12 11.14.
Even before
the pandemic,
disappointment
was as
much a part of
concertgoing as
mysterious
Ticketmaster
fees.Illustration by R. O. Blechmanand dynamic action shots from concert
photographers. The band looked heroic,
and their audience of geriatric millenni-
als looked capable of having a thrilling
night out — even if, in reality, we had been
sipping our exorbitantly priced Heinek-
ens an escalator ride away from summer
associates on Bumble dates.
Even before the pandemic, of course,
disappointment was as much a part of con-
certgoing as mysterious Ticketmaster fees
are. On fi lm, concerts are never anything
less than mythic dramas, with starry-eyed
audiences watching their world be undone
onstage. In real life, the person you were
supposed to go with bails, the wait outside
makes you miss half the opening act, you
can’t fi nd a good view, your legs ache. But
with a lengthy pandemic standing between
most people and the last time they saw a
show, it’s easier than ever to be drawn in by
the promise that live music will be exactly
as magical as our screens make it look.
Late in 2020, the urgency of defending
live music venues from fi nancial ruin
became an object of rare bipartisan agree-
ment, and a measure called the Save Our
Stages Act was converted into one sec-
tion of the federal pandemic response.
With our stages, or at least their owners,
temporarily rescued by an infusion of
money, the energy of a reopening New
York City initially focused more on out-
door spaces. The modern indoor concert,
with all its structure and metal detectors,
was deferred, mostly, to the late summer
of 2021, and the autumn beyond — when,
it was hoped, all this Covid stuff might be
much closer to done with.
Soon enough, though, August was end-
ing, the Delta variant was surging, and the
rapper Azealia Banks was throwing a sex
toy into a packed audience at the newly
reopened Webster Hall. On social media,
the crowds at the Rolling Loud hip-hop
festival, in Queens, certainly seemed
loud and rolling, even if Rolling Stone
described the event as ‘‘overpoliced.’’
Live music seemed to be much as it was
before March 2020 — maybe even crazi-
er. This felt deeply uncomfortable, even
horrifying; it also looked like a ton of fun.
As fall has swept in, and New Yorkers
have learned to fold our vaccine cards so
they fi t in our wallets, some of that hor-
ror has begun to fade. With each show I
attend, the experience inches closer to
the epic scenes I see on my screen. The
On his song ‘‘Jump In,’’ Wale rhymes: ‘‘Th ey say cappin I say wellin, I ain’t bout to switch
it up.’’ Both words are synonyms for lie. And I’m reminded of home, how as a youngin
in Prince George’s County, Md., ‘‘wellin’’ could be malicious, but was as often a way to
invent a world better than the one we live in. Airea’s ‘‘From the Pocket of His Lip’’ takes me
back to those days, and how startling it is that even on the saddest days, with the saddest
memories, we do more than curse with our pink confessions. Maybe our lies do come
from a strange man with an oboe, who reminds us of our fl aws, and the fl aws of those we
love, and how they, too, might play beautifully.two won’t ever match up entirely, just as
they didn’t before the pandemic. Live
music is built on fantasy; it requires us
to engage in a routine of forgetting how
uncomfortable, heartbreaking or even
frightening it can feel to attend a concert.
We endure those discomforts for the sake
of the shows that do turn out as magical as
they look, even if those great nights onlytruly exist in the anticipation you carry
into them and the nostalgia you feel after-
ward. On video, we can preserve each
show as we feel it ought to have been.
This is the job of concert photographers:
to see each show through the eyes of the
person most in touch with it, the person
having the best time. Even if that person
is in the future, staring at their phone.Screenland
Poem Selected by Reginald Dwayne BettsFrom the Pocket of His Lip
By Airea D. Matthewsmoke rose under my father’s tongue. There, a strange man with
an oboe sat on the ridge of his tooth, playing wide vibratos
through nimbusfog. I asked why here was there, too.Fine tuning the orchestra of lies.
I nodded. They play beautifully, don’t they?
Especially in your key. Hum for me.
Reginald Dwayne Betts is a poet and lawyer. He created Freedom Reads, an initiative to curate microlibraries
and install them in prisons across the country. His latest collection of poetry, ‘‘Felon,’’ explores the post-incarceration
experience. His 2018 article in Th e New York Times Magazine about his journey from teenage carjacker to working
lawyer won a National Magazine Award. He is a 2021 MacArthur fellow. Airea D. Matthews is a poet whose
work includes ‘‘Simulacra’’ (Yale University Press, 2017), which won the 2016 Yale Series of Younger Poets prize. She
is an assistant professor of creative writing at Bryn Mawr College.