an opinion on the music scene. Even if I hadn’t spent the equivalent of the GDP of a small nation on concert tickets, I would still feel an obligation, a right, to comment on what I think is the death of the large concern venue. It could be, however, that maybe I’m okay with that. I’m not sure I want any part of what it has evolved into.
During the last two years I sincerely feared for the music scene; feared that this well thought out plan of moving everything and everyone into a digital existence, complete with a “pandemic” to give us that final shove, was going to be the death knell for large venue, live music and the artists that we love so much. I mean, it was…right?! For two years there were very few concerts and tours and often, those which were scheduled were canceled “due to covid”, or extremely limiting restrictions were put in place at the last minute making it impossible for anyone who chose not to get vaccinated to attend (I’m looking at you Foo Fighters…) or band members tested positive and couldn’t perform (Dead and Co. and, oh yeah, Foo Fighters) or venues got cold feet and canceled. Festivals? Fuhgedaboudit. On and on it went. Personally, I was out $600 in 2021 after foolishly thinking all would be well during the summer and buying tickets to several concerts which were then canceled, sorry no refunds.
Front Row at Sheep-ster Fest
The news that Neil Young left Spotify over the right of Joe Rogan to have controversial guests who were questioning the Fauci-led narrative on his show struck icy daggers into my heart. What was this? A cancellation of an international podcasting phenomenon over free speech by one of the most radical rockers of all time?? He was quickly followed by other sheep-like sycophants baa-ing their “us too! Us too!” messages all over the internet, leading to the collective nausea of a generation of folks who looked to the rockers of the world for validation of our lifelong position of contrarianism. Who, if not the likes of anti-authoritarian rockers, best represented by the likes of Neil Young, would represent those of us who had lived our lives believing that our rugged individualism was at its utter best when a band like Twisted Sister sang the words, “we’re not gonna take it anymore!” ? This was a shocking turn of events that I’m still grappling with, but I’ll get over it. Maybe. Well, actually no, I won’t. Neil is banished from my stereo.
So here we are, a little further along the calendar in Covid-Tide and I can report that it seems that the complete takeover of the large scale live venue scene by the serpent that is Live Nation or Ticketmaster or whatever they call themselves, is in fact, complete and we can sing the Miserere to honor what was once a righteous and raucous component of every music fan’s life from the Ed Sullivan Show’s forbidden pelvic grinding days of Elvis and Jim Morrison’s shocking leather pants, until about two and half years ago when covid slammed the tour bus doors shut.
Making Me Shake, Rattle, and Roll
But wait, you say, we can go to concerts again! Everyone is touring! It’s awesome!
Well, yes. And no. We can go to concerts again, yes, and most venues have lifted their covid restrictions, asinine as they were, but there are still multiple warnings on the web sites that YOU ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK and THINGS MIGHT CHANGE and YOU WILL NOT GET YOUR MONEY BACK if covid rears its ugly head again and they feel they must cancel for EVERYONE’S SAFETY. Not only are we still subjected to the fear mongering and reminders that there is a boogie man in the form of what we used to think of as SARS or the flu or a cold or whatever, which is just sitting there next to the sound guys, or hitching a ride on the weed smoke wafting out of the seat next to you, eagerly hoping to get us if we don’t get vaccinated, they’ve also added the insult of not accepting cash at any of the venues, thereby sealing the digital fate of the music world. You can’t even use to cash to park at any of the Live Nation or Tickemaster or whatever, venues, although, I was assured by a sweet-faced, teenage girl that I could always use their “reverse ATMs” in order to get a temporary ATM card to use in the venue and there was NO FEE!! Goodness! Such magnanimity! Reverse ATM. What manner of diabolical creature comes up with such a thing?
But, now you’re in the venue and ready to hear the music that brought you here in the first place. Too bad you couldn’t afford to sit inside because the tickets were all bought up by an AI driven algorithm and then resold for $300. Nope, it’s the lawn for you my friend, and you didn’t even grumble that much at the $22 in “fees” that were added by Live Nation or Ticketmaster onto the already absurd price of $55 dollars for a patch of wet, filthy grass where you are offered the opportunity to watch the show on a screen. The same screens which spend the hour to hour and a half beaming big pharma propaganda into your brain at decibels that nearly reach that of the concert itself. If it ever starts.
Oh, and don’t get me started on what’s not allowed in the venues. I mean, really, we should be reviewing what we can bring in because it sure ain’t dinner. Nope, that would restrict the profiteering machine from squeezing every last penny out of each and every bewildered fan who might need some fries to go with that $15 beer that they bought in an attempt to dull the little voice that’s whispering, “you’ve been had my friend…” No, you are restricted to one palm-sized bag made of clear plastic that “may only contain unopened water bottles totaling no more than 20 oz.”, because God knows, you might otherwise be tempted to carry in an enriched yellow cake of uranium in order to assemble a backpack nuke in the ladies room in between sets.
Memories Made in China
Okay, but what about T-shirts or concert “merch”, as they say? Ha! Only if you’ve brought the gold bullion, which you couldn’t use to pay for the $65 Made In China by slave labored Uighurs t-shirt anyway. Forget it. Your memories will have to be in your mind, your collection of memorabilia remains pitiful. You don’t even have a paper ticket for crying out loud! Unless you shelled out the $75 for the “Commemorative Ticket!”, complete with a hologram of…something you can’t quite make out and which you quickly lose because you couldn’t bring in your purse.
Still, music is music and the reason I am there is to hear it, to see the artists that I love and appreciate and want to support. The shows themselves are timeless and once they start I can almost forget that getting in through the gates to hear Robert Plant sing an utterly sublime rendition of “When The Levee Breaks” with Alison Krauss was an exercise straight out of the 1984, Brave New World playbooks. I can can look away from the screens and drift, remembering my 14 year old self, aloft on the sounds of Steve Miller crooning about jet airliners, cry when I hear the first strains of Fire on the Mountain, feeling the past kneading its way into my bones, dance to I Wanna Stay Up All Night With You while Beck shimmies and shakes, turn to the person dancing next to me and say, “isn’t this great? Isn’t this still great?” Is it?
– Heidi Liscomb