The Lifecycle of a Concert
By El Weiss
Prologue
The Beginning:
My affinity for concerts started at age seven when I saw The English Beat with my parents. I was clad in a go-go girl inspired dress, and white sandals embellished with feathers (it was 2012 clearly).
It wasn’t until I saw Kesha a year or two following that my obsession fully sparked. Since that fateful day, live music has been my greatest rush. I feel everything all at once. The adrenaline coursing through my body, slight social anxiety passing through me in waves, and pure euphoria. There is nothing that compares to the feeling of entering a venue and slowly watching the lights fade.
Stage One
The Purchase:
Whether I opt-in to a presale program or buy ridiculously expensive resale tickets, the purchase is what starts the cycle. Normally, I have a biannual concert ticket buying binge. I happily watch as my bank account runs dry, ignoring my post-buyers remorse that is bound to creep in the next few days.
Stage Two
Pre-Show Anxiety:
It’s the day of the show. Realization sets in after weeks or even months of forgetting. My terrible memory and distaste for calendars always means that shows come up as a surprise. I haphazardly pick out who is coming with me, and my means of travel knowing the luxury of time isn’t something I can afford. To be completely honest, 99% of the time I’ll opt for my dad. I make my journey to the venue, lost in my own world. I’m dissociated from the reality of what is yet to come yet untethered to the past. I go through the motions of buying an overpriced Red Bull at the bar, and trying to worm my way through the crowd.
Stage Three
The Show Commences:
The opening band slips onto the stage while the crowd cheers. They normally start with a curt “Hello,” before launching into their performance. I created a formula of how the average opening band operates. They play two songs, awkwardly share more about their band, play two more songs again, thank tech and the main act, two songs once more, and deliver a quick “You’re the best crowd we’ve ever played for!” before promptly running off the stage. I love a good opening act. But the elbows of “Sorry! My friend is up front!” and shoving of fans returning from merch runs can prove itself frustrating.
Stage Four
The Main Act:
The lights fade, the generic pre-concert playlist is shut off. You hear the scuffing of shoes and jingling of beer cans. You blink, and in a matter of seconds your favorite band captures the stage and your attention. Flashing lights drag you in like a moth to a flame. There is no comparison to the immediate gratification you feel as the opener takes stage. My mind always goes blank and into a state of healing no matter how much baggage I may have brought to the gig. It’s hard to feel terrible when you feel the vibration of the speakers rattling the floor, the pure joy plastered on everyone’s faces, and energy radiating from the stage. “I wish I could do this every day,” is the only thought I can muster up.
Stage Five
Post-Concert Depression:
In my first published piece (a CAS concert review) I wrote, “Cigarettes After Sex delivered a mesmerizing performance that left the audience yearning for more as the post-concert depression settled in.” Since penning this, post-concert depression is still the most impactful way to describe the feeling you get when the curtain closes. Partially sentimental about the start of my writing career, it’s something I’ve carried with me. All of the adrenaline we carried during the show drops off, leaving us with an emptiness that can only be cured with buying more tickets.
And with that, the cycle ends. Inevitably, it will commence again within a few weeks.
