The Sell-Out Gig(CPlatt) THE SELL-OUT GIG.
BY CHRIS PLATT.

Tony McGuigan yawned as he went through to his living room with his cup of tea. He flicked on the television to catch ten minutes of breakfast news before leaving for work. When he saw the news headlines he almost choked on his tea.
The main news story gripped his attention. 1990s band Rain, the biggest rock band of the decade, were getting back together. Tony stared in shock. This was just fantastic.
Tony checked the news websites on his mobile phone. Sure enough, the two warring band members had finally patched up their differences and were performing a home-coming gig.
Rain for him, and a lot of people his age, they were just the greatest. The indie rock band had split up in the early 2000s and the singer and guitarist had famously been feuding ever since. And yet, now, all these years later, that had patched things up and would be performing a series of concerts across the UK. Tony sipped his tea, eyes glued to the screen, as the news report went on to detail how the concert tickets would go on sale on Saturday morning. Tony nodded. He had to get a ticket. He just had to be there.
Through-out the morning, as Tony worked at his desk, the news was spreading. His mobile phone pinged with messages from family and friends. Have you heard? Your band is making a come-back. His mother phoned him at work to let him know. She recalled the time when he’d camped out over-night outside the record store, to get a copy of their latest album that had a midnight release. He had always been a fan, still had all the original albums and remembered the debit single coming out

Then Tony noticed something. He over-heard snippets of chat in the office. The younger members of staff, who hadn’t even been born thirty years ago, when Rain were in their prime, were discussing how they were massive fans of the band. He couldn’t ever recall any of them mentioning the group. Tony had always been mocked for being stuck in the past, with his obsession with the 90’s rock band. If he ever gave any of his colleagues a lift, they would laugh at the 90’s rock radio station he listened to. Now the band were back together, it seemed everyone was suddenly big fans.
Everyone was talking excitedly about how good the gig would be, how they would be trying for tickets, and so would all of their friends. Surely not, he thought. He picked up his mobile phone and scrolled through social media. And there it was, the band were trending and so many people were posting about Rain and the upcoming gig. Tony felt sick. He had thought the come-back gig would be of interest for those who were in to the group, rather than this band-wagon that everyone seemed to be jumping on. He felt his chances of getting a ticket to the gig shrinking with each social-media post.
On the evening news each night, the headline was the concert and how it would be the hottest ticket in town. News reporters descended on Manchester, eager for a scoop, a story about the band in their hey-day and the excitement and anticipation of the concert.
Tony was fascinated, enjoying the renewed interest in his favourite band, but also wishing they would keep it a bit quieter, as the gig seemed to becoming a social-media event, rather than the treat for music fans it should have been.
Tony dug out his vinyl record collection and played the band’s classic albums, immersing himself once again in the era, his youth, his band. As he listened he wished, hoped and prayed. Maybe, just maybe.
Not that anyone needed reminding, but tickets would go on sale on Saturday morning. As the week went on, the anticipation grew and grew. Tony couldn’t recall a buzz like it, certainly not about a concert. The excitement was like that of when England competed in a football tournament and were on a winning run. The country just seemed gripped.
At the end of the Friday evening TV weather bulletin, the presenter gave the weekend forecast, and then wished everyone good luck for getting tickets the next morning.

At nine o’clock on Saturday morning, rather than having a lie-in, Tony woke before the alarm he had set. The excitement he woke with was like that of getting up early to go away on holiday. By nine o’clock, he was at the kitchen table, laptop computer booted up and ready. He had Rain’s music playing in the background. That would be the perfect soundtrack to the morning.
He took a sip of tea and logged on to the ticket-maestro website. He stared in confusion at the number on screen. At first he thought it was giving him a long telephone number to ring for tickets, then it occurred to him, that was his number in the queue. He swore. His chances of getting a ticket seemed very slim indeed.
Tony spent the entire Saturday morning staring at the countdown on screen, every now and then he would refresh the page. His place in the queue shifted so slowly. Every now and then it would jump forward ten or twenty digits, getting his hopes up, only to stall and grind to a halt again. There were so many people in front of him, surely it was impossible.
He made a fresh cup of tea and waited. While he was waiting he scrolled through social media on his mobile phone. The inevitable posts had already started. Screenshots of a computer screen that seemed so far out of reach. Congratulations, you have tickets. He swore again, and turned the music off. The band’s songs suddenly seemed mocking somehow. The posts were now coming thick and fast, more and more people were boasting how they were going to the concert.
Just after midday, the computer screen changed. The display shifted from listing his number in the queue, to detailing the tickets available. Tony gasped in shock and disbelief. His heart pounded and his fingers trembled. This was it. All he had to do what select and purchase his ticket. He was going to the gig. He was in. He would be seeing his favourite band in their come-back concert.
Then he saw the prices of the tickets remaining. The only tickets left were so-called ‘deluxe’ tickets and were coming out at £500 each. That extortionate amount excluded booking fee, and all the other made-up charges. He would probably be looking at spending around £530.
The website didn’t say exactly what was deluxe about the tickets, apart from the price. This was just sickening. Here he was, at the section to buy the tickets, but how was he supposed to afford such an amount? He stared at the screen for a long moment. He didn’t want to shut the screen down, to admit defeat, to concede that he couldn’t go to the concert.
He couldn’t afford to pay more than his monthly mortgage payments, for a one-night gig. Then the screen changed. Event Sold Out displayed in bold lettering across the screen. All of the ticket options were now faded out, unavailable.
Tony swallowed back the lump in his throat, annoyed at the injustice of it all, the unfairness, that demand and extortionate pricing had stopped him from going to see the band. As he switched his computer off his phone beeped. One of his friends, a guy doing very well at his job, a branch manager at the firm he worked for, messaged to gloat. Mark had managed to obtain deluxe tickets for himself and his wife. Tony shook his head. A thousand pounds for concert tickets? That would get you a holiday somewhere.
When had things become so expensive? The band had always prided themselves on their working-class roots, on being of the people, being connected to their every-day fans. Indeed, a lot of their music spoke of the trials and tribulations of the working people, of the ordinary men and women. And yet they were charging hundreds of pounds to see them in concert. It just didn’t seem to connect.
When had this working class rock band left their roots behind? Fair enough, they had moved to mansions in some leafy Southern suburb, leaving the Manchester estates far behind them, but for Tony and the rest of the fans, the band still had their working class values, were still seen as one of them.
But how could that be when they were now fleecing their public, the very people that had put them where they were? Just because people would pay ridiculous amounts to see them, doesn’t mean they should charge it. How could they justify those prices?
How could they show their faces, walk on stage, giving it the rock-star swagger when they had blatantly discarded any shred of credibility they had left? The whole thing was laughable. If they were politicians the opposition would be saying their position was untenable. Fleecing your fans, that didn’t seem very rock and roll. For Tony, it just seemed to undermine the whole principle, the whole point of the band. They had always championed the underdog. They had been outside of the music establishment. Now, though, they seemed completely on side with the fat cats and money men they had spent years deriding. When had rock music become an elitist sport?
Tony shook his head. He crossed the room and grabbed his original Rain records. He stuffed them back in the box and stashed them up in the loft. Next time he was having a clear-out, he would take the records to the rubbish dump. He didn’t think he would be listening to the albums anytime soon.
His mobile phone beeped again, a message from a friend, informing him all the tickets had gone.
Have you heard? The band have sold out.
Yes, Tony replied, it rather looks like they have.

---