Turnin’ Tricks & Tips To Get the Best Damn Concert Tickets You Can

I rarely get hot and bothered and exert an excess amount of physical energy, because you know, the couch, but when I do, you can bet your ass it has something to do with music. Now when it comes to getting concert tickets for my favorite bands/musicians, I consider myself a pro.

Up-close-and-personal is what I want to be when my favorite band rolls into town. And I’ve been pretty successful. Nostril-seeing successful. Hugging-Hanni-El-Khatib-successful.

 

Yesssss, let’s just relive this moment of glory.

 

So while my skill set is mostly limited to lifting a wine glass, I thought I’d share my fight-to-the-death concert ticket scoring moves because, sometimes you can’t win ‘em all, but you sure as hell can beat out the next person.

 

How I look when I try to get concert tickets.

 

1. Be Nosy

First — sign up for your favorite musicians/bands’ mailing lists. Usually, this gets you access to pre-sale tickets. They typically send you a special code so you’ll have first dibs over all the other uninformed peasants.

Next, follow the band on Facebook and Twitter.

Another helpful site to become extra-stalker-ish is Bandsintown. It’s the easiest way to get mass notifications of when…well, your bands are in town. Track your favorite acts by adding them to your queue and you’ll get email alerts the second a tour is added in your city. You can also view past and upcoming tours to make you extra jealous and extra sad that you can’t attend.

 

2. Keep Your Whore Mouth Shut

You will turn into Judas in this step. Potentially jilt a lover or a best friend.

Do NOT announce your ticket purchasing plans. Keep them on the down low and off social media and out of your circle of friends and the general population. The less people who know about pre-sale, the better.

 

3. Cancel Plans

I don’t care if it’s the rapture, the instant you know the date tickets go on sale, mark your calendar. Note the time zone.

Come purchasing day, I don’t give a good goddamn what your plans are. You cancel that shit. Call in sick to work. Lock up your pets and children. Seclude yourself. There must be no interruptions. All the focus is on your tickets. Practice sour bitchface if someone dares question your actions.

 

I will cut you.

 

4. Be a Multitasking Mofo

Okay, the day of purchase is here. Be prepared to multi-task like you’ve never multitasked before. You have three options to get tickets.  And you have to be fast.

First, use the website. This isn’t rocket science.

Second, dial the box office number on your phone and be ready to call if the website won’t work or if you aren’t getting the tickets you want. Practice your whiny voice and be prepared to pitch a fit.

Third, if the vendor is Ticketmaster, download the app. The free mobile app “typically allocates tickets especially for mobile sales” AND you get to bypass that pesky security code.

 

Welp, I’ve always considered myself more of a cock gobbler, but this’ll have to do…

 

5. Two Is the Best Number

Do NOT volunteer to buy more than two tickets. For you and a friend. For you and your partner. Keep it easy. Having to buy more than two royally screws you over. It’s easier to buy two good tickets up close, than having to wrangle four together. You’ll get pushed to the back of the bus…and the nosebleed sections.

 

6. Have a Happy Trigger Finger

If you’re buying online, get on ten minutes before the tickets go on pre-sale. Say it’s 10am. At 9:58am, log in with the pre-sale code and starting hitting refresh. Hit it over and over until you get access. A bit Arkham Asylum? Perhaps. However, when I do this I always wind up two rows from the stage, so I ain’t stopping my OCD for the men in white coats.

 

7. Don’t Be Picky

Now you’re logged on. Work fast and pull up the seating chart. Zero in on what you want and go for it. Be decisive; do not take a few lovely minutes to ponder where you’d like to sit. Getting the best tickets means just selecting your seat STAT. If the tickets are gone when you try to purchase, don’t be picky. Just back that ass up a row and try again.

 

8. Have a Plan B

Yes, Plan B may come in handy AFTER the concert, but right now, this isn’t what I’m talking about.

Okay, so your best laid plans failed, despite my amazingly awesome tips, and you got shit tickets or there were no seats left and you opted out.  Calm down; do not shake a ragey fist at the screen. All is not lost. For die-hard fans, if you still want the best seats in the house and are prepared to pony up some cold hard cash, head to TickPick or StubHub where the scalpers live. These options are pricey and infuriating  BUT if you’re willing to pay for it — they got it. Because, ‘Merica.

 

So there you go. Now you have an action plan for snagging the best tickets. Steps that don’t involve throwing elbows and sharpening shivs to get what you want. Although, that would make for a mighty fun blog post.

 

Jack White knows what’s up. Yeah, he does.

 

 

Two Concerts. Rock Hard Appreciation.

Last week, I experienced two amazing concerts within days of each other. Fiona “Mary Jane Baked” Apple and Amanda Fucking Palmer. Two very different and not-so different musicians/writers/women. Let’s start with…

 

Fiona Apple

Album: The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than the Driver of the Screw and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do

My Song of the Moment: Hot Knife

 Dear god. I want the woman’s arms. Lean, ripped, and ready to rip throats.

CAN I HAZ?

I saw Fiona Apple at the Ikeda Theatre in Mesa. A great venue full of wine and elderly lady ushers with razor sharp fingernails. It was a grand night.

Some observations: Apple is a true, true musician. She’s a proper artist. I like to imagine Ms. Apple drinking gin, sitting sullen in her studio, pouring her heart and soul onto a pad of paper. Or maybe she just belts out a tune. I don’t know; do I look like a mind reader, people? Compared to her, I’m some sort of hack. Drinking cheap, terrible wine as I harass people on Twitter with one hand, while slopping down some sort of cogent words with the other. HERP DERP PURPLE?

This is how a pen works, right?

But seriously. She is a work of art. She feels her words. Listening to her music on CD, sure, I get the lyrics. I hear her pain. Yet, in person…eavesdropping on her velvety, angry voice, seemed almost intrusive. It was so personal, I felt like I should have bought her dinner afterwards; maybe tossed in a handy or something.

And the other thing –the audience can go take a flying leap. She wasn’t there to talk to us. We were the voyeurs. She danced and gyrated and lived in her magical brain. For one night, I wanted to be her. I wanted those crazies. Oh, god, what I could do with those.

I could dance like this is what.

Or this.

It was surreal seeing this concert. Watching it with a best friend since childhood, both of us loving Fiona, and now seeing her in our 30’s…I kinda wept (also out of depression that I’m nearly 30). And my friend and I both agreed: Fiona doesn’t live for her audience. In my opinion, we’re just something her genius has to suffer through. She barely tossed us a grunt until the end when she uttered something vaguely resembling this:

Fiona Apple: “I only have two things to say, Phoenix. One – You know, I always thought you got paid when you contributed a song to a movie soundtrack. But fuck the labels! They screw you out of your paycheck. Two – For all those small titted women out there who hate padded bras, you know what I do with my bra pads? Yeah. I tape them to the tips of my shoes. Ok. Got that? Now here’s my last song, bitches.”

And yep. Last song. Done. No one even attempted to clap for an encore. Because she’s Fiona Apple and fuck you that’s why.

 

Amanda Palmer

Album: Theatre is Evil

My Song of the Moment: Lost

Then, on the opposite wavelength is the gift that is Amanda Palmer. Can you tell I have a huge lady boner right now?

Chalkboards get me so hot.

This too.

First of all, let’s not even talk about how she is a fan’s dream, a marketing wonder and an incredible performer. She left her label. Started a Kickstarter project and made 1.2 million dollars to fund her record and tour. Watch this video and tell me this isn’t genius.

She interacts on twitter with her 677K followers (I’ve been retweeted, woot!). She networks with fans – asking musicians in each city to play in the band (don’t even get me started on the controversy because I’m on her side).

She’s good at it. She’s honest about it. Hell, she’s married to Neil Gaiman. Double the lady boner, m’dears.

She loves her fans. And they love her. We’re human and she’s awesome. We all feed on the instant gratification and bonding that is Amanda Palmer.

Having no one to attend this concert with (Crazy, right?!) I bribed a friend with beer and wonderful company to attend.

She’s forcing this smile so hard right now.

 

Just kidding – I actually threatened her at knife point, but that’s another story for my prison monologues.

I shall call it “Porcelain Magic”.

The Crescent Ballroom in Phoenix was pretty awesome. Intimate. Fun. It was a place I’ll definitively catch a musical act at again.

I like to take camera shots while on the toilet.

And despite the fact that this concert didn’t end well (I had crippling stomach pains and had to leave in the middle of “Trout Heart Replica”) it was still wonderful.

Amanda Palmer introduced personally each opening act. She interacted, tweeted, hid in the balcony, and played a set where she ran through the crowd, chasing her guitarist. She trusts her fans. No one mauled her. We were polite.

“Touch me and this mic goes up your ass.”

Concerts make me tear up. Honest. I only go to concerts where I feel passion for the musician. I love the feeling of camaraderie and intimacy that goes on. The Crescent Ballroom was such a place. Amanda Palmer was the act. Despite so many different people – I saw a drag queen, a woman wearing something resembling a Renaissance costume, a 60 year-old man, and me in my sultry Target flip flops and Wonder Woman cuff  – everyone could have sang Kumbaya and packed a bong together. We were all there together.

People were kind. People were friendly. The woman behind me, wearing super shiny red glittery eye shadow, complimented the fact that I had memorized all of the lyrics (I KNOW RIGHT? SWOON). She wanted to dance. And believe me, I’m a dancer. But on this night. I was sick. God damn, it pains me so. And when I was doubled over, she touched my back and offered me her water. Kindness of strangers. I want to find her and thank her because that made my night. And maybe I’m a sap that it makes me all warm and fuzzy inside but WHY CAN’T THE WORLD ALWAYS BE LIKE THIS?

Anyway.

Dimming the lights, Amanda read from something called “The Box”, where before the show they asked anyone who wanted to drop in their most personal secrets. Sure we got things like, “My dog watched me masturbating” and “I like to poop alot.” I swear the last one wasn’t mine.

But then we also got these:

“My mother choked me when I was 14.”

“I almost gave up my unborn daughter because he asked me to. I didn’t. I gave him up.”

“It took almost killing myself to completely feel loneliness.”

Well, hell.

Yeah. Behind me the woman was sobbing and I was tearing up too.

It really was a beautiful night. Except for the unglamorous gassy cramps. I blame it on the PBR.

In the end, it was two different musicians. Two great experiences. At Fiona Apple, I felt such awe and wonder and envy at this singer/songwriter…at Amanda Palmer, I felt peace and kindness and love.  I appreciate their music and I appreciate these great women for making me want to become a better writer and artist.

 

Musica Fantastica and Cake.

Ask me what I love.

If you said cake then you are correct and if you said Rob Lowe than you are correct as well, so let me rephrase the question. Ask me what I love outside of food and 1980s teen stars.

 

This is Rob Lowe’s I-Like-Cake face.

Wait for iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit: The wide world of music.

Tunes. Vibrations. Something with soul and grit.

 

Cosby Sweater agrees. “Herp, dur, derp…”

I am a big music lover. I’m not picky or exclusive in my music choices either. I can sing show tunes with the best of them. Yes, my iPod holds Spice Girls (ah, fond/embarrassing memories) and John Mayer (shudder) but it also holds Creedence Clearwater, Neko Case and Cold War Kids.

Music is my necessary survival skill. It’s a must have for everywhere I am.  Cooking? Cleaning? There’s music. Driving with the Mother? Woman, hold your tongue, MUSIC IS PLAYING. Co-workers, do you see these earbuds in my ears? They ain’t for decoration, bitches. I got music goin on.

The most important role music plays in my everyday, wine-drenched life is when it makes sweet, dangerous love to my writing. I am one who cannot write without music. I use it to fuel my mood and my stories.

 

This is how you create music, right? RIGHT?

 

When I write I need my music to be inspirational, but I’m not talking about Yanni or Mozart-inspired. Something with oaked-soaked words and languorous vocab.  Pumped, upbeat, expressive. For me, it’s all about damn good lyrics.  

Fiona Apple. fun. Janis Joplin. Jimi.  Alanis Morissette. Amanda Fucking Palmer. Feist. Fitz & the Tantrums. Sublime. Annie Lennox.  Coconut Records. Elvis Presley. The Doors. Rilo Kiley. Jenny Lewis. Loretta Lynn. The Velvet Underground. Garth Brooks. The Grateful Dead. Tom Waits. The Dresden Dolls. Regina Spektor…

The list could go on and on.

Kind of like Dog the Bounty Hunter, music also tracks my frame of mind and mood. Every month I start a new Playlist: February 2012, March 2012, April 2012…etc.

I like this.

Because when I write a specific story and I go back to the playlists I remember my mood. I remember the angst or the giddiness, the fist pumping or the writer’s block. A good or bad blast to the past I’ll take.

Sometimes I’ll find a two-year old playlist, listen, and be like WTF? Was I on the verge of slitting my wrists while downing Drano? Then I’ll remember what I wrote during that time frame and it all makes sense. It makes you remember. It’s a great growth curve.

 

Pains so good.

 

It makes me wonder how other writers use music. The authors who thank the musicians they’ve listened to in their acknowledgements for the inspiration.

Yeah. That’s me.

How about you?