Surrounded by dull, obnoxious yuppies, old blue hairs, bored college students and hyperactive kids. Everybody’s got a cell phone. We’re looking for a patch of grass to lay our blanket but they’ve oversold the lawn seats again and everybody’s packed in like sardines. We finally squeeze into a 4-foot by 4-foot spot next to a rapidly diminishing aisle. It’s standing room only behind us. An aging, sagging blonde next to me—who has had way too much to drink—starts dancing to a crappy song about a pineapple. She’s flailing her fat arms, spilling beer on my head and dropping ashes from her cigarette into my lap.
Let’s face it, the modern-day concert experience has gone to shit.
Now comes the tedious “Steamroller” bit where Taylor dances and struts around the stage like a rooster with its head cut off. I’m so sick of this fuckin’ song that I just want to head to the parking lot and puke my guts out.
As we make our exit, a bored limo driver asks us if it’s Taylor’s last song. “Hopefully,” I reply. He seems to find this very funny for some reason. I see no humor in it at all.