Pistols at Dawn: And Then, Thom Yorke Ate a Live Bat...

Henry: Why in the name of the Gods would anyone pay $150 to see a Mannheim Steamroller concert? That’s right, 150 clams, enough money to save umpteen families in Pakistan from freezing this winter, instead exchanged for the right to sit at a table and be serenaded by the godfathers of New Age Christmas music.

There’s just something about the price of concerts that really yanks my goat. Granted, the number of college students paying said amount to be Steamrolled this holiday season will probably be zero, but I think the real question here is: why pay any amount of money to go to any live concert, regardless of how much you like the band?

No, I’m not being ridiculous. I know there are reasons to go to concerts, but, when I sit back and think about them, each seems more and more ridiculous.

Because you absolutely love the band? Then stay at home and plug your iPod into your head. There’s no need to schlep your homework-ridden self down Mass Ave., freeze in line for half an hour, pay $20 dollars, and then press yourself up against the drunk, smelly, orange-bearded guy bouncing around next to you who isn’t afraid to bellow lyrics out louder than the guy on stage.

Some argue that true innovation is born in concert. Maybe that’s true, but it’s an innovation I find myself more and more willing to sacrifice.

Maybe it’s the schoolwork, or maybe it’s because, under 21 and without a fake ID, I miss out on the $12 Keystone taps that the rest of the aging hipster white-boys in the room get to clutch while bobbing their heads and making awkward motions with their hands at Dizzee Rascal shows. Either way, for the most part, count me out.

Abe: But OMG Henry I totally went to this one Medeski Martin and Wood concert and they were totally improvising and also I saw the Dead and Phish and they made this really long jam where they covered a Will Smith song and then David Bowie came out on stage and he killed a man in cold blood and then twenty virgins were sacrificed live via satellite! How could you ever capture that on an iPod?

Here’s the thing. My sarcasm belies that I agree with you, but I still go to lots of concerts. Even though virtually all of them are disappointing and sweaty and filled with the opportunity cost incurred by me not studying for my midterms, I still go, hoping that I can be there for That One Show.

I’ve already missed said Show on two occasions. First time was 4th of July, 2001. Went to Grant Park in Chi-town, saw Semisonic for free, left. Problem? Semisonic was opening for Wilco, and the show that Tweedy & co. played is now immortalized in musical consciousness as the high point of rock and roll freedom for a band that was in the middle of a war against an evil record label. It’s in a documentary, it was so good. And I left because it was hot outside. And it didn’t even cost anything, thereby invalidating your Steamroller Hypothesis.

Second time was October of 2003. The Strokes came to town. I didn’t get a ticket. My best friend, who did attend, told me the next day that I should put a gun in my mouth because I missed the show. I didn’t do that, but I did openly weep because I missed it. Literally.

But have any of the shows I’ve been to actually achieved That One Show status? Um, sort of? I mean, weirdly enough, I think the only concert I went to where I actually really felt good and gratified the whole time was a Steamroller-ish mega-event: Prince, live at the Allstate Arena in summer 2004.

But those things aren’t even guarantees—the one hip-hop mega event show I ever went to (J-Kwon and the Ying-Yang Twins were there!) was really slow, the crowd didn’t dance and I paid 30 bucks.

Virtually every concert I can look back upon with “pride” is a concert that allows me to say, “well, it was fun enough, but more importantly, I would have regretted it if I hadn’t gone.”

So, am I just doing some kind of Calvinist delayed-gratification guilt-trip principle by going to these things? Why am I still compelled, despite your rational logic? What sort of beast am I?



Henry: Beasts of burden. That’s right, draft animals, kosher hunks of meat with cloven hooves and mouthfuls of cud. Together we are herded underground, into dark, crowded bars, to await the slaughter of the opening act, dreaming of DMB popping out and doing a 50-minute jam on “Tripping Billies.”

“That One Show” is so dependent on so many things, from band creativity to crowd enthusiasm right down to the smell of the venue and my ability to get that guy next to me to buy me something in a red cup. If any one thing isn’t exactly right, I find myself rolling my eyes a little bit, picking out the little errors that are otherwise endearing and wishing I was back home.

My concern is that, despite the RIAA’s best efforts, music in all forms continues to be as “free” as you want it to be. If you’ve got no qualms about stealing the debut EP from the next up-and-comer, concerts are the only form you’ve still always got to ante up to enjoy. In that sense, is my ambivalence about attendance, coupled with my spotty level of concern for the legality of myTunes sharing, going to singlehandedly kill the record industry?

Probably not, but that might be even scarier. I have to remind myself that there will ALWAYS be people willing to pay 50 bucks to watch country singers pretend to play the guitar while dangling from trapezes.

If this is the only demand major labels are feeling, what’s to prevent them from dropping everyone but Toby Keith and buying him a longer trapeze and a bigger cowboy hat? Let’s not play elitists once again, but maybe we owe it to the Earth to continue to support bands we care about so that labels continue to sporadically offer them a chance at the big bucks.

Abe: Okay, I’ll give you that. It’s important to keep the band economy rolling that we buy special edition tour t-shirts and make bands feel wanted. But is that reason enough to go see whomever the indie-rati think is important at that particular nanosecond? I really want this section to be a fugue in which I boldly claim, “Henry, you are quite wrong! It is all about the experience! From live concerts did music spring, and to live concerts shall it return! There’s something magical about going to a show!”

But I really can’t. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve both decided that it’s usually not worth it to go to concerts. Sorry. The Pistols have spoken.

Then again, I can think of one reason why there’s a glimmer in the darkness. One reason why I still don’t entirely regret vomiting out $75 to see two nights of Pixies last autumn. Live rock and roll shows are the best practice for therapy that I can think of.

Note: I didn’t say they were therapy. I’m with Brecht on this one: live performance can’t really cathartically take away your pain. But I do feel like the best concerts have been ones in which I’ve witnessed an artist either screaming or whispering his or her way through the Earth’s crust, drilling into the magma that flows in the subconscious.

I remember seeing Beck do a solo acoustic show, playing Big Star’s classic “Kanga-Roo,” and his eyes glazed over. He saw all his lovers, past and future. He was exorcising demons. Similarly, I remember seeing Frank Black of the Pixies, monstrously obese, bleating out how much he still wanted to be a “Debaser,” even at his current ripe old age.

Several weeks ago, I emceed and sang a bit at the first Quincy Cage concert. While attacking the crowd on the final chorus of “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” I felt like I could do what those artists did. I was ripping into my innards, and handing them to the crowd as a gift. I don’t know whether they appreciated it, but I did. Maybe I can try and turn my life into more of a live rock show?

But that’s just sort of a funny anecdote. It’s still probably not worth it to go see Mannheim Steamroller.



—Staff writer Abe J. Riesman can be reached at riesman@fas.harvard.edu.

—Staff writer Henry M. Cowles can be reached at hmcowles@fas.harvard.edu.