Dear Phish, Bruuuuuuuce, what's left of the Dead, et al.:
In the last month, you have all announced that you're graciously going to come to town or somewhere within driving distance of my town to collect my money in return for smooshing me into a crowd of tens of thousands of people, with pretty good odds that the ones sitting near me will talk through the entire show. I will also have the opportunity to pay $10 or so to park, something north of six bucks for a glass of beer-colored swill, and it wouldn't shock me to find pay toilets. I must respectfully send my regrets.
I know you have a marketable product. Many of my friends are attending one or more of your concerts. In the case of Bruuuuuuuce, you could make the argument that I don't know what I'm missing. I'm sure the Boss will put on a truly spiffnificent show. But you know what? The last time I was in Hersheypark for a mega-concert was the Rolling Stones. Between the chick next to me singing at the top of her lungs and the jackass behind me spilling five bucks worth of Bud Light on us, "This may be the last time, I don't know" took on a new and deeper meaning.
Apparently you guys haven't set your price points too high yet, although I relish the thought of scalpers standing outside your venues whining with a fistful of unsold tickets. You have, however, made it easier for me to resolve to find musical entertainment alternatives. I will make it a point to go hear more local or regional artists. I will purchase music directly from them, knowing my contribution will go directly into their pocket. Most importantly, when it comes to making music, I'm reminded of one of my favorite movie quotes: "**** you, Jobu, I do it myself."
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