Guilt and Peasantry

So I went to the concert. There was a slight change in plan, in that I wasn’t going to meet them, but I was allowed in the “photographer’s pit” for the first three songs. It was a great chance to feel important as my “photographer’s pass” was thrown around my neck, and we waltzed through the peasants on the way to the front of the stage.

However, I’m sure there’s something odd about walking with professional photographers with their huge lenses and myriad of parts, and all I’m armed with is a tiny little digital camera. Spot the one who doesn’t belong.

My mate went to our seats, because I said he should take a seat whilst I’m “shooting” (us important photographer types must use the proper vernacular). So I get to the front of the stage, ie with no rail in front of me. The only thing stopping me from getting on stage is a huge step and a huge man with no neck. Then I hear my name called from behind me… it’s my friend, not one metre away. We got front row seats! My wonderful trip into the “photographer’s pit” was a mere one metre closer to stage. Yeah, how privileged…

Anyway, I finish my snapping, and work my way back to my seat… yes, the one that was one metre away… then sit down to enjoy the rest of the show.

As I said before, I’m not the hugest REM fan. In fact, I only own one of their albums, which I bought for probably one song. Of course, I get tapped on the shoulder by a lady behind me, wanting to know how I got into the business and how I got to get close to the stage. I couldn’t answer her at length, because of the loud music, but I indicated that it took a bit of luck.

After the show, she told me about how she bought her tickets as quickly as they came out, and had been planning her trip from the country for months. She also waited for hours at the airport for a glimpse at the stars.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t actually have plans to come to the concert until four hours earlier… let alone that I didn’t pay for my tickets… or the fact that I wasn’t a huge fan of REM. That probably would’ve brought on a lynching, except with rabid fans wielding sharp-edged general admission passes and burning chairs in the place of pitchforks and flaming torches.

But, I felt like such a heel. People behind me would’ve sold their first-born child to be standing where we were. They were singing along to every song, and there I was, leaning on the rail, simply nodding my head like some wallflower, oblivious to the lyrics, except for the popular stuff.

Stipe locked gazes with me on a few occasions. He stared down his nose seemingly with derision at me, as though he knew that I didn’t belong. But then he would grin momentarily before continuing the song. This happened about 8 times throughout the evening.

Anyway, photos are below. I’ve got plenty more, but I figured that I should only show a select few.