Hear Me Out

There’s a process to follow when buying your concert tickets.

Open five tabs. Compare similar seats across every seller. Pray that you find a GA pass from the venue directly.

In this case (as normal with artists of this size) you play the seated venue game – what I like to call the reseller free-for-all.

Your character bounces between identical seats across platforms, calculating trade offs between views and hidden fees. The whole thing takes anywhere between a few hours to several days of indecision.

In this case, Maynard and I didn’t have time to waste.

So after a few hours playing, I’ve picked out two tickets at Chicago’s Wintrust Arena.

Of course, I have to buy two - not just because it’s required, but because I know I’ll want company for what is sure to be an epic night.

I don’t feel great about the game’s outcome, but I shell out $160 a ticket and swallow the 30% transaction fee, knowing future-me will be grateful. The nice part about booking tickets far in advance is by the time the show rolls around, you’ve mostly forgotten what you paid – including the sting of those fees (which resellers count on). Somehow, that annoys me more. Anyway - May 1st, 2024. I can’t wait. See you in four months, Maynard!

Two weeks to the show - it’s time already. Wow.

Now’s the moment to invite someone along. Any earlier, and people won’t commit (especially if they don’t know the bands).

I don’t have friends in town that listen to them, but I’m confident anybody will enjoy the event.

I send messages to my friends letting them know I have an extra ticket – No luck. They’re either busy or not sure it’s their scene.

No worries, there’s plenty of other options to explore.

Next up: A post on the city’s rock and metal Meetup group.

I’ve had success (very loosely used here) with it exactly once in three years. Worth a shot, but I’m skeptical - why would anyone meet a stranger with no verified identity, no event history - not even a profile picture? We might as well be meeting off Discord (I gave this a shot too – it’s a part of the internet I stopped trying to understand and got out quick.)

Alright, now it’s a week until the show, and I’ve struck out twice.

I spend an hour thinking up more options, then finally muster the courage to post on my school’s slack channel.

That’s 2000+ strangers wondering why I don’t have a friend of my own to take (assuming they hear my plea at all).

All I need is one person to get how big of a deal this is and want to tag along (I never charge for tickets – I always value company infinitely more.)

But you saw where this was going. No responses.

That’s three strikes now.

There’s a familiar theme playing in my head now, its lyrics ranging from “No one likes your music and you’re weird” to “the music’s probably fine, it’s actually just you”.

At this point, I’m wondering if I’m adulting wrong. Is it supposed to be this hard to find someone to share a passion with?

Only days to go now, and I’m in a familiar spot.

“Why were you dumb enough to buy two tickets instead of one? You always do this...”

A friend drops me a link to some app that's been marketing to him nonstop recently.

“Make friends through music!”, the tagline proclaims.

Ok? This sounds ... promising?

A tiny seed of hope forms in my belly as I head over to their Instagram page, ready to try something new.

Pause.

What am I looking at here?

Why are all these posts either women in black leather or mascara-heavy couples making out?

Then it hits me.

Goddamnit. Another dating app! “Friends through music” – really?!

Listen, I get it. It’s a business. It probably works. I’m sure people use it, maybe even love it. But for someone who literally lives to make friends through music, I can tell you: I’m not paying for an app to match me with strangers based on the tiniest chance we’re hearing the same song at the same time. Worse yet, I’m not paying to take a quiz to prove that I like the music I like to then be matched with someone who scores the same on some silly test. This feels like Hinge on steroids with a marketing label of “Goth” slapped on top. Can we go back to when people would just hang out and trade music recommendations, please?

It’s Wednesday, May 1st , 2024, - and I’m out of time.

But, wait - there’s something in my inbox.

Somehow, Ticketmaster is letting me re-list my tickets. Apparently, I can sell one back to them. Nice!

An hour before heading out, I’m back at my desk, ready to cut my losses.

The show’s sold out, so the $48.85 listing offer feels like a rip-off - but I did this to myself months ago.

Ready to be done with the ordeal, I hit confirm … and get taken to a page adding a 30% selling fee to my listing.

Wait, what?!

This is a digital ticket.

It hasn’t moved. It hasn’t been printed. It hasn’t even changed hands yet.

And I’m paying to sell it back to where it exists, after paying an initial fee to buy it at three times the value?

My blood starts to boil.

I should’ve known better than to feel gratitude toward these guys. Can I take my feelings back?

It’s too late now. I just want the ticket gone. They’ve got me in a corner I can’t fight out of.

Teeth clenched, I hit confirm.

It’s done.

Sometimes, being a fan can really cost you – just for trying to be the best kind of supporter.

It’s a perfect spring evening.

Cool air, clear skies.

I’m waiting for the bus, feeling good about my outfit – a black A Perfect Circle shirt and denim shorts.

The bus pulls up. I climb on, do a quick scan of who’s on board, and make my way to a row near the front.

Only one other person’s here - a woman sitting across the aisle. I barely register her as I walk past: black hoodie, gray streaks in dark hair, maybe mid-thirties.

“That’s a really cool shirt.”

It takes me a full three seconds after sitting down to realize she’s talking to me.

Me?! She likes my shirt?

I feel a warm tinge of pride coupled with a deep appreciation for the compliment.

I wonder if she listens to A Perfect Circle?

I wonder if she likes going to rock concerts?

I could keep asking myself these questions - or I could just get up and ask her.

After a few seconds debating, I slide out of my seat and into the one behind her in the least creepy way I can, and blurt out: “Hey, I’m Ananth. Are you a fan of A Perfect Circle?”

“Hi! I’m Deb. Yeah, I love them! They were one of my favorites growing up.”

“I’m actually going to watch them right now - talk about a coincidence.”

“No way. I didn’t even know they were still touring! I’d have killed to see them if I’d known!”

The irony isn’t lost on me here, but I’m too excited making conversation to dwell on it.

She’s cool. She likes rock. She likes concerts.

This is a great bus ride.

We’ve got one stop left before I need to get off - and now I need to make another tough call.

Do I ask for her number?

In any context, asking someone for their number after a few minutes of talking feels… bold.

But I really don’t want to lose touch. For some reason, people like Deb are so hard to find.

As the bus pulls to a stop, I swallow hard and go with the next best thing my generation does in these moments - “Do you have an Instagram?”

She looks pleasantly surprised.

“I don’t really use social media, but I’d love to stay in touch. Here’s my Spotify ID if that helps?”

What?

Is that a thing now? How do I find her with that? Should I have just asked for her number? Did I overthink it?

I can feel the bus driver glaring at me in the mirror, so I grab the ID, thank Deb for the great conversation, and hop out.

Catching my reflection in a window, I realize I’ve got a grin on my face that would make the Cheshire Cat proud.

Chest now slightly puffed out, I start the ten-minute walk to the Wintrust Arena with all the confidence of a person who’s just made a friend – simply by being themselves.

I’m in my happy place now.

Central view, cold beer in hand, sporting my new red Sessanta tour shirt and making use of the extra leg room from the empty seat next to me.

The crowd’s moving, lights strobing, and the sound is awesome - everything from earlier is forgotten. We’re only six songs into a thirty-song set, and I’m having a blast.

Making friends at shows is weirdly easy.

It’s almost the exact opposite of life outside the venue. No one cares where you’re from or what you’re doing for work tomorrow. We’re all here for one reason: to love the music, feel it together, and forget the rest. The merch we wear is a proud résumé of where we’ve been, who we’ve seen, and what we live for.

Point at a shirt, spark a conversation. Boom, instant friend potential.

Two more songs pass, and I’ve done enough shirt-pointing to trade a few numbers, Instagrams, and a LinkedIn connection (yep – it happens). As I’m saving the latest ‘FirstName (concerts)’ to my phone, there’s movement to my right. A tall, blond guy in glasses is splitting the aisle and shuffling toward me.

I’m only starting to process he’s twinning the same red shirt I am when, without missing a beat, he stops, smiles, and fist pumps me.

Then, as if I’m not confused enough, he points to my extra legroom and says, “I think this is my seat.”

Now I realize what’s happening. “No. No no. This is my seat. I’m emotionally attached to it now.” - is what I’m thinking as he sits down.

While he gets comfortable, I notice he’s even drinking the same Modelo as I am.

Great.

Where did this guy come from? And why do I like him already?

Did this guy actually buy my $48.85 ticket? When? Why is he so late?

And why does he have the same great taste as me?

I’ve stopped paying attention to the music. I’m too busy doing math – trying to work out when I listed the ticket and when he must’ve bought it.

Then I remember what I’ve learned from meeting Deb earlier: get out of your head and just talk.

Now socially warmed up, at the next break, I turn to him:

“Hey, I’m Ananth, nice to meet you. You missed a few great openers.”

“Hey man, I’m Joe. Sorry I’m late. I just moved here recently and didn’t know Maynard was in town. I can’t believe I managed to get a ticket to this!”

“Yeah, it’s a ball. I’m glad you made it! Did you just buy your ticket?”

“Yup, like an hour ago. It suddenly popped up. Best part was I only paid a hundred bucks for it, can you believe it?”

The stage is in front of me, but the real performance is now happening inside – a kaleidoscope of emotions dancing to the intense drumbeat of irony.

I take a long sip of beer, trying to let it go.

“Are you a big fan of prog?”, I ask him.

“I live for it. This is my third time seeing Maynard, actually. How about you?”

“My fourth! Where else have you seen him? I’ve watched Tool in Austin, Chicago...”

And just like that, conversation takes off.

Leaning closer with each sentence, voices slightly raised over the music, we’re talking about obscure bands like we’ve known each other for years.

Phones now in hand, we’re scrolling through decades of media, hunting for concert clips, reliving favorite nights, and telling stories behind them.

It turns out, Joe used to live in Dallas, near my family.

More importantly - we were both at The Ocean Collective show there in Feb ‘24.

Craziest of all? Joe has a clip of my best friend and me headbanging at that show.

What a tiny, coincidence-filled world.

Talking music with a friend, to the backdrop of downtuned guitars and odd time signatures.

It really doesn’t get much better than this.

Which app should I have used to find you, Joe?

A final round of thunderous applause.

One last curtsy toward the audience. The curtains draw down.

The lights turn a hazy white, and I hear the murmur of a crowd unwilling to return to reality.

As Joe and I start the slow shuffle-climb up the stairs toward the exit, there’s only one thing left to end the night right.

I need to ask Joe if he’d like to hang out again.

And I need to ask if he can send me the videos from The Ocean show.

While I’m busy deciding the best way to make the ask (Insta? Phone? Drive link?) I don’t see the other fans folding into our line, putting space between us.

It takes me a moment to notice.

By the time I look up, Joe's at the top of the stairs. Almost at the exit.

I’m twenty seconds behind, separated by a crowd.

I can’t lose this.

I can’t lose another chance to make the kind of friend I’ve been searching for.

I push through bodies. Stumble onto the street. Head swiveling, eyes scanning.

It’s dark. Drizzling. Fans splitting in all directions.

Everyone’s wearing red now. I’m lightheaded.

Blonde? Glasses? Where?!

I’m trying to fight it, but reality slowly sets in. My heart sinks.

Joe’s gone.

I’ll never see him again.

Just like I’ll never see Deb again.

Or the dozens of amazing people I’ve done this with, over and over again.

Standing in a crowd of hundreds, I’ve never felt more alone.