A few years ago, I attended a concert by my favorite rapper, Earl Sweatshirt, at a venue in north London. The sound system was so poor that I couldn't identify which song he was playing. The setlist awkwardly mixed old and new material, failing to do justice to either. The man in front of me recorded the entire show on his phone, holding it above his head for an Instagram story that likely no one will watch. With 45 minutes left, I wished I could leave. With 15 minutes remaining, I decided that reaching the nearest kebab shop before the crowd mattered more than seeing the end of the set.
Enduring Gigs as a Culture Journalist
As a culture journalist, I have attended numerous gigs. Most were endured rather than enjoyed, and I secretly believe that only the most extroverted or least self-conscious among us truly feel otherwise. This is the dirty secret of the music industry, which has navigated economic challenges by shifting from selling music to focusing on live events. This sentiment has occasionally caused professional embarrassment, as I constantly invent excuses to decline what is supposedly a key perk of the job: free tickets.
The Blame Game
To make matters worse, we often blame artists for issues outside their control. They don't design the PA system, handle security, or decide on exorbitant booking fees. They work grueling tour schedules designed to maximize revenue rather than allow them to perform at their best. It's a minor miracle that more gigs aren't outright unlistenable.
The residency model exacerbates this problem. It's hard not to feel contempt for artists like Harry Styles, whose 'tours' involve performing at mega-venues that require fans to pay for travel and hotels on top of expensive tickets. The artist sleeps in their own bed, while the audience takes time off work or school for an costly city break. This has been marketed as a luxury, an evolution in how gigs are supposed to work.
Cinema: The Superior Experience
Compare this to the cinema, which has only improved in recent years. You sit down, forced to put your phone away. The screen is massive, the room is dark, and the beverage of choice is Coca-Cola rather than stale lager. Nobody throws a pint over your head, and no one drowns out the film by shouting half-remembered lyrics.
The Glastonbury Exception
Despite my complaints, I remain a typical Glastonbury bore and will do everything to get a ticket in 2027. But am I devastated that the festival is on a fallow year? Secretly, I am thrilled.
Sasha Mistlin is a commissioning editor on the Guardian's Saturday magazine.
