Recently, I had the pleasure of going to a concert at the Fillmore in Charlotte. The wildly energetic and eclectic violinist Lindsey Stirling was performing and my friend Claire and I were anticipating magical riffs from her flying fiddle bow.
In the seventies and early eighties, I had been to many concerts, including one at the original Fillmore where I saw Alice Cooper heave a spear into the audience, later found to be rubber tipped. However, I haven’t been to a full scale one in at least twenty years and certainly not since I had read an article about the new trend toward VIP seating and genetic testing to ensure quality audiences at concerts and festivals.
That article made it clear that there was an increasing separation between concert goers, with the regular ticket holders crowded into designated spaces (referred to as the gulag) and the VIPs (known as the Mitt Romneys) having a lot more space and amenities such as private bars and bathrooms with working toilets.
I had never been to the Charlotte Fillmore and I decided to upgrade to VIP status mainly because Claire can’t stand to mingle with the common people, having been raised in a castle out near Grundy.
The upgrade cost an extra 85 dollars a ticket and as advertised we were able to walk right in, and we were quickly admitted to our table, the last one in a row of about 10 along with other choice seating for perhaps 35 people. We did have a private bar and bathrooms and there was space to dance off to the side.
The regular fans didn’t do quite as well and were crowded into spaces marked by electrified blue lines, didn’t have seats, and were not allowed by prompt and vigilant ushers with tasers to stand outside of the lines to dance or to watch since such behavior would affect the sight lines of the VIP customers, the 1% of the music viewing world.
Now Claire was really enjoying the VIP treatment (she is descended from Irish nobility and prefers if I call her princess or at least m’lady) but I was growing increasingly uncomfortable. I come from an impoverished Inuit village on the Bering sea where none of my eight siblings had a full set of clothes, and together we had only seven shoes, three of them left ones, so we were constantly borrowing when one of us went out. Our village, Souldrain, was so poor that we had only one song and the 12 families had to share it. Even the song was a bit skimpy, with only three words to it, one of them being Buttercup. Now why a song with buttercup ended up in an Inuit village evades me, but I remember the nights we had the song, things could get pretty wild with blubber fights and amulet chucking.
Anyway, Claire keep shouting at the regular ticket holders to earn more money so they could get VIP seats and I was slightly embarrassed because of my upbringing so when the concert ended I was okay with that and fortunately my chauffeur had the Rolls or Claire would have been impossible to deal with.
Overall, even though it goes against my socialist leanings, I would probably buy the VIP tickets again. Not waiting on line to get in was a definite benefit. I also liked the ability to sit down when I wanted, the extra space to dance a bit, and the private bathrooms and bar. Next time, however, I will disguise myself so I can try to maintain my egalitarian status.
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