The Times Magazine 5his is a column about
Adele – except it’s not,
really. It’s about any and
all gigantic, outdoor gigs in
the 21st century.
Last month, Adele
announced two concerts in
London, in Hyde Park. The
130,000 tickets sold out in
less than 90 minutes. Social media was full of
people posting, “I am No 67,000 in the queue!
Pray for me!” and, “My internet has crashed just
as I pressed ‘Buy’! JESUS, WHY HAVE YOU
FORSAKEN ME AT MY HOUR OF NEED!”
The ticket prices are a straightforward
demonstration of market forces: “general
admission” tickets are £90; “Gold Circle” tickets,
£273; “Diamond”, £379; “VIP Terrace”, £434;
and “Ultimate Bar Diamond Experience”, £579.
Here’s a quick guide for those who have not
attended a gig like this: the more you pay for
your ticket, the more of Adele’s face you can
see. Gold and Diamond get you near the front.
“General Admission”, meanwhile, is behind a
fence, roughly 100m from the stage.
Obviously, as far as capitalism is concerned,
this is all basic stuff. You pay more, you get
more. Except “more” is a relative term. I’ve
“done” the Gold and Diamond “packages” at
these mega-gigs. A few years ago, I took the
kids to see Justin Bieber, because they loved
him. At the time, Bieber was going through a
“troubled” phase – he was young, overworked
and ill. At one point in the gig, he just sat
down on the stage, looking tearful, and started
to tell the rambling, feverish story of how he’d
used a inhaler to combat his snotty cold and
had an accident with it: “Guys – Sinex really,
really hurts when it gets in your eye.”
Far off, in the distance, his hardcore fans- the ones with the £90 tickets, stuck behind
the Pleb Fence – cried out, “Poor Justin!” and,
“We love you!” In the Diamond Enclosure,
however – a couple of feet from the stage - I was surrounded by the on-fleek daughters
of oligarchs who continued taking selfies or
talking on Snapchat to their friends.
No wonder Bieber was looking so
disillusioned – during his entire world tour,
the only audience members he would have
been able to make eye contact with were the
bored children of billionaires. Whenever my
children screamed, “WE LOVE YOU, JUSTIN,”
the people around us stared – as if, despite
being mere feet away from the stage, they’d
never seen “fandom” before. Maybe they hadn’t.
Because this is, increasingly, how big gigs work.
T
CAITLIN MORAN
I don’t want to party with the rich
Forget the gold circle: I’ll be behind the Pleb Fence with the real fans
ROBERT WILSON
Some singers and bands get this: that going
for maximum profit comes at an emotional
cost – to them. When the Cure played Hyde
Park, they allowed fans who arrived early into
the Gold Enclosure at the front. Billy Joel
never puts the front-row seats to his concerts
on sale: “I’d look down and see rich people
puffing on a cigar, [going] ‘Entertain me, piano
man.’” Instead, he gets his road crew to find
his “real fans” – “They’re usually at the back,
in the cheap seats” – and has them herded
into the prime spaces: “This way you’ve got
people in the front row that are really happy
to be there. Real fans.”
I’m not being a raging Marxist communist- as with nearly every issue, I am that most
uncool thing: a centrist mum. I don’t mind
wealthy people being able to buy “premium
experiences”. Fair enough. But I don’t want
everyone to forget that this is a new and
very flawed invention. As an old woman,
I’d like to gently remind everyone that
the patience, fandom and love involved in
standing by the crash barrier from 1.30pm - so that, at 9.30pm, you’re 10ft away from
Adele, making eye contact and screaming,
“I LOVE YOU, ADELE! YOUR SONGS
MEAN A GREAT DEAL TO ME,
PERSONALLY!” – is as fundamental to what
makes live music great as the volume being
loud and the dry ice being copious.
Rich people might be excellent at many
things – making generous bids at charity
auctions; hiring attractive personal trainers - but, by and large, one of those things is not
“going nuts and creating an atmosphere at the
front of gigs”. Rich people do not “bring the
party”. When Justin Bieber shouted, “Let me
see you put your hands in the air!”, I genuinely
saw wealthy young women looking around - as if searching for their maids, to get them
to put their hands in the air instead.
Vibe-wise, you need to put the right people
in the right place: fans down the front; VIPs in
swanky terraces at the side, where they have
an excellent view but don’t drain too much of
the atmosphere. Or, as John Lennon succinctly
put it, “The people in the cheap seats, clap.
The rest of you, just rattle your jewellery.”
It’s 100m away, behind the Pleb Fence,
where the fans are singing along, that the real
night out with Adele will be happening. As you
leave these 21st-century outdoor gigs, you can’t
help but be left with the impression that, while
they’re making a lot of money, the headliners
have basically just disinvited themselves from
their own fabulous party. n
Around us the
daughters of oligarchs
talked on Snapchat
- and stared when my
kids screamed their
love at Justin Bieber
Banca do Antfer
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