We’ve all been there. One of your favorite bands is coming to town. The show starts at 9, but it’s a weeknight and you have work in the morning.
Fuck it.
Last time they were in town, you had a different excuse. You keep this up, and the band will announce a hiatus that turns into a full-on break-up. You’ll think back years from now about how they were going to be at your favorite venue while touring for your favorite album, and you didn’t go because you were afraid of being a little tired the next day. You buy the tickets, pay the processing fee, the venue fee, and the electronic ticketing fee, and then the date is set.
The big day arrives. You rush home from work, shower, change, and shove some food down your gullet in 30 minutes before rushing out the door again. The opening band is playing, you don’t know them, but they sound halfway decent. At the very least, they are a nice complement to the headliner. Their show finishes, and the set-up for the headliner begins. You take the edible that’s been melting in your pocket and grab a drink from the bar. Then you see it. The merch table.
Now, the line is a mere five people deep, but after the show, it will be swarming with people. People will be jockeying for position, t-shirt availability will dwindle, and worst of all, they might run out of records.
Seeing one of your favorite artists live in the flesh is a bonus; you’re really here to buy a record. The tour exclusive one. The one that’s sold out everywhere else except in the cardboard box behind the merch guy who hasn’t showered in a week. Will it be there after the show? Perhaps, but even if it is, what time will the show end? 11? Midnight? You do some math in your head, at best, you’re getting 6 hours of sleep before work tomorrow. You wait until after the show to get your merch? You’re looking at 5 and a half.
The decision is made for you. You hop in line. They have plenty of records, still, you buy one, no screw it, you never see this artist at record stores, better by a couple albums to mark the occasion. You pay for your records. You tip the merch person. People tip the merch people these days? Whatever, it’s too late.
You flip the record over and read the back, running your hand over the smooth plastic shrink wrap. You tuck it under your arm and find your spot in the crowd. The lits dim, the excitement grows and out comes the band to cheers and whoos and screams. They grab their instruments and go right into one of their hit songs. People begin to move and bounce and dance. You do the same. Or try to.
Your record starts to slip out of your hand. You switch arms and adjust your hold on it and continue dancing. You get a little excited, and the corner of the record bumps the back of the person in front of you. They turn around to see who just poked them in the back. You apologize, shouting “sorry” over the ringing guitars and smashing drums. They nod and turn back around. You put the records in the other hand again, no against your stomach. You cradle it against you with two hands, making sure not to bump anyone else. You dance with your body but not your arms, swaying like to the music like an amputee.
The opening notes of the artist’s famous ballad fill the venue as the crowd falls silent. The singer waves his arm slowly back and forth, and the crowd does the same, swaying in unison in an act of community and togetherness that only music can make possible. Except for you, your hands are full.
You decide to join with one arm and tuck the record back under your arm, pushing it further back this time so as not to poke the person in front of you. You bump the stomach of the person behind you. You turn around and apologize, and they wave it off, but you know they are at least a little annoyed.
The song finishes, the band asks how everyone is doing, they introduce themselves. The show is barely a quarter over. What the hell are you supposed to do with this stupid record for the rest of this god damn show? Do you wave it in the air like a foam finger at a football game? Put it on the ground and maybe cradle it between your legs. You won’t be able to move, but it’s fairly unlikely it will get stepped on. Actually, It’s far too crowded for that. Do you think you could turn it into the coat check and get it after the show? Or are they going to look at you weird because it’s a coat check and not a locker at a bus station?
The next song starts, and you hold it uncomfortably. You think about how your wrist is starting to hurt, and your palms are getting sweaty. You hold it totally still for fear of bumping another person. You are now too distracted and are barely listening to the song at all. You begin to sweat. The anxiety builds as you feel trapped. You look around for other people with records for ideas on how to manage the situation. A guy a few yards away is smiling and singing, his record tucked comfortably under his arm. Does his arm not hurt? Did he hit anyone with it yet? How is this possible?
Over at the merch table the merch guys watch the show and take pictures. Boxes upon boxes of LP’s are stacked behind them. They brought extra so they wouldn’t run out.
You suffer in silence for the next 60 minutes until the final note of the band’s encore rings out a merciful end to your fun night out. You shuffle towards the exit like a flock of sheep. Before you go around the corner, you take one last look over your shoulder at the merch table. The line is short, the lead singer is signing records and the other merch guys are taking away the extra records they didn’t sell.
You think to yourself. What an amazing night. I love concerts. We should do this more often. You know who’s gonna be in town next week?