In Defense of the Arena Show

Live music is a peculiar artform. A concert is one of the rare moments where you can actually be in the room when an artist is using their medium to make their creation. There’s a certain reciprocity to it; the band performs their art, while feeding off of the crowd’s direct enjoyment of it.

It differs from, say, being in a painter’s studio when they’re working on a masterpiece. Sure it’s thrilling watching them mix paints, ideate on where to take it next, and create a piece of art that will be enjoyed for years to come. But for a painter, that concept of reciprocity comes after the painting is finished. When the canvas goes on display at galleries and museums, and they can talk about their process with admirers. 

Similarly, an author doesn’t write their books in front of a live audience. They craft their narratives into a story behind closed doors as they type their manuscript. They may go and do live readings to audiences on, say, a book tour, but the creative energy comes entirely from within.

Live music is fascinating to me in this regard. Sure the songs are written and recorded behind closed studio doors. But when a band takes the stage, they’re not just plugging in a laptop and playing the already-finished songs and albums; rather they’re recreating them live. They still need to strum the correct chords, play the right rhythms, sing in the correct key, and recreate that initial piece of art. To use the painting comparison again, it would be like if Monet went on a tour where he repainted The Water Lily Pond in different rooms each night all across France.

Some bands even take it a step further, with improvisational sections like solos and jams, often crafting these jams based on the feel and the energy from the crowd. A good crowd with good energy usually translates into a good experience for the musicians onstage performing. 

Reciprocity.

So it would make sense then that the more intimate the venue, the more connection a band will feel with those in attendance, right? 

Rooms to Grow Into

I’m a huge advocate for small venue shows. Give me a rock club that's been around since the 70s that has the same wood floors as the day it opened, selling cheap beer and a stage that’s likely never been upgraded. I love old clubs.

These venues are often special because they can act as stepping stones for bands before they truly make it to the big time.

Consider the Paradise Rock Club in Boston. The venue turned into the rock club Bostonians know and love in 1977. Many consider it the crown jewel of Boston’s live music scene.

It’s not exactly tiny, boasting a capacity of 933 people, but it sure feels small inside. A bar set under a series of ducts and pipes. A bathroom seemingly carved into the concrete foundation. Floors sticky after enduring decades of sweat and spilled mixed drinks. An ancient wooden balcony (if you can even call it that). A stage placed in a not-so-convienent area, where fans need to peer around giant support beams. I love it.

After you show your ID and go through security, you walk past a list of bands that have performed in this little black box theatre of a venue. AC/DC, Radiohead, Metallica, Maggie Rogers, Bruno Mars, U2 and dozens of other arena rockers all passed through these hallowed halls at some point before becoming global superstars. 

There’s a connection between audience and band in these small rooms that creates something special for the artists and audience alike. And when a band plays The Paradise one year, and the next year they’re selling out TD Garden, you get to say “man, I remember when I saw them playing little clubs, now they’re at the top of the world.” Pretty neat experience.

The Stadium Problem

There’s a lot to be said about why arena shows aren’t nearly as special. There’s the pure size issue, where, as a concertgoer, you may end up in a seat hundreds of yards away from the stage, primarily watching your favorite band on screens since they appear to be the size of ants with your own eyesight.

Parking at arena and stadium shows is always a snarl, inevitably leading to the most protracted egress you’ve ever made trying to leave an event. Thank god you packed snacks for the tailgate. You’ll be starving by the time you finally make it to the highway.

There’s also the crowds. As you file into a stadium show, your senses become aware that you’re one of tens of thousands of people all shuffling in the same direction. It can be disorienting. Sure everyone’s there for a good time, but mix in some booze and high temperatures and it can take away some of that friendly atmosphere. Plus you can feel like you’re in the middle of a slow-rolling rally with people in every direction you look.

From a sound perspective, a stadium or arena show can yield wildly different results. Indoor arenas can have an echo that even the best sound engineers can’t tackle. Conversely, when a show is outdoors, the sound doesn’t have anything to contain it, so it wafts away into the open air. With nothing for it to reverberate off of, the sound can feel somewhat muted, stifled, or even too clean. 

Beyond these issues lies the true problem with stadium shows; ticketing, corporate atmosphere, and the undercurrent of capitalism running through the whole event. Bands that can fill an arena or stadium have tons of demand, and the tickethouse overlords are aware of that. Sitting in the upper bowl of an NFL stadium, a country mile away from the stage and just a few feet from the Earth’s atmospheric limits can still run you hundreds of dollars. There’s the ever-despised “convenience fee” associated with big ticketed events. Want a bottle of water and a soda at the show? Call your credit card company and beg for them to raise your credit limit so you can afford to stay hydrated.

This leads to a situation where sometimes those who can afford to see the bands filling arenas and stadiums across the nation aren’t exactly the rank-and-file hardcore fans. Corporate boxes filled with company executives who get to use the seats because they make good reasons to bring clients out for a fun night. Hardly reminiscent of the reason why we love live music - like-minded fans bonding together in the same room as their favorite acts.

The Case for a Stadium

I’m not here to suddenly pivot and say “actually, spending thousands of dollars for an afternoon of entertainment is good.” I hate all of the issues laid out in an arena show. It’s just not the same as going to a room called something like “The Music Box” that’s existed since the Stone Age and will continue to exist long after we’re all gone. 

But just because it’s not the same doesn’t mean it’s all bad.

I grew up in a Bruce Springsteen house. Both parents from New Jersey, both spending their formative years in Asbury Park joints seeing Bruce or other Jersey Shore bar scene favorites like Southside Johnny & The Asbury Jukes. I have aunts who have been to hundreds of shows (with the ticket stubs to prove it). I had no choice.

Unfortunately, I was born in 1992, about 30 years too late to stumble into a dive bar on the Jersey Shore and see Bruce take the stage. So arenas it was. My first Bruce Springsteen show (and arguably one of the first concerts I have conscious memory of) was in 1999 at Fleet Center (formerly the Boston Garden, contemporarily known as TD Garden). I had never seen Bruce before, and certainly had never been to legendary Boston-based rooms like Paradise Rock Club or Brighton Music Hall. 

What I saw before me was something totally alien. A cavernous room filled with people lining the black and yellow stadium seats, 360 degrees of faces all trained on the stage at one end of the arena. When the band emerged, it was like watching a World Series game. I was a big baseball fan, so that was really my only frame of reference. The roar of the crowd was akin to the Yankees faithful erupting after a Tino Martinez walkoff home run in the bottom of the ninth inning. It was electric.

And since my only concert experiences prior to that were before my little brain was able to comprehend them, this became something of a flagbearer for what a concert should be.

Since that night in 1999, I’ve seen countless arena shows, taking in acts like Billy Joel, John Mayer, U2, Dead & Company, and more. Oh and Bruce Springsteen again. Lots of Bruce Springsteen. As I’ve grown into these arena shows, I’ve discovered something almost religious about them. It’s like when the Pope came to Yankee Stadium 1965 to deliver Mass. Thousands of people from all over, convening in a single, large space, hoping to receive the light of wisdom as they pay homage to someone or something they truly believe in.

Sure if I want a domestic lager I’ll have to fork over $18 (Card only please! No cash accepted anymore), and sure the guy next to me who clearly got these tickets as corporate comps may not know the intricacies of Bruce Springsteen’s songbook that I do. But we’re all here, aren’t we? And for a few hours, a handful of people on a specially built stage sitting atop artificial turf can take tens of thousands of people out of their own realities for a bit. 

Is it as intimate as going to a club down the street? Does the band feel the same connection to their fans in a stadium as they do when they’re playing to 300 people in a bar somewhere? Is every person in the crowd there for the same reasons I am? You can easily answer no to all of these questions. But to me, the stadium show is an entirely different artform altogether.

Whereas the small venue shows lend themselves to a more balanced reciprocity between fan and performer, these large shows put more of the power in the hands of the fans. That in its own right can be debated - is it better to be part of a smaller crowd that can have more of a “conversation” with the band, or is it better to be in the Roman Coliseum, deciding the fate of the guitar-wielding gladiators below you? That’s all personal choice, man. 

I see plenty of small venue shows in any given year. I support independent venues, the labels promoting the bands, the managers of the clubs, and the incredible support staff they employ to keep them running. Without these people and these rooms, arena shows couldn’t exist. They’re the essential raw ingredients to a band’s successes. And you should always take the time and effort to support your local independent music scene. But every now and then, it’s good to stroll into one of these arena-sized churches and congregate with thousands of like-minded devotees. 

The carnival of live music cares not what size room is being utilized for services, only that you’re there. Being that stadium shows are also located in areas more easily accessible to those who live outside of major metropolises, the result is often a more varied fanbase. Folks who have been traveling the major interstate highways following the band, or an old-timer who hasn’t been able to get to a show in years, but they finally have their chance to reconnect with the musicians they love. 

The spectacle of the arena show can sometimes be vastly outweighed by the negatives. And rightly so in some cases. But to me, in spite of the brazen capitalist corporate nature of what the arena show has become, that seven-year-old who walked into the balcony at Fleet Center, wide-eyed and stunned that this many people could be in the same room together, still creeps out when I go to stadium shows. All in the name of chasing salvation with the ministry of rock ‘n roll.