Why no concerts is a big problem

Some pundits predict gigs could be out of action until late next year, a major issue for live music addicts like me. But is a solution already here?

Back in 1995, two friends and I embarked on an endeavour. We saved up our meagre supermarket wages for weeks, purchased the three last tickets at our local record store, then organised a friend to drive us up to Auckland in his rusty Toyota wagon for Pearl Jam’s very first New Zealand show.

It was a long way for three grunge-addicted Whanganui 16-year-olds to go on their own, and our parents had other ideas. They said no. After much grumping and sulking and threatening to go on a Temple of the Dog-inspired hunger strike, they relented and came up with their own plan. They paid for train tickets, and organised accommodation with a reluctant distant relative.

I lived in Whanganui for the first 17 years of my life, and the only concert I remember happening there during that time was by Jimmy Barnes. To go to gigs meant travelling. So, on March 24, 1995, me and my two best buds hopped on an overnight train, arrived in Auckland, queued for hours at Mt Smart Stadium’s gates, and attended our very first concert together. I remember it like it was yesterday.

We were about halfway back in the tent. Pearl Jam played much of Ten, and plenty of Vs. Crucially, they ripped through Animal, my fave at the time. Eddie Vedder swigged from a red wine bottle all night, and kept stopping the show because of the surging moshpit. I sang every word. Tim and Neil Finn came out for the encore. God damn it was good. I have a friend who scored the setlist that night and has it framed in her house. Every time I visit, I think about stealing it.

Look! Someone even filmed some of the carnage.

It was my first concert fix, and I’ve chased that high ever since. Live music is my vice. Summers are based around who’s touring and where they’re playing. All travel plans all involve concerts or festivals. I attempted to set up my entire career so that I could call concerts work, and I have been somewhat successful in doing that.

I’m 41 now. That’s old. I was at a rap show last year that was attended mostly by kids in their late teens when one of them ran up to me and said, “Dude! You look like you’re 30!” as if it was the oldest age he could imagine. He’s got a point. I thought I’d be too old and jaded and sore to be bothered going to concerts at this age. After all, those school friends who came to Pearl Jam with me haven’t been to gigs in more than a decade.

I don’t understand them. This past summer, I broke my own record for the number of shows I went to. I saw the Chemical Brothers dance with giant robots at a punishingly loud gig in Melbourne. I saw Tyler, the Creator absolutely befuddle a young, drunk audience at Bay Dreams in Nelson. I saw Lizzo shake it and slay at Auckland’s Fomo fest. I watched Jess B perform for a solid two hours at Laneway, and alongside Marlon Williams, it was the day’s best performance. I saw both Tool shows in a row, then a super happy Pixies, then rapper Wiki. Finally, like a drunk looking for another drink, and just before everything turned to Corona-custard, I panic-bought tickets to see Aldous Harding dig deep at the Auckland Town Hall.

It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. I had bought more tickets, and planned more shows. Deftones, Big Thief, Bon Iver, Faith No More and The Offspring were all on my must-see list, thanks to this addiction that started way back on that night in a silly circus tent back in 1995. It’s one I haven’t been able to quit.

Until now. Thanks to Covid-19, we’ve all stopped going to concerts. We’ve all stopped going to anything much at all really. That’s unlikely to change for a long time. Some reports out of America suggest concerts won’t be allowed to return there until Fall, 2021. That’s a full 16 months away. That’s too long. That’s way too long.

Sure, there have been attempts at filling this gaping live music void. RZA’s Insta-battle with DJ Premiere was inspired. Mermaidens’ early morning YouTube livestream was fun. Coachella’s documentary was too slick and promotional, but ended with an incredible yarn about organisers trying to book Prince. Lady Gaga’s One World: Together at Home stream had far too many ballads. Where was Cardi B rapping from on top of her kitchen table, and Missy Elliott banging around with pots and pans in her dystopian shed? That’s what the world needed, not Niall Horan lamely strumming his guitar.

It’s a solid effort, but none of this comes close to the feeling of walking into the Powerstation, grabbing a beer and finding the perfect perch just in time to see your favourite band. It can’t replicate those first moments navigating a new music festival, or squeezing into the front rows at Spark Arena, putting your arm around a stranger and rocking out together as Tool rip through Parabola. In hindsight, this was probably a mistake.

So, can we wait 16 months to go to another gig? I sure can’t. But here in New Zealand, that timeframe seems unlikely. Coronavirus might have wreaked havoc in America, but thanks to our insanely calm Prime Minister, everything here appears under control. It makes sense that we’ll have to wait a few more months for gigs to restart. It also makes sense that, if our borders remain closed for a good while yet, international artists won’t be able to tour here for quite some time.

That sounds bleak, but the answer is already here. We have an incredible local music scene. In fact, it’s never been healthier. In the past few weeks of lockdown I’ve found a bunch of new acts to get excited about, like rap crew Valleyboys, or local rapper PollyHill, or Zimbabwean bros eleven7four. I mean, check out this burst of Californian skate-pop and try not to feel good about life.

I can’t wait to see any and all of these guys live. If next summer’s major music festival bills have to be filled by local acts and only local acts, then they can do it. They can totally do it. Need a headliner? Look at Jess B. As long as we get more moments like her two-hour Laneway stunner, then that’s just fine by me.

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