I had the pleasure of going to see Caribou recently. The man and his supporting band were perfect. Heavy bass, high vocals and sharp beats; I expected nothing less.
But the crowd was beyond sub-par. Before they even came on the stage, there was a fellow almost blackout drunk behind me and as the show went on I noticed all around how sloppy people were. I was stuck in the middle of a giant vortex of debauchery. During “Sun”, in-between being elbowed multiple times in the head and having a whole pint spilled on my feet, the thought occurred to me: “Why would you pay a lot of money for an experience you’re not even going to remember?”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for drinking and having fun, but if you paid for a ticket to the show, then I think it’s OK to assume that you are a fan of Caribou and if you’re a fan, wouldn’t you want to at least enjoy the music? These guys came all the way from Canada to put on this show. No matter how big they are, or how much they’re getting paid, you should fucking respect that.
This is not the first time I’ve dealt with this either. I was fourth row at an Interpol show, and there was a man in front of me blitzed out of his mind blabbering on about some battle gear startup he had invested in. He got so out of hand that security was called to remove him. Mind you, these were not the cheapest of seats.
There’s a time and place for everything. Clubs exist for a reason; pubs exist for a reason. Don’t show up to a folktronica shoegaze concert and drunkenly try to start a mosh pit. Apparently I was one of the squarest people there for sipping on two whole pints throughout the night and dancing without causing bodily harm to others and myself. Afterwards on the way to the cloakroom, I saw a girl fall into the wall multiple times trying to wait in line. I’m pretty certain she wasn’t even sure where she was, let alone which city. I cannot exaggerate enough that at least 70% of the crowd was wasted. I’ve seen more sober people leave The Nest at 3am.
I hate being a judgmental person, so if paying copious amounts of money for an experience you could have replicated for significantly less at some spot in Shoreditch is your thing, than be my guest, but don’t include me in your downward spiral. That’s where I cross the line.The best part of the drunk guy behind me (we’ll call him Man-bun for the purposes of this story because of his stupid hairdo) was that his friends were trying to calm him down – not only was Man-bun ruining my night, but his mates’ as well.
After his 5th or 6th drink, he started calling all of the women around him “cunts”, fell down, and leaned on strangers for support. I wish Man-bun’s story could have ended there, but I had the pleasure of witnessing him vomit outside all of the beer he had managed to ingest and not spill on me. You’re a real champ, Man-bun. I hope you drop £83 on the Field Day weekend tickets and don’t remember a single thing.