Concerts Are Officially Just Expensive Group Therapy Sessions Where Everyone Yells The Same Thing
Let’s be real for a second: the “concert experience” in 2024 is a special kind of dystopian hellscape that we’ve all collectively decided is fine, actually. It’s the only scenario where you will happily pay $400 for a ticket, $18 for a warm tallboy of Bud Light that tastes like regret, and then stand in a sea of strangers who all have their phones held up like they’re trying to summon a demon from the Uber parking lot. And why? To hear your favorite artist sing a song you already know, but worse, because they’re running on three hours of sleep and a Xanax.
Wake up, sheeple. We need to talk about what concerts have become.
First off, the pricing. I don’t know when we decided that seeing a mid-tier indie band from 2010 was worth a mortgage payment, but here we are. Dynamic pricing is just legal scalping with a “service fee” slapped on it. You think Ticketmaster is a company? No, it’s a simulated hostage negotiation. You log on at 10 AM, you wait in a queue that moves slower than a DMV line on a Monday, and by the time you get in, the only seats left are in the nosebleeds for $350, or you can stand directly behind a pillar for the low, low price of “your firstborn child.” And if you complain? The artist’s fanbase will swarm you like you insulted their mother. “But they’re just trying to keep tickets affordable!” they scream, as the platinum tickets go for $2,000. Okay, Jan. The only thing being kept affordable is the CEO’s third yacht.
But let’s talk about the actual show. You finally get inside. You’re wedged between a guy who hasn’t showered since the album dropped and a girl who is openly weeping into her iPhone for a TikTok transition. The opening act is a DJ who just plays the same four beats for 45 minutes while a screen shows a graphic of a melting skull. Riveting. You’re already sweating from the body heat of 20,000 people who all decided to wear the same black t-shirt with the band’s logo on it. It smells like a mix of vape juice, desperation, and the faint ghost of Axe body spray.
Then the headliner comes on. They’re 45 minutes late, because of course they are. They walk on stage, say “What’s up, [City Name]!”, and then launch into a medley of their hits, but they’re all sped up by 15 BPM because the artist is trying to fit in a 90-minute set before their curfew. You can barely hear them over the backing track. And the crowd? The crowd is screaming every single word, but not in a fun, communal way. No, they’re screaming to prove they’re the biggest fan. It’s a competition now. You can’t just sing along. You have to *belch* the lyrics at a volume that drowns out the actual PA system. You paid $400 to hear the drunk guy next to you hit every wrong note of “Mr. Brightside.” Congrats.
And don’t even get me started on the phones. The entire show is now a vertical video shoot. You can’t see the stage because there are 5,000 glowing rectangles blocking your view. People aren’t watching the concert. They’re recording it so they can watch it later on a tiny screen while lying in bed, which begs the question: why didn’t you just stay home and watch a high-def YouTube video? But no, they need the “authentic” experience of watching the concert through a 2-inch screen while getting jostled by a guy who hasn’t showered. Peak humanity.
The worst part? The end. The show ends, and the lights come up. You’ve lost your voice, your ears are ringing, and you realize you haven’t eaten since breakfast because you couldn’t afford the $20 hot dog. You then have to fight through a crowd of people who are all trying to get an Uber at the exact same time. Surge pricing hits, and now your ride home costs more than the ticket. You wait 45 minutes. It starts to rain. You smell like a frat house. You finally get home at 1 AM, and you have to be at work in six hours. You look at your phone. You have 43 videos of blurry lights and bad audio. You will never watch them. You will never delete them.
And yet, we keep doing it. We keep buying the tickets. We keep standing in the rain. We keep pretending that this is a fun, sacred experience. It’s not. It’s a status symbol. It’s a way to say “I was there” without actually enjoying the experience of being there. It’s a digital flex for your Instagram story that gets 12 likes. “Look at me! I’m at a concert! I’m having fun! Please validate my existence!”
Honestly, the only people winning are the scalpers, the venues that charge $15 for a water bottle, and the artists who fly out on a private jet while you’re stuck in traffic for an hour. You are the product. You are the content. You are the sucker.
So the next time you see a tour announced and feel that FOMO creeping in, just remember: you can stay home, order a pizza for $20, and listen to the album on Spotify with decent audio. Your ears will thank you. Your wallet will thank you. And you won’t have to smell that guy’s unwashed armpit for three hours.
But hey, you do you. I’ll be at home, in my pajamas, enjoying the live album. With no service fees.
Final Thoughts
After decades covering live music, it’s become clear that the true value of a concert lies not in flawless sound or setlist perfection, but in those fleeting moments of collective vulnerability—when a crowd of strangers breathes in unison during a quiet bridge. The industry may chase spectacle and revenue, but the most enduring performances are often the ones where the artifice falls away, leaving only raw human connection. Ultimately, a great concert doesn’t just entertain; it recalibrates your sense of what it means to be present, proving that in an age of digital isolation, the shared physical experience remains our most potent cultural currency.