Concert(ed) Effort

My first concert was The Jonas Brothers with Demi Lovato as their opener. My mom bought us the tickets as a salve for the bullying I was going through at school. The JoBros were three hours late to the stage. We were at an outdoor venue, and it was so hot, and it was so crowded with screaming pre-pubescent girls that we left two songs into their set. As we left, the sky crackled with lightning. We drove the three hours home in a downpour.

That being said, it was an underwhelming experience for my first time. I went to a few more live shows throughout my childhood, and they were easily the best nights of my very young life. I saw Glee Live and The Red Tour (explains a lot about me, doesn’t it?), and the night after the show, it felt like I was coming down from MDMA. Although I was 10, so maybe it felt more like coming down from Pixi Sticks. 

I didn’t investigate that feeling any further until high school. I developed a love for a band called the Misterwives. I listened to their entire discography and followed them on Instagram. When they posted their tour schedule, I didn’t think twice about using the little babysitting money I’d made to buy a ticket. I roped a friend into coming with me; she liked the opener. 

My mom drove me to the show. I spilled out of her car and entered the venue alone. I found my friend inside, she sang along to the opener. I sang along to the main act. 

With my under-21 wristband and the crush of the crowd, it was my first taste of freedom. I met up with my mom after the show, down the block; she was convinced I’d gone to the concert alone, or worse, with a boy. The next morning, I showed her a photo a friend had taken of our group. She was relieved. 

Ever since, I’ve gone to every concert I can afford, and even those I can’t. 

I’ve seen MUNA and Phoebe Bridgers with my brother. We ran into the venue with minutes till MUNA came onstage, and still we found spots near the periphery, with a clear view of the stage. After MUNA’s set, minutes before Phoebe was set to take the stage, a band of middle schoolers, hand in hand, tried to force their way to the front. My brother and I gave each other a look, and I took one of the girls by the shoulder. “Sweetie, you’re never getting through this crowd; we’re packed like cattle in here.” 

Still, they pressed forward, shouted down by the fans who’d waited in line to get to the barricade. After “Kyoto,” I watched as one of the pre-teens was fireman-carried out of the crowd. She’d passed out. 

I went with my mom to see The Eras Tour and Cowboy Carter. We took the bus to Jersey, and walked along the highway to get to our hotel. (Seacacus is a hellscape.) 

My mother is an expert at sneaking into seats we haven’t paid for. She scours the place till she finds a section without a security guard. She walks with her shoulders back, and she makes friends with the people in our row. If they’re cool enough, she divulges our secret. “These aren’t our seats, we’re just warming them up,” with a wink. That way, if we get booted, most people will absorb us into their group, or shout out other empty seats they spot. 

Through her method, we paid for tickets behind the stage at The Eras Tour, but managed to sit fourth row, center, lower bowl. I started crying the second Taylor appeared on the stage. We checked on StubHub halfway through the set, and the seats were still unsold. They were going for $8,000 a seat. 

I saw brat twice, once taking the train to Philadelphia and the next time in Brooklyn. We got to Philly with no issues. We snuck into lower bowl, but our tickets were for the last row of the stadium. 

I added to my mother’s method. If I risk going into the section and end up cornered by security, I play dumb. I shut my phone off and tell them it's dead. I point out “our seats,” I point to a girl and describe how she looks. “See that’s my friend, with the blonde ponytail, in the jean jacket?” I’m not saying security believes me, but they certainly think I’m harmless enough to let through. 

In Philly, we made friends with our seatmates, who halfway through the set revealed they’d also snuck into the seats. We smiled proudly. We were industrious. We were the real spirit of brat. 

In Brooklyn, though, we have to run out the door and sprint the whole way to Barclays. We’d miscalculated our getting-ready-time. We spent the set hopping between sections, evading security. We were in VIP for “Spring Breakers,” and backstage for “Speed Drive.” Sweat collected at the base of my neck, my heels ached, and my thighs quaked with exhaustion. But Charli had another verse to “Guess,” so I kept dancing. 

I try to sneak out of price gouging, too. I go to a bar near the venue, order a drink, give the bartender my card in advance, and tell them to add the tip before we check out. I circle the ticketing apps like a vulture. The prices usually plummet within five minutes of showtime, that’s when I swoop in. I’ve seen Taylor Swift, Hozier, Rebecca Black, and The 1975 using this method. 

That was how I became best friends with María. We went to see The 1975 together. We made friends with everyone in the section we snuck into. We danced with them and with each other. 

Actually, if I bring you to a concert, that is the greatest compliment I could give to a friendship. I  know my method is madness, and it's backfired before. (I’m sorry again, Amanda and Ashlon, for making us SPRINT the entirety of Barclays for the whole set!) 

But more than needing friends to back up my insane method of seat-stealing,* going to a show is like my church. 

*It’s NOT stealing if it's a victimless crime! 

I react like a maniac when I get to interact with my favorite artists–like when Rebecca Black pointed at me and screamed “SEXY GIRL!” I cry to their saddest songs and squeeze the hands of sobbing strangers. 

I suffer a bit from collective effervescence. I’m in awe of everyone who’s bought the tickets, boarded flights or buses, or just the subway, to come out and witness something together, when we could easily watch it from a TikTok live stream. 

In a world that is–would you believe it–so divisive–hundreds, if not thousands, of people come together because we all like the same thing! 

Yes, you pass out at the venue, or try to push your way to the front, and I might steal your seat, but we all like the same thing! And isn’t that amazing?

Still, I’ll never forgive the Jonas Brothers.