Somewhere, probably in the attic, is a bag of ticket stubs. I don’t know if I saved the one from my first concert (Joni Mitchell, Page Auditorium at Duke) when I was young enough that my sister had to drive me.
Going to concerts used to be my job, or at least part of my job. When I first moved to Greensboro, music was one of my beats. This was before the Charlotte Coliseum, before the Dean Dome, before the outdoor arenas. Any major concert tour in the nation stopped here — often their ONLY stop in North Carolina.
I reviewed a concert just about every weekend. The Cars, when they had just burst onto the scene. Prince, on the “Purple Rain” tour. Tina Turner, around the time of “Private Dancer.” (The Miami Herald reprinted my review to advance the show there, which was cool.) There were many, many others, including some German heavy metal band that is probably at least 70 percent responsible for what my husband will attest is substantial hearing loss on my part.
I actually got burned out on it, and when I stopped reviewing, I pretty much stopped going to concerts at all. First it was the hassle associated with the big arena shows, then it was the cost, which became more and more unbelievable over the years. There were fewer and fewer people who seemed worth it. Jimmy Buffett? Yep, always a good time.
And then there is the Boss. More than any other performer I ever saw, Bruce gave you your money’s worth. I was fanatical enough in my youth to catch him on two consecutive weekends, in Columbia, S.C., (where I had GREAT tickets), and in Greensboro (where I was in the top row BEHIND a column). That was in college, before my reviewing days. As much as I love him, I haven’t seen him in years. The last time he was around here, I thought about going, but didn’t because Herb (“Why is he yelling at me?” he asked when I played “Born to Run”) wasn’t interested. I really regretted not going.
This time, I hooked up with a friend and coworker in the quest for tickets, which the Internet has made a win-win for scalpers and a lose-lose for many fans. I wasn’t very hopeful, especially when they announced they’d only be selling 9,000 tickets. She has dial-up and I have broadband, so I volunteered to tilt at this particular windmill. I was so nervous, I scoped out the site in advance and created an account — she warned me that if you don’t fill out the info FAST, you time-out and have to start all over again. I clicked the ticket button about 10 minutes before tickets went on sale and it went into auto-refresh mode. 9:58….. 9:59…..10:00
I was ready to sit there for an hour or so, but three refresh cycles past 10 a.m., I was on the page to select tickets. It scared me so bad, I almost fell out of my chair. I didn’t bother to read anything on the page, just selected “Best Available” and “2″ as fast as I could. And got back something that said B-FLR, Row 13. My hands were shaking as I filled in the few open fields (thank GOD I set up the account in advance!) and clicked my way through purchase.
Row 13? Couldn’t be. With the confirmation page saved in PDF form, I went to the coliseum web page. FLR really does stand for floor. And row 13 is really 13 rows from the stage.
Oh. My. GOD! I still didn’t believe it until I got the confirmation email which, under the seat assignments, said simply: premium.
I’m still about halfway convinced that I’m going to wake up and realize I’ve been dreaming. Or show up to pick up the tickets and find there’s been a mix-up. Until then, I think I’ll just walk around with this stupid grin on my face and enjoy it.
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Now THAT’S Boss!
Somewhere, probably in the attic, is a bag of ticket stubs. I don’t know if I saved the one from my first concert (Joni Mitchell, Page Auditorium at Duke) when I was young enough that my sister had to drive me.
Going to concerts used to be my job, or at least part of my job. When I first moved to Greensboro, music was one of my beats. This was before the Charlotte Coliseum, before the Dean Dome, before the outdoor arenas. Any major concert tour in the nation stopped here — often their ONLY stop in North Carolina.
I reviewed a concert just about every weekend. The Cars, when they had just burst onto the scene. Prince, on the “Purple Rain” tour. Tina Turner, around the time of “Private Dancer.” (The Miami Herald reprinted my review to advance the show there, which was cool.) There were many, many others, including some German heavy metal band that is probably at least 70 percent responsible for what my husband will attest is substantial hearing loss on my part.
I actually got burned out on it, and when I stopped reviewing, I pretty much stopped going to concerts at all. First it was the hassle associated with the big arena shows, then it was the cost, which became more and more unbelievable over the years. There were fewer and fewer people who seemed worth it. Jimmy Buffett? Yep, always a good time.
And then there is the Boss. More than any other performer I ever saw, Bruce gave you your money’s worth. I was fanatical enough in my youth to catch him on two consecutive weekends, in Columbia, S.C., (where I had GREAT tickets), and in Greensboro (where I was in the top row BEHIND a column). That was in college, before my reviewing days. As much as I love him, I haven’t seen him in years. The last time he was around here, I thought about going, but didn’t because Herb (“Why is he yelling at me?” he asked when I played “Born to Run”) wasn’t interested. I really regretted not going.
This time, I hooked up with a friend and coworker in the quest for tickets, which the Internet has made a win-win for scalpers and a lose-lose for many fans. I wasn’t very hopeful, especially when they announced they’d only be selling 9,000 tickets. She has dial-up and I have broadband, so I volunteered to tilt at this particular windmill. I was so nervous, I scoped out the site in advance and created an account — she warned me that if you don’t fill out the info FAST, you time-out and have to start all over again. I clicked the ticket button about 10 minutes before tickets went on sale and it went into auto-refresh mode. 9:58….. 9:59…..10:00
I was ready to sit there for an hour or so, but three refresh cycles past 10 a.m., I was on the page to select tickets. It scared me so bad, I almost fell out of my chair. I didn’t bother to read anything on the page, just selected “Best Available” and “2″ as fast as I could. And got back something that said B-FLR, Row 13. My hands were shaking as I filled in the few open fields (thank GOD I set up the account in advance!) and clicked my way through purchase.
Row 13? Couldn’t be. With the confirmation page saved in PDF form, I went to the coliseum web page. FLR really does stand for floor. And row 13 is really 13 rows from the stage.
Oh. My. GOD! I still didn’t believe it until I got the confirmation email which, under the seat assignments, said simply: premium.
I’m still about halfway convinced that I’m going to wake up and realize I’ve been dreaming. Or show up to pick up the tickets and find there’s been a mix-up. Until then, I think I’ll just walk around with this stupid grin on my face and enjoy it.