Some thoughts on Ticketmaster, Resellers, and Swifties.
It shouldn’t surprise you that a considerable chunk of my adolescent years were spent going to, coming from, or actually at shows. If you’re reading this, I’d bet our timelines overlap.
Some of that was down to questionable life decisions—I quit more than one job after being unable to get time off. Some was timing— people on my block had cars long before I did, making getting downtown easier. But mostly, it was economics. Tickets were simply cheaper (something that will surprise absolutely no one). We dealt with plenty along the way, but automated resellers weren’t one of ’em.
Back then, the first step to seeing a show usually meant heading to a brick-and-mortar building—a sporting goods store called GI Joe’s (think Dick’s Sporting Goods, but with a token record section). They had a desk whose sole mission was to sell park passes, fishing licenses, and concert tickets. This was the designated Ticketmaster outlet, back before they decided to go all in on villain shit. Prices were reasonable, and fees weren’t absurd. Most bands and crews weren’t getting rich, but at least the system hadn’t yet been weaponized against us.
Those little paper tickets were passports to whole new worlds—or beloved old haunts. Today, they mostly live in shoeboxes or scrapbooks. Concert tickets now exist on phones or in apps we’re forced to download—just a string of ones and zeroes sitting on a server somewhere. And speaking of numbers: the average ticket last year was $136.45, up about 42% from just five years earlier.
I know, I know—I’m deep in “old man yells at cloud” territory. Stick with me.
This isn’t a “things were cheaper in my day” stemwinder. Of course they were—so was everything else. I’ve got neighbors who had apartments downtown, paid $250 a month, and can’t figure out what today’s kids are griping about. I get it.
There were certainly systemic issues even then, and Pearl Jam was already taking on Ticketmaster. People were already testing workarounds. But complete monopolization hadn’t yet hit, and “reseller” still usually meant a chainsmoking, slightly sketchy dude in the parking lot an hour before showtime. Thirty-five-ish years later, we’re still inventing workarounds: house shows are back, pop-ups are a thing, and so on.
It’s the reseller I want to focus on here.
And look, I get it—we live in a late-stage capitalist hellscape. Supply and demand are real. So is surge pricing. Even the airline I may or may not work for has toyed with the idea. In aviation, it’s called Yield Management. In the music world, it more closely resembles highway robbery. And look, if artists and crews were the ones making that extra revenue, it might be palatable—but they’re not. It’s going to faceless corporations and bad actors who’ve mastered the system. The losers? Concertgoers and, occasionally, local venue owners.
Today’s resellers are much more ominous and much better equipped. They have all the levers of technology at their fingertips and know how to weaponize each one. The rise of AI has changed the rules of engagement yet again. If you’ve ever tried to buy tickets only to find the remaining ones priced several orders of magnitude above face value, you know what I’m talking about.
It’s gotten so bad that legislation was recently introduced here in Wisconsin to push back. The bill—introduced by Democratic lawmakers—came after a theater in Racine watched helplessly as $22 tickets ballooned to several hundred dollars for a production of Legally Blonde, effectively pricing people out of the show and diverting revenue from the venue. If passed, it would require resellers to disclose total ticket costs, cap markup limits, and prohibit bots that scoop up tickets before fans can.
History is littered with similar bills that never made it out of committee. Others have tried to tackle pricing itself. If I ruled the world, future versions would include bans on venues taking merch cuts. I’m not holding my breath. That’s one the market itself will have to handle—maybe if enough of us stop going to those places, they’ll stop. Maybe.
You’ve got to have a dream, right?
Back to the bill: Wisconsin is one of the most politically balkanized states in the nation. Both parties spend more time throwing rocks at each other than actually getting things done. The GOP here can be politely characterized as “humorless.” Still, I’d like to think there’s a sliver left that remembers it’s supposed to champion small business and working people. They’ve whiffed on plenty of easy wins in recent years—hopefully this won’t be one of them. Other states are following similar paths, but like the slogan says: As goes Wisconsin…
Ideally, these obscene price hikes will go the way of the paper ticket. My dream is that kids today get to experience the same adventures I did—and that, for once, consumers aren’t the ones left holding the bag.
If nothing else, at least the bill has a killer name: the Stop Wildly Inflated Fees and Ticketing Industry Exploitation Act. 11/10 No notes. Hopefully, our elected officials will get it and realize the peril of voting against something with a title like this.
Political survival 101: Never start a land war with Swifties.
Onward!
KA—
Kevin Sent 