Arts Vanity: I Lack the Fortitude for Intensive Concert Warfare

You truly haven’t lived until you’ve traded your self-respect for a wristband and a spot near a barricade. Typically, attending a concert promises an overwhelming sense of euphoria, but what sacrifices are you willing to make in order to achieve this sacred experience?

Despite the copious amounts of live shows I committed myself to in high school, I’ve come to recognize that I am no longer cut out for the demands of mosh-pit survival. By recounting some of the most undignified moments I’ve either experienced or witnessed, maybe it’s evident that I never was.

Starting off incredibly strong with one of my very first concerts, in which I clearly couldn’t properly stomach my love for Olivia Rodrigo. In anticipation of the opener, spirits were high and the excitement was palpable. That is, until an audience member threw up and the crowd, understandably so, backed away in horror. The claustrophobia, triggering my own nausea, caused me to leave both my spot and dignity behind to spew my own guts out in a trash can nearby. Not only that, but as a result of the post-Covid health protocol, I was forced to go home, having spent 12 hours waiting in 30 degree weather to not even hear the headliner perform. I guess some memories are better left undigested.

Once I learned to contain my lunch, though, concert-going surprisingly didn’t get any easier. While Chicago winters are tough to sit through, its summers are just as bad. After waiting in the heat for an unprecedented amount of time to see boygenius, I was desperate to get in. The promised land was in sight as tickets were getting scanned and I could see people starting to run to their spots. Naturally, the system chose to stop working at my turn. Hours spent analyzing squirrel behavior due to the excruciatingly boring line-waiting were, subsequently, wasted right in front of my eyes. Then, as soon as the universe decided to show mercy and scan my ticket, I attempted to sprint across the festival grounds, forgetting I had previously quit track and field after one day of practice. It’s safe to say the figurative and literal sprints were over before they even started.

In terms of Crimson Jam, no, I didn’t have to purchase a ticket for the show, but I definitely paid for it in sanity and personal space. Don’t get me wrong, Daya was an awesome performer and her setlist was very nostalgic, but with all due respect, I haven’t given the Musical.ly icon much thought in recent years. I assumed my peers felt similarly, until I saw them in the crowd forcefully pushing to get to the front. It’s true that few places on Earth can reduce you to your most selfish state faster than a packed concert pit for your favorite artist, but for Daya? The eligibility criteria to get to the barricade should have been to name three of her newest songs, because nothing — seriously nothing — could have justified the spilled drinks, aggressive elbowing, and mass hysteria that occurred that night.

Honorable mentions in my portfolio of concert grievances include: The opener at a Faye Webster show crowd surfing and then collapsing on my group, a dispute over someone’s height culminating in intense Twitter beef, and the Jojo Siwa crowd generally smelling unbearably bad.

The unpredictability and spontaneity are what make concerts such unique experiences, and even when it’s borderline traumatic, I always look forward to getting to dramatically retell my battle stories. However, I’ve definitely started to take a more sensible approach to concerts, and as incoming Music Exec, I look forward to exercising my new perspective next year.

—For all inquiries regarding more cringe-worthy concert confessionals (and invitations to expand to her collection), incoming Music Executive Melina Fonseca can be reached at melina.fonseca@thecrimson.com.