Between October 2023 and the time of writing this article (October 15th, 2026), I have seen thirty-five bands and artists in concert, split between seventeen shows and one small music festival. In these three years, there have only been a handful of moments when I have not had another show to look forward to, and even when that does occur, it doesn’t last for long. I’m always looking for more shows to attend, constantly aware of dozens upon dozens of artists and when they’ll go on tour next. Even when no one I follow closely is prepping for a tour, I act as a music “yes man”; within reason, if someone asks me to go to a show with them, I will agree to it.

I’ve been extremely lucky to take up concert-going as a hobby, having been bestowed with enough savings to pay not only for the climbing ticket prices, but also the travel and hotel stays often required for my ventures. I am also extremely stubborn. I don’t live in the most geographically convenient place, as far as attending concerts goes, but if it’s less than a day’s drive, there is little that will stop me from going, if it’s feasible for my schedule.

Chicago is the obvious choice. It’s in-state, only a four-hour drive, and it’s crawling with venues; it’s a natural stop for artists who can fill bars, or fill stadiums. Out of the sixteen shows that I’ve attended, eight have been in Chicago or in its surrounding suburbs. Everything else has been spread throughout the Midwest, from Maryland Heights and East Moline to Kansas City and Bloomington. The farthest I’ve gone for a show was Detroit, Michigan, nearly two months ago.

Each show, of course, is a different experience. Up until February of this year, I had primarily gone to shows in arenas, amphitheatres, or other similarly sized venues. The first show I attended was a stop on The 1975’s “Still…at their very best” tour at Fiserv Forum in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, which holds up to 18,000 people for concerts. From there, I made my way through a number of large venues, leading up to the climax of my first two years of concert-going with a sold-out My Chemical Romance “Long Live the Black Parade” show at Soldier Field.

The atmosphere of large venues is unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. I grew up in a town with a population of 3,600, and I didn’t know everyone, even then. Sold-out Soldier Field had about sixteen times the number of people in my hometown. It makes me feel so miniscule, standing there in a sea of bodies, one being out of tens of thousands. At the same time, though, I know we are all there for one thing; we have all chosen to be here for a shared experience. It’s incredible to know that I am connected to all these people somehow, even though I’ll never meet all of them. At large venues, I can shout the lyrics to a song at the top of my lungs and not even hear my own voice; that’s when I know I’ve done something right. Losing yourself in a crowd like that can be kind of scary, but I find it incredibly freeing.

In February of this year, I went to my first, truly tiny show to see Amelia Day at Beat Kitchen, an unsuspecting bar in Roscoe Village in Chicago. I hadn’t ever been to a show and been one of the few people that knew the artist, but you could tell the people watching Amelia Day in this bar were there to simply enjoy live music, in general—not her, specifically. It was eye-opening. I knew, of course, that people can enjoy music without knowing the performer, but it was never something I had experienced before. And even though the back room of this bar had only about one-hundred-fifty people in it, including the band and their opening act, there was still a point when Day encouraged the audience to sing the line of one song together, and I, again, couldn’t hear my own voice.

Since then, I’ve attended mostly smaller shows, often in theatres or other small event spaces. This isn’t meant to pit the two against each other, by any means. I adore live music in any space. Whether the audience is made up of two hundred people or twenty thousand makes little difference to me, preference-wise. Each has its own positives and negatives, structures, and charm. The stakes are lower for smaller shows, for both the audience and the performer. Paying only $30 for a ticket and being able to reach barricade for a show is remarkable. The lighting is simpler, moving through the venue is easier. There is a connection between the audience and the performer that you don’t often get in bigger shows. Just last month, I attended a Langhorn Slim show at The Castle Theatre in Bloomington, and he walked through the crowd multiple times, passing the microphone and standing on top of the bar tables to sing amongst the crowd, not at them. You don’t get that in an arena or stadium. There is less room for error, and you get a carefully cultivated experience. Some might call it more artificial, but I think of it more as a performance, rather than just live music. I’m attracted, especially, to large-scale shows that tell a story. Perhaps that is because that was the nature of the first show I ever attended, with The 1975 commenting on internet culture, hyper-masculinity, and politics in their abstract performance, but I’m not sure that is the case. I just think there is something fascinating about artists having something to say and performing it (whether it’s comedically, like with 5 Seconds of Summer’s “EVERYONE’S A STAR! World Tour,” or theatrically, like with My Chemical Romance’s “Long Live the Black Parade” tour), rather than just making music about it.

All of this means much less to me, though, without sharing it with other people. I applaud people who can attend concerts alone. I’m sure there is something in that that I have not yet experienced. But, for me, concert-going is an experience to be shared. I want to enjoy it with someone else in the present, and I want to be able to talk about it with them—to have that shared experience with them—long after it’s over.

The first show I ever went to was with my best friend. She didn’t particularly love their music, like I did, but she did like the opener, and we both can reminisce (though, perhaps, that is too kind a word) on the two-hour drive back to her dorm room in Dekalb. I took my parents and siblings to Green Day’s “Saviors Tour” back in 2024, which meant a lot to each member of my punk-loving family. My sister has gone with me to both of Hozier’s concerts that I’ve attended, and we now have matching tattoos with some lyrics from his first album. Lately, I’ve been attending shows with my partner, who perhaps loves this hobby more than I do and makes sure to try to get a concert poster at each show so we can put it up on our wall.

All of this is meant to show my, perhaps, over-dedication to my hobby, but also to show that concert-going, for me, is more than just going to a show. I’m very lucky to be able to partake in it at all. It’s a lot of money, and it takes up a lot of time, and there will never be a way I can attend every show I actually would like to go to; some things just aren’t feasible, even if I try to make it so. But I have gotten up early, stayed up impossibly late, driven hundreds of miles, and even skipped classes to go to shows. I’ve gone to aquariums, museums, botanical gardens, and parks before and after concerts. I’ve traversed cities that I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about, watched openers who I’ve come to love, and shared something with my favorite people. Concert-going started as a break from the real world, much like extended beach vacations. Now, it has become part of my real world: a necessary addition so I can sightsee, try new things, adorn myself in fun outfits and fake blood and friendship bracelets, watch the artists that I love, and share an experience not only with the people I’m close to, but with a crowd of people there to do the same thing.

Edited by Shaylie Muehl