I used to think that the annual McGill course registration process was a uniquely hellish ordeal. As any student reading this knows all too well, the springtime ritual of scheduling your required courses and a fun elective or two can quickly devolve into an anxiety-inducing mad dash. We all remember the picture: Rushing to make it to Minerva’s registration page, double-checking CRN numbers as you fill in the Quick Add/Drop page, debating whether you should risk refreshing your browser or simply wait out the loading bar. If you’re registering from outside the East Coast, you might be forcing your bleary-eyed self to wake at, say, 5:45 a.m. to prepare for the process’s 8:00 a.m. kickoff two time zones away. While I’ve gotten used to this necessary evil over the past few years, I was dismayed to encounter a similar cycle of scramble, wait, stress, and repeat when trying to buy concert tickets.
To me, there is something almost transcendent about seeing and experiencing live music. When my piano teacher first played for me, my six-year-old self was transfixed as I listened to him tickle the ivories to show me what “Pop Goes the Weasel” was supposed to sound like. I was hooked. I took any chance I could to listen to live music of any genre. In high school, I saved up my babysitting money for when the odd musical act would tour through Alberta. I even worked as an usher at a local arena, picking up extra shifts anytime a band or solo artist was performing, just to enjoy their shows for free.
Though my own music making has since been relegated to off-key shower vocals and occasionally playing around on my parents’ Yamaha keyboard when I’m home for breaks, my passion for live music remains. Whether I’m sitting way up in the nosebleeds with my closest friends or squeezing my way to the barricade alone amid hundreds of strangers, there is something about witnessing art created in real time, surrounded by people, that makes me feel present in a way unlike any other. Unfortunately, experiencing the connection and joy of live music is not always within reach, and it has only become more inaccessible over time.
Back in Sept. 2023, I set out to buy tickets for a Noah Kahan concert. Even though I had seen the folk pop artist merely months earlier at MTelus in June, I was still excited by the prospect of seeing him again on the city’s biggest stage. I had managed to snag a floor ticket for around $80 for that gig, a price I felt was reasonable enough to stomach for the sake of seeing a musician I admire. I prepared for the presale time the same way I do for course registration: I loaded up the Ticketmaster website fifteen minutes before the designated time, copying my registration code onto my laptop’s clipboard for easy access, and precariously perching my laptop beside my apartment’s WiFi router to glean any possible speed advantage. When the countdown clock on my screen finally hit zero, I frantically copied and pasted my access code into the site. Then, I waited. Eyes glued on the screen, I held my breath as I inched my way toward the front of the virtual queue. Even with all my preparation, every somewhat-affordable ticket had been snatched up by the time I could checkout. If I wanted to attend the gig, I would need to shell out over $400 for floor tickets.
Obviously, the outcome of this failed attempt is a lot lower stakes than course registration—missing out on seeing “Folk Malone” live won’t delay my graduation date. Yet the parallel between the level of preparation and speed needed to secure spots in McGill courses or Montreal concerts would be funny if it weren’t so absurd. And it’s not just this one artist or this one concert. In the past few years, being priced out of seeing live music has become an all too common occurrence.
2023 was undoubtedly a banner year for the live music industry, with record-breaking acts like Taylor Swift’s Eras tour and Beyonce’s Renaissance tour dominating pop culture conversations and generating record-breaking sales. But almost in step with the flurry of headlines about these pop icons’ live performances were social media posts, think pieces, and news articles highlighting the trend of skyrocketing ticket prices. Indeed, in the last year alone, the average cost of tickets in North America increased over 21 per cent. These rising costs, due in part to inflation, can also be attributed to the industry’s shift in focus from physical vinyl and CD sales to streaming. Known in the industry as digital service providers (DSPs), streaming services are notorious for poor remuneration; artists receive a measly payout of $0.00318 and $0.008 per stream from Spotify and Apple Music respectively.
This loss of income from the music itself, combined with venues taking large cuts from merchandise sales to stay afloat themselves, often puts artists in the position where they need to maximize their touring income. Furthermore, sellers such as Ticketmaster and its parent company Live Nation, the world’s largest ticket promoter, have come under fire for artificially raising prices through bad-faith marketing and dynamic ticket pricing. In this model, ticket prices fluctuate depending on demand, surging if a significant number of people try to buy tickets at once. These price gouging tactics hike the face-value cost of tickets, so when paired with Ticketmaster’s lax protections against ticket resellers, the result is a perfect storm of inflated prices.
However, the blame for inflated ticket costs cannot be placed solely on the greed of streaming platforms, ticket resellers, and official distribution channels. If the past year has proven anything, it is that there are still people willing to dig deeper into their pockets for the chance to see their favourite artists live. Swift’s Eras tour, which will be coming to Canada for the first time when it stops at Toronto’s Rogers Centre in Nov. 2024, exemplifies this: All face-value tickets—from the ‘cheaper’ upper bowl seats starting at $160 to VIP tickets going for as much as $2,500—sold out immediately upon release.
Altogether, these factors—inflation, pitiful streaming royalties, absurd resale prices, minimal intervention from major ticket distribution companies—have turned seeing live music into a luxury fewer and fewer people can afford.
What exactly is it that drives people to seek out live music, even at these soaring costs? In an age when people have more access than ever to music from their favourite artists through streaming services, high-definition YouTube videos of late-night performances, and even grainy TikTok live streams of the most popular shows, why invest in a concert ticket?
For Morgan Thompson, a self-described “avid concert-goer” who attended 85 shows last year, seeing an artist live affords him the opportunity to hear their music as he believes they intended.
“It’s a way to experience the artist in their way. I could listen to Lorde [in my headphones] at work, but I don’t think that’s necessarily how you’re supposed to listen to them perform,” Thompson told The Tribune.
Thompson has been attending concerts consistently for the past six years, and while he draws a hard boundary at paying for resale tickets, he still believes seeing live music is generally worth the face-value price.
“I would describe it as ‘young brain,’” referring to his philosophy of shelling out for concerts. “[I think] ‘Oh, I’m young, money will come back. I’ll just go see them while I can,’ [...] because you never know what’s going to happen.”
This attitude which, for better or for worse, prioritizes current joy over future financial consequences, should come as no surprise after the devastating effects of the COVID-19 pandemic on the live music scene and the entertainment industry at large. Audiences are now more keenly aware than ever that sharing space and watching music as a community is a privilege that can be disrupted by unforeseen plagues or pitfalls just around the corner.
Similar attitudes have carried over into Montreal’s vibrant alternative music scene. A cultural hub with a relatively affordable cost of living, Montreal has been a prime hotspot for independent musicians since the burgeoning jazz and blues scene put the city on the map in the early 20th century. Everyone from the legendary Leonard Cohen to indie favourite Mac DeMarco to up-and-comer Yves Jarvis has cut their teeth and honed their artistry in the city’s intimate venues. Jon Nudell, a concert promoter who works under the handle @goodshows, has noticed an impressive resurgence in attendance at these sorts of shows after restrictions on bars, clubs, and other live music venues began lifting in early 2022.
“There were shows in 2019 that 30 people would go to, and those same shows 250 people go to now,” Nudell remarked about the surge in post-pandemic attendance in an interview with The Tribune.
Having started out as a musician in local bands, Nudell was drawn to organizing shows at smaller local venues as a means of platforming independent artists that he believed in and introducing audiences to a diverse set of genres. While he has tried to keep the prices down, independent shows are not immune to rising costs. Here, a lack of large ticket distributors and resellers leaves inflation as the primary culprit.
“Shows that would have been $10 before the pandemic were $15 in 2022, and [they] are now $20,” Nudell said. “[Inflation is] making everything more expensive, but I still try to make things as cheap as possible. I try to hit a sweet spot.”
This balance between affordability and realistic pricing is a fine line that venue owners such as Sergio Da Silva, co-owner of Turbo Haüs, must walk.
“There is a bit of animosity between me, who has to run this place, and people who want to come and enjoy themselves [....] It comes down to money, having to spend money to be at a place that you think is important,” Da Silva explained in an interview with The Tribune.
“On a very base level, I absolutely understand. It’s important to be able to participate in these things and not be priced out of them.”
A small bar/venue in the Latin Quarter that hosts everything from Wednesday jazz nights to hardcore punk shows, Turbo Haüs is a local favourite that employs a team of 25, including sound technicians, security guards, bartenders, cleaners, and social media managers. All employees are provided insurance that covers dental and mental healthcare, expenses that, coupled with inflation, make maintaining pre-pandemic price points nearly impossible.
“If I can’t get a Big Mac trio for $15, then you’re not coming into the show for less than fucking $10 or $15 dollars. [...] Whatever daydream [people] have about this time when there were $5 shows, it’s done,” Da Silva confirmed.
Still, Da Silva is determined to keep the community aspect of the music scene going strong. This sense of community and belonging is particularly important for Black people, other people of colour, queer and trans people, people experiencing mental illness, and other marginalized people, many of whom were at the forefront of counterculture movements in the punk scene, despite what the often whitewashed history of the genre might lead you to believe.
“[For] lots of people who come to shows [...], these kinds of get-togethers are not a luxury. They need to happen. You need that sense of community,” Da Silva acknowledged.
It is precisely this focus on community that lies at the heart of Montreal’s independent music scene. Amid the landscape of ever-rising ticket prices, venues like Turbo Haüs keep live performance accessible, allowing fellow music lovers to gather week after week, sharing space and joy as they witness live music. This sense of togetherness cannot become a privilege reserved for the few who have the disposable income to spend on large-scale concerts. Ensuring the accessibility of live music, and supporting the local venues that make it possible, is crucial; beyond industry and enjoyment, it is about preserving a community.