Concerts Are Officially A Hellscape Now, Thanks To Gen Z And Ticketmaster
Look, I’m going to level with you. I remember a time when going to a concert was a vaguely spiritual experience. You’d stand in a sweaty crowd, drink a $8 warm beer that tasted like battery acid, and maybe catch a glimpse of the lead singer’s forehead if you stood on your tippy-toes. It was a magical, terrible time.
But now? We have officially entered the “Main Character Syndrome” era of live music, and I am begging for the sweet release of the encore silence. If you’ve been to any major show in the last 18 months, you know exactly what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, buckle up, buttercup, because you are about to learn why society is cooked.
I recently dragged my sorry ass to a stadium show for a pretty big pop artist. Not naming names, but let’s just say the fanbase owns a lot of glitter and has strong opinions about astrology. I paid a mortgage payment for a seat that was technically in the venue, but practically in a different zip code. The sound was bad, the AC was broken, and the hot dog cost $22. Standard fare.
But the real nightmare wasn’t the price gouging. It was the other people.
We have reached a critical mass of “I paid $400 for this seat, so you will all participate in my content creation.” The person in front of me did not watch a single second of the actual performance. Instead, they held their phone up for the entire 90-minute set, filming the stage from a 45-degree angle while simultaneously watching the show *through their own phone screen*.
Why? So they could post a 15-second Instagram Reel of a blurry light show with a trending audio track that wasn’t even the song playing. It’s like they are collecting memories they can’t actually experience. They are digital hoarders, but instead of newspapers, they are hoarding 4K footage of a pixelated singer they’ll never watch again.
And let’s talk about the talking. Oh, the talking. I’m not talking about singing along. I’m talking about a full-blown, unhinged therapy session that took place at 115 decibels. The group of six next to me spent the entire bridge of the emotional ballad having a heated debate about who was the worst character on *Love Island*. Ma’am, the artist is literally crying on stage about her dead dad. Can you save this discourse for the Uber ride home?
This is the same crowd that drops $600 on a ticket, buys a $45 t-shirt, and then spends the whole time scrolling through Depop to see if they can sell the t-shirt for a profit before the last note. It’s not a concert anymore; it’s a stock exchange floor with a bass drop.
But you can’t talk to them about it. If you ask them to lower their phone or shut up, you are suddenly the villain. You are the “Gatekeeper of Joy.” You are “Killing the Vibe.” No, Brenda, I am not killing the vibe. You are killing the vibe by treating a live performance like it’s background noise for your group chat.
And don’t even get me started on the etiquette—or total lack thereof—at the barricade. There is a new breed of fan who treats the pit like a mosh pit for their own ego. They will push, shove, and elbow their way to the front, not because they love the music, but because they want the best angle for their TikTok transition. They will hold a sign that blocks the view of 50 people just so the artist might, *might*, make eye contact with them for 0.3 seconds.
Then there’s the merch table situation. It’s a bloodsport now. People are lining up at 9 AM for a 8 PM show just to buy a limited edition hoodie that says “I saw the tour before it was famous.” Newsflash: nobody cares that you have a hoodie. You look like a walking billboard for a company that hates you.
And let’s not forget the post-show discourse. If the artist doesn’t perform a deep cut from their third album, the internet explodes with hot takes. “They’ve sold out.” “They don’t care about the real fans.” Bro, they played the hits. You are at a stadium show. What did you expect? A 45-minute acoustic set of B-sides about your specific trauma?
The entire concert ecosystem is a toxic cesspool of FOMO, performative fandom, and corporate greed. Ticketmaster is the devil, the venues are charging you for air, and the audience has become the main character in a movie nobody asked to see.
The worst part? I’ll probably do it again next month. I’ll pay the bullshit fees. I’ll stand behind the phone zombies. I’ll eat the $22 hot dog. Because deep down, beneath the layers of sarcasm and cynicism, I still love live music. I just hate everyone who goes to it with me.
AITA for wanting people to actually watch the show they paid for? Yeah, probably. But I’m right.
So next time you’re at a show, do us all a favor: put the phone down for one song. Shut up for one bridge. And for the love of all that is holy, stop talking about *Love Island* during the ballad.
You are not the main character. You are a spectator. Act like it.
Final Thoughts
After decades on the beat, I’ve seen the industry shift from bootleg tapes to billion-dollar live streams, but the article reminds us that the true value of a concert remains stubbornly analog: it’s the sweaty, imperfect, shared moment that can’t be replicated. While we’re right to celebrate the post-pandemic resurgence, the real story is how artists are now forced to be entrepreneurs of experience, pricing out the very fans who built them. Ultimately, the concert’s magic lies in its fragility—a single night where community, emotion, and a few good riffs can still cut through the noise of our hyper-curated world.