Not all concert-goers are annoying after all

Maybe we all just want to party like it's 1999

Stereophonics at the legendary Massey Hall, March 22, 2025

On Saturday night, my husband and I went to see Welsh mega-stars Stereophonics at my favourite and most iconic Toronto venue, Massey Hall. I’d been waiting probably two decades or more to see this band, a bastion of my late-90s obsession with Brit Pop, spurred on in the early 2000s after the band scored the entire soundtrack to my favourite motorcycle travel docuseries, Long Way Round.

Just before 9pm, I settled anticipatorily into my seat, waiting for the distinctive voice of lead singer Kelly Jones to transport me back to my pre-mom, pre-responsibility life. And then, just moments before the band came onstage, a group of six guys arrived in their seats directly behind us and I could tell this was going to shake me up.

Concert gods: give me a chance to shoot a show from the stage!

The thing is, I adore concerts. The feeling I get when the loud, loud music is physically moving through my body, the crowd singing along in a way that even the band can hardly believe, and the intimacy of being in a room where everyone loves the same thing as you do: there is nothing like it. But I also struggle with what my sister and I call concert anxiety. You might know what I’m talking about: concert anxiety is the tall guy who comes and stands right in front of you in right before showtime; the couple off to your side who would rather make out the whole show than pay attention; the girl scrolling Instagram and taking up valuable floor space; and, perhaps most annoying of all, the people who come to a show seemingly to catch up on life, chatting (YELLING) through the whole show. I have a short-term memory for pain, so I forget about this anxiety every time until I step into the venue and find my seat or take my place on the floor — then it comes rushing back.

Saturday night was no exception. Stereophonics are LOUD, so these guys behind me really had to work hard to talk above it all. I could barely focus for the first few songs, spiraling quickly as I thought about how long I’ve wanted to see this band and it’s going to be ruined by some bros who I expect got free tickets and just want to drink beer and catch up.

But then something happened — to them and to me. About halfway through the show (I had started to compartmentalize their talking and was finally enjoying the music), one of these seemingly uninterested guys gave a whooooop and a yell and started singing along (so out of tune, so into it!) They were fans! From my seat, I started to tell myself a different story. Maybe they were long-ago university friends for whom this band brings back those same late-90s nostalgia feelings I was also experiencing. Maybe they were catching up because, duh, that’s what getting together with friends is all about.

When big concerts feel so small

The singing got bigger, more impassioned. They started to feel connected to the show in a way they hadn’t been at the start (I realized after that the beginning of the show was mostly songs off the band’s new album — and there is no nostalgia there). They had been waiting for those songs; the ones that bring back the memories, the party nights, the time before responsibility. They were there for the same reasons I was.

It was a beautiful second half of the show — the crowd had a buzz, the same way this group of guys did, that seemed to finally click. By the last song, the much-adored Dakota, I felt like we were in a giant living room together in 1999 with our arms around each other’s shoulders, knowing these days won’t last but they sure are good.

I’m proud of myself for shifting the story because it definitely could have gone the other way. I don’t actually know if this story I told myself is accurate — maybe they are just annoying jerks who like to be disruptive at concerts — but I don’t want to believe that, so does it really matter? It doesn’t at all.