When I pay good money, that is to say, lots of money, to sit somewhere in near-earth orbit, watching distant creatures down on stage jam for a few hours, I have a few expectations going in. Some people attend concerts knowing they will barely be able to see the artists, preferring to appreciate the atmosphere of a rather sensory experience.
It’s not a sporting event. Though you do see people with band t-shirts, aping the fashion stylings of overworked roadies, lugging Marshall amps, contraband and neck pillows from gig to gig.
All I ask for is a drunk behind me to singalong with the stars on stage. If I really wanted to hear the acts in crystal stereo, I would’ve stayed home and turned up my hi-fi. Instead I find myself among the fanatics in the outer reaches of stadium seating, listening to their takes on rock and roll poetry.
It’s not harmonizing in the Garfunkelian mode, but it’s close. Plus, it is true stereo, authentic surround sand. The band on stage, the goober in the seat behind me in my ear. What more could I ask for? Not that anyone would be able to hear my cries. While I didn’t technically pay for these additional singers, I pay for them anyway.
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