Concerts Are Supposed To Be An Escape From Reality. Not A Reminder of It.
Every music fan with a shred of humanity watched the horror unfold in Manchester earlier this week and grieved for the victims. The outpouring of support was heartfelt and moving and genuine. We all share the same frustration that there is nothing we can say or do to help the victims or their families of a cowardly terrorist attack.
When I was growing up, I heard music critics refer to Altamont or The Who at Riverfront Stadium and how these incidents changed concerts forever. By the time I started going to shows many years later, those memories seemed like ancient history and I was pretty convinced that the worst thing that could happen to me at a show would be wearing the wrong band’s T-shirt. I went to dozens of shows, got lost in the music, danced, sang and had a blast. It was an escape from the mundane, sterile laboratory I worked in. It was an escape from loneliness. From depression. From suicidal thoughts. It was group therapy with guitars and pedals.
With age comes more experiences, and it’s affected me. After the Great White concert fire happened, when I went to shows, I caught myself looking at the ceiling to see if anything could ignite the roof and taking mental notes of exit locations. After the terror attack at The Bataclan, every concert started with a review of exit locations and mentally planning paths to the door (I’ll jump this rail and dive behind the speaker stack, pop up behind the monitors and slide out the side stage door…)
When I went to see PJ Harvey last month, I was so excited to see her for the first time in over a decade. Most of the set was from The Hope Six Demolition Project — an album with lyrics about war, terrorism and government. During her song A Line In The Sand, there is a lyric that goes “Seven or eight thousand killed by hand”. As I was singing it, I suddenly thought about the Bataclan, and took a quick glimpse at my projected exit route. It happened so quickly that I barely took note, but I was reminded of it again on Sunday.
When I went to see Prince a few years ago, he banned fans from taking cell phone pictures and videos. The ushers were militant about it — looking at your phone simply to read an email was cause for a warning. I thought it was a bit over-the-top, but I remember someone telling me:
“When you pull out your phone at a concert to take a photo, it takes you out of the moment and puts your mind somewhere else. You’re worried about focusing, keeping the camera still, and how it will look on social media instead of being in the moment with the artist and absorbing the live music experience. You’re documenting everyone else’s experience instead of having your own.”
It’s true. In the last year, I’ve taken fewer photos at shows. At PJ Harvey, I only photographed the group bow at the end. But now, it’s not my phone that’s is taking me out of the moment and after Manchester, I fear that it will be there from now on for all concertgoers, and that’s just wrong.
