The perverse economics of concert tickets

Follow me on this one…I get to the point as quickly as possible:

Tickets to see Mumford and Sons in Edmonton went on sale Friday at 10:00 am. By 10:02 am they were sold out.  By 10:05 am dozens (or more) tickets showed up on craigslist/kijiji for as much as $500 a pair.  That’s about 3 and a half times the price they sold for.  Keep that figure in mind “three and a half times the price”

I’m almost at my point…stay with me:

A brand new Ford Focus, right off the lot from goford.ca sells for $17,649.  Check it out.

Goford.ca does not sell Ford Focus’ for $5,045.00 (three and a half times less than the manufactures suggested price) because the market has determined that the value is higher.

Why can’t musicians figure this economic issue out?  They THINK they’re being righteous (and appearing non-capitalist) by selling their tickets at a price that does not reflect the value.  In my opinion, this is incorrect.  They should charge what the tickets are worth (determined by the market) and cut the scaplers out.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking “Dave, I can’t afford a $250 tickets to see Mumford and Sons…that’s not fair?!?!?”  Hey, I’d love a few Ford Focus for 5 Grand but that ain’t the price, and you don’t see me crying to goford.ca about it.

If an artist REALLY wanted to cut out scaplers AND appear humble, they’d still charge market value, and make a handsome donation to a local charity as opposed to lining the pockets of “ticket sites” by undervaluing their product.

Am I nailing this…or am I way off??

How to Be a Sports Fan

It’s difficult to believe that a handbook on this is even necessary; but yesterday I saw a full-grown man wearing a San Jose Sharks jersey in downtown Edmonton.  This man was not Joe Thornton.  Clearly, it’s necessary.

To set this up, the following is a loose transcript of a conversation I had with a woman wearing a Red Wings jersey on the LRT leaving a hockey game in Edmonton this season:

Dave Sawchuk:   I see you’re wearing a Red Wings Jersey, when did you get into town?  Are you enjoying your Canadian visit?  

Random Woman: Visit?  I’m not from Detroit.  I’m from Edmonton.

DS: Oh, I assumed you were visiting since you’re not cheering for your home-team.  Is your family from Detroit or the greater Detroit Area?

RW: No

DS: Have you ever been to Detroit?

RW: No

DS: Do you have a personal or professional connection to anybody who currently, or used to, play for the Detroit Red Wings?  Is Henrik Zetterberg your boyfriend?

RW: No, no and I wish!!!!

*My face goes blank and I quietly ride the LRT to the Corona station*

Effective immediately  these are the never-to-be-broken rules on how to properly select and cheer for a sports franchise.  It’s a 2 step process.

1.  Examine your drivers licence.  You’ll notice an address on it.  Take note of the city.

2.  Cheer for the sports franchise that corresponds with the city listed.

I wish it were more complex; but it ain’t.  There are a few rare exceptions:

a) You are from another city, or used to live in another city where you developed a personal connection with another team.  Did you do a tour of duty in St.Louis?  Did you become a Blues fan in the process?  Sure, you can have it.  Even if you move back to Edmonton.  You wanna be a Blues fan for life?  I can understand (and I’m sorry).

b) You’re OLDER than the franchise in your city.  My dad is an Oiler fan, but he has every right to choose any Original Six team he likes.  Why?  Because those were the only teams playing when he was a kid; he couldn’t very well cheer for a team that didn’t exist.  This condition is grandfathered in.

c) Your brother, high school buddy, boyfriend, dental hygienist’s kid, (this is a real stretch) plays on the team.  I met a 12 year old boy at an Oiler game once wearing an LA Kings jersey with “Clifford” on the back.  Turns out Kyle Clifford is a family friend.  It’s all yours kid; you get a pass.

Am I missing any reasonable exceptions?  I considered adding a “father figure” clause, but balked.  True Story: I know this guy who cheers for the Calgary Flames because he hates his father.  As an adolescent, he developed a love for the Flames (specifically the thing opposite to his father’s passion), while living in Edmonton during the “dynasty days”.  There’s an Oedipus Rex joke in there somewhere.

The #Chavril Nuptials

Chad Kroeger and Avril Lavigne are engaged.  This is not news.  This is, in fact, old news.  Remember when twitter exploded with the hashtags and hate?   #Chavril trended in Canada and culture elitists and the self-proclaimed gatekeepers of “good taste” were quick to rip 2 musicians they’ve probably paid to see, or sang along with, at some point.  Now, to my point:  I want to be invited to the wedding.  Even just a single invite is cool.  Maybe Avril has a friend or two looking for an escort? I could totally handle that.  If Nickelback songs have taught me anything; it’s that those guys like to party.  With that in mind, one has to assume that the wedding will be a 5-Alarm-Rocker.  I present three lyrical examples:

a) Nickelback on drinking, from “Bottom’s Up”

“We’re drinking black tooth, eighty proof, straight gasoline.  Slam as much as you can then hand the bottle to me”

Do you think the guy who wrote THAT is going to have a “cash bar”?, ’cause I don’t.

b) Nickelback on girls, from “Animals”

“It’s hard to steer when you’re breathing in my ear.  But I got both hands on the wheel while you got both hands on my gears.”

I’m guessing the bridesmaids are going to be ready to party.

c) Nickelback on ‘nights on the town’ , from “Burn it to the Ground”

“We’re going out tonight, to kick out every light, take anything we want, drink everything in sight.”

Yes please.

In my mind, this is the greatest party of all time.  There are monster trucks, jello shooters, fireworks, life-size ice sculptures, plenty of beer, no shortage of appies, loud music and not a care in the world.  Who wouldn’t want to be invited to that?

I know what you’re thinking: “I don’t want to go to that party, because I don’t like Nickelback.”  Liking Nickelback is not the point here; liking how the guys in Nickelback party, is.

If you, or somebody you know, is connected to this event in any way, please pass my information along.  Even sending a link to this blog would be greatly appreciated.  I promise to dance with Chad and/or Avril’s grandparents to “Shout” and bring a decent gift off the registry.

Put down that Apple and eat a Viva Puff

I love vegetables .  I really do.  The problem is; grocery stores don’t.  They love canned chili, Oreo’s, anything packed with salt, meals individually portioned (then frozen) and everything else you and I both know we should eat only in moderation (or when we’re hung-over).  Oh sure, grocery stores love vegetables; so long as they aren’t fresh.  Let’s back up a bit.

Not too long ago,cashiers tallied up our groceries through at a till at grocery stores.  They would proficiently zip items across the laser scanner, and quickly weight and punch in the numbers to ring in fresh produce.  They would do this while making small talk, or snapping their gum.  How any human could memorize the 4 or 5 digit code to a store full of produce is beyond me; but they did it. And they wielded that knowledge like a champ.

Then things changed.

I hate to sound like an “old timer” here (really, I do) but the change was not for the better.  Now, grocery stores are 50% “do it yourself” check outs because they’re much more financially attractive than employing people (I’m guessing).  And if you DARE to shop between 4pm and 6pm, chances are, the line up to have a human do the work for you is outrageous.  So, because we’re lazy and want thing now, we go to the self-check-out.

The machines designed for you and I to ring up our own groceries are like the tools you would give to a child who’s father is a carpenter (if you follow).  They are consumer grade in as far as how quickly they work, and intuitive they are.  They are not the commercial grade machines used by cashiers.  And this is where the problem begins.

It takes much longer to weigh, punch in the code, and charge a bag of delicious tomatoes (that’s if the sticker with the code is on one of the tomatoes in your bag, or you have to look up the code, only after you remember what KIND of tomatoes you have.  Are they roma or hot house?) than it is to buy a can of ravioli packed with salt, MSG and a bunch of other terrible, yet delicious, ingredients.  I believe this extra time is discouraging people from buying fresh fruits and vegetables, and additionally, encouraging them to eat more processed foods.  We are a lazy lot us humans.

Now I realize it is not Jim Pattison’s job to “care” about me, my diet, or the amount of time I spend in one of his gazillion Save-On-Foods outlets in the greater Edmonton area.  But would it hurt him if he did?  The last thing Canadians need is an excuse to eat more bad food, and to avoid avocados.

Yoga Under Construction

Standing in the sweltering heat, I realize two things 1) I am the only man wearing a shirt in this room, and 2) You cannot escape the sound of construction in Alberta.

My 10 Day Bikram Yoga Challenge started yesterday t 9:30 am.  The studio is supposed to be a place of calm, silence and inner-peace.  There are many signs reminding you of this throughout the building.  This was not the case at all yesterday.  There were no less than 2 grown men (or 2 baby rhino’s, I’m not sure) on the roof directly above the studio hammering away on something so loudly, I honestly expected them to come crashing through the roof at any second.  It sounded like they were trying to pound through 4 feet of ice with sledge-hammers.  How Albertan; even in a place where there is supposed to be silence, there’s construction.

The instructor, who is French, at least 60, and in the kind of shape I could only dream of, apologizes up-and-down, and starts the class.  That’s when it hits me: there are 10 people in this room, (including the French instructor) 3 of them are men (including me) and I’m the only one in a shirt. I sweat through the thing in less time than it takes to boil and egg.  Now I’m draped in a wet blanked (essentially) for the rest of the class.  I won’t make that mistake again.

A couple “hot yoga” myths to expel;

1.  The place was NOT crawling with cute co-eds.  The most attractive person in the class was a late-20′s guy who clearly does Hot Yoga a lot.  I caught myself checking out his perfect chest at least twice.  Dude was tight.

2. The room does not smell terrible.  I’ve spent more than my share of time in men’s locker rooms, and the yoga studio smelled better than all of them.

The 90 minute class was torture.  I managed to keep up, and execute (at least partially) the majority of the poses.  The instructor was clearly experienced, as he relayed the instructions to the class in a measured  manner (even if I could only understand about 25% of his words).  After class, I drove home, drank 2 liters of water, ate enough for 3, then had a shower.  The rest of my day was energized.

Round 2 today.

10 Days of Hot Yoga

That’s the challenge.  10 days of Hot Yoga.  No backing out, no calling in sick, no excuses.  EVERYBODY seems to be doing it; so why aren’t I?  And before you spend your own time and money, live through my experience.  I promise to blog about if for the better part of 2 weeks.

Yoga is not a complete mystery to me.  Over a decade ago I signed up for a 10 week schedule that included one class a week.  It was Wednesday nights.  At the time I was playing squash or basketball 4 or 5 times a week, and I only agreed to do it because I was lucky enough to be dating this beautiful girl who wanted to do it as a couple.  I didn’t need the exercise, and I assumed there would be none.

Initially, I thought it was going to be stretching while listening to Enya.  Perhaps we’d talk about our feelings or bust out a push-up or two.  Easy-Peasy.  Turns out, yoga is hard.  It was the hardest 60 minutes of my week, yet also the most rewarding.  After the class was over, we’d all lay on our mats with little bean bags over our eyes by candle-light and just chill-it-out.  The bean bags smelled like eucalyptus.  Those 5 or so minutes are-to this day-some of the most relaxing moments of my life.  It’s time to get back on the yoga horse.  The question is: which pony do I choose?

Initially, I wasn’t sure what kind of yoga to practice.  The hot yoga world (as far as I can tell) is divided into Bikram’s and Moksha.  Bikram’s is Darth Vader, and Moksha is Luke Skywalker.  This is an accurate metaphor according to my research because the Moksha guy used to practice under the Bikram dude.  Because I like to sweat, don’t mind the heat, like bkack capes, and am looking for a challenge, I’ve chosen the red lightsaber.  Plus, there’s plenty of free parking at the Bikram studio by my place.  What can I say?  Free parking is the dark side’s ultimate attraction.

My initial research scared me.  The website says I should prepare for my first class by “Drink(ing) lots of water for several days if you’re not in the habit of drinking water.”  I have prepared for my first class (in 9hours from right now) by drinking 2 draft beers at the Druid; which is nothing compared to the 40 oz. of hard alcohol I have consumed between Friday and Saturday night.  Also to prepare, I have placed myself (apparently) in the direct path of cancer.

I went to Winners to buy a yoga mat.  By the way, and slightly off topic, every time I go to Winners, I end up jocking for position in the menswear section with middle-aged women.  Guys, do me a favor and shop for your own clothes.  It wasn’t until I had already stood in line for 10 minutes when I discovered why the particular yoga mat I was about to purchase was likely relegated to a discount box store.  The warning tag reads “this product may contain chemicals known to the state of California to cause cancer.”  Awesome.  I bought it anyway.

Time to rest up.  First class is tomorrow.

 

 

 

How to get tickets to big concerts

Garth Brooks sold out at the Calgary Stampede in 1 minute.  Paul McCartney’s two performances in Edmonton sold out even faster.  All the media likes to do in the days and weeks after these lightening-quick sellout’s is to talk about how sad everybody who didn’t get tickets is.  Misery loves company, and drives ratings/readership/sales I guess.

The story I wish I would read, hear, see in the days that follow these ticket fiascos is one that helps, assists, informs.  I spoke with an intelligent industry-type the other day who gave me three practical pieces of advice for  getting tickets to big concerts.

1.  get an account.  get familiar.

Too many consumers log onto ticketmaster.ca at 9:57 am on the day that tickets go on sale, only to realize that you need an account!  Or, they have an account but don’t know how to navigate to the correct page to “click” on what they want to buy.  His advice was to have an account already set up, and sniff around the webpage you plan on buying from in advance.  Treat it like a virtual stakeout.

2.  click, reduce, click again; and try odd numbers

If the maximum amount of tickets you can buy for a show is 8-try buying less.  EVERYBODY wants 8 tickets to McCartney or Brooks.  Ask for 2 or 4.  This, I’m told, will increase your chances.  And perhaps the best bit of insider information I was told is to consider an odd number.  Why?  Well, the corner sections of lots of arenas (Rexall included) have an odd number of seats.  So after all the 2′s, 4′s, and 6′s have been sold…there will be lots of 3′s or 5′s left.  Try an odd number, even if it means you have to sell one ticket later.

3.  join the fan club

“But I’m fill-in-the-blank-artist’s biggest fan!”  Screams everybody who didn’t get into Garth Brooks or Paul McCartney.  You are?  Really?  Are you a member of their fan club?  Because fan club members very often get to purchase tickets before the general public.  Most of these clubs cost a few bucks to sign up , sure; but you’re guaranteed tickets.

I’m not downplaying the pain thousands felt this past summer in Calgary regarding Garth Brooks, or dismissing the anguish on the face of every baby-boomer in Alberta  who didn’t get Sir Paul seats.   And I’m certainly not defending any ticket outlets.  All I hope to do here is remind you that there are tactics you can use to better your chances at the shows you want to see.