I was shut out when Springsteen tix went on sale this morning. Someone, somewhere, must have been having a little fun with us: Among the verification words that popped up when I was trying the TicketMaster site were arouse and unplaid, as in, “Hey, wouldn’t it be arousing if Bruce were to change up the setlist the second night to include some songs he left unplaid the night before?” Or, if you prefer, “Those flannel pajamas would be much more arousing if they were unplaid.”
Mac, my friend-for-life before he did me this kindness, called to say he’d secured four rear-of-stage lower-level tix for Night One. (The second show wasn’t put on sale until 15 minutes after the first, and though it wasn’t announced in advance, its existence was an open secret.) Off I went to the optometrist, where I spent about 400 pre-tax ducats for new glasses and contact lenses. Upon my return home, I promptly spent nearly as much — $345, on the (ahem) secondary market, sadly — for a pair of General Admission floor tix for Night Two. Call me a sucker, call me an enabler. They still cost less than the pairs for the Friday-night show in Philadelphia on Oct. 5 that I’d been eyeing, and I’ll probably hear a greater variety of tunes on back-to-back nights in the same city than I would attending the first night in Philly and then the first in DC five weeks later. Verily, my powers of rationalizaton are mighty! I’d wanted to believe I was too mature, too fiscally responsible, too smart to do this sort of thing anymore. The truth hurts. But the truth rocks, too.
Besides, I published something pretty much every day this week. So it’s not like I haven’t been earning my indulgences. See Ah, Wilderness! at ACT; KT Tunstall’s new album, Drastic Fantastic; Nick Lowe at the Birchmere; Suzanne Vega, too. Plus a little — very little — something about the exhibit of Sophia Tolstoy’s photos at the American University Museum.
Next week: PJ Harvey and — I hope — Rilo Kiley.