Back in the Nineties, Pearl Jam famously sued Ticketmaster in an unsuccessful effort to rein in the runaway costs of attending a concert. These days, many are raising the same concerns — like Doc McGhee, Kiss’ longtime manager. In the late 1970s, when he was a young man on the rock scene, top concert tickets cost $10 to $11 (or about $50 to $55 in today’s dollars). Last year, according to Pollstar, the industry trade that monitors touring, the average ticket price had soared to around $132. That’s an increase of 38 percent just since 2019, when they cost a comparatively affordable $96.17. “It’s up to us,” McGhee says. “Until people say, ‘We’re not going,’ the prices are going up.”
This summer, that appears to be true. Entry to one of Harry Styles’ 30 dates at Madison Square Garden could cost you as much as $1,000; Alan Jackson’s sold-out touring finale at a Nashville stadium is prompting scalper prices of more than $5,000.
Industry veterans say that sky-high ticket prices are due to three key factors: supply and demand, as reflected in the controversial practice of dynamic pricing; rampant scalping; and one dominant company, Live Nation, controlling every source of revenue, including beer, food, parking, and Ticketmaster service fees, at its 61 amphitheaters and more than 200 other venues in North America. Many hoped the U.S. Department of Justice’s 2024 antitrust lawsuit would break up the world’s biggest promoter, but a March 9 settlement suggests that is unlikely to happen.
(In court, Live Nation disputed nearly every criticism made by sources in this story. “There is no evidence in the record that Live Nation or Ticketmaster drives higher ticket prices or that breaking up the company would lower them,” Dan Wall, the company’s executive vice president of corporate and regulatory affairs, says in a statement to RS. “If the DOJ or states had credible evidence, they would have presented it. They haven’t. After years of investigation and access to extensive data, there is still nothing tying our structure to higher prices.”)
The Justice Department settlement, which requires Live Nation to divest from 13 amphitheaters with which it has exclusive booking agreements, among other things, “isn’t even significant enough to call it a slap on the wrist,” says Stephen Parker, executive director of the National Independent Venue Association. Because the settlement is “virtually nothing” and “has no teeth,” adds a top promoter, prices and fees are almost certain to keep rising.
Even the biggest stars are often powerless to change this system, as Taylor Swift discovered on the Eras Tour. What’s more, Live Nation ticketing employees seemed dismissive of customers when they joked in internal messages about fans who are “so stupid” that the company was “robbing them blind baby,” in reference to high parking and VIP-package costs. (In court, Live Nation CEO Michael Rapino called those messages “disgusting” and “not the way we operate.”)
John Scher, a New York promoter who has competed with the company for decades, claims that Live Nation strategically raises offers to artists for playing its own summer amphitheaters, rather than arenas where competing promoters can book shows. “If they play indoors, they have a choice of [second-biggest promoter] AEG, or an independent like me,” Scher says. “But Live Nation will say to acts, ‘If you wait and start the tour in April, we’ll pay you $350,000’ — and many of them say, ‘Fine.’”
‘Legalized exploitation of fans’
In a separate lawsuit, filed by the Federal Trade Commission against Live Nation and Ticketmaster last September, a central issue was “illegal ticket-resale tactics,” in which Live Nation reportedly invited scalpers to use bots to crowd fans out of on-sale queues.
“The price will not change until we stop this legalized exploitation of fans,” says Randy Nichols, a board member for the National Independent Talent Organization (NITO), which represents agents and managers for more than 5,000 acts. “Fans will pay less money when bots stop buying all the tickets and marking up the price.”
Bills currently pending in New York, California, and other states could cap resale prices, potentially allowing artists to set their own face-value prices and ensuring fans don’t have to pay much more than that — something that hasn’t been true since StubHub revolutionized the scalping business in the early 2000s. (For years, Ticketmaster itself has also resold tickets to its own shows online.) “New York has been at this for a long time, and California just introduced a price cap,” says Nathaniel Marro, NITO’s executive director. “There’s really hope here.”
Fielding Logan, head of touring for management company Q Prime South, which represents artists like Eric Church, Ashley McBryde, and the Brothers Osborne, disagrees with the prediction of higher fees due to Live Nation’s corporate dominance. “I can unequivocally say that is not going to make a whit of difference to ticket prices,” he says. “What makes a difference to ticket prices is there are more people who want to attend said show than there are tickets available at those prices.”
But John Kwoka, a Northeastern University economics professor who specializes in antitrust, thinks that supply and demand aren’t enough to explain what’s happening. “I’m one of the economists who’ve argued you need to break up some companies,” he says. “[Live Nation] is one of the companies that proves that.”
Albini and Whinna in an undated Polaroid snapshotCourtesy of Heather Whinna
2nd grade Courtesy of the Albini Family
7th grade Courtesy of the Albini Family
11th grade Courtesy of the Albini Family
Big Black in 1986Gail Butensky
Albini built Electrical Audio to embody his recording philosophy in a physical space.© Monfourny Renaud/DAPR/ZUMA
Albini got seriously into poker in his later years, as seen in this photo from the 2008 All Tomorrow’s Parties festival.Roger Kisby/Getty Images
Albini and Whinna founded the Letters to Santa charity in 1996.Courtesy of Heather Whinna
Whinna (center), Kim Deal (right), and Electrical Audio staff unveil the Steve Albini Way street sign in November 2024.Althea Legaspi
Althea Legaspi
Althea Legaspi
Pop Albums Are Getting More Ambitious. Can Audiences Keep Up?
This Music May Contain Hope, the second album from British songstress Raye, makes great demands of its audience. The record nearly runs the length of a feature film and most of the 17 songs sound like they could soundtrack one. When the credits roll at the end — she thanks each and every person who helped create the record for six and a half minutes on “Fin.,” — they conclude a gloriously disorienting listening experience. For most of the album, Raye is asking you to come along as she fights and prays through despair and self-criticism to keep hope alive.
Sometimes that battle is filtered through songs that sound like show tunes or gospel hymns. In the case of “Click Clack Symphony,” they crescendo into a dizzying Hans Zimmer composition. There’s a level of patience and reciprocity the album requires from its listeners: At once confrontational and confessional, This Music May Contain Hope is not designed for detached consumption — and it’s part of a surge of recent releases that find artists creating ambitious records that encourage intentional engagement.
Last year, Hayley Williams released Ego Death at a Bachelorette Party as 17 individual singles. Fans created their own sequencing and narratives guided solely by the themes and sounds they chose. A few months later, Rosalía released Lux, a captivating 18-track record performed in 13 languages. It shares a musical complexity with This Music May Contain Hope and an interrogative spirit with The Apple Tree Under the Sea, the debut album from Hemlocke Springs released earlier this year. Each record is as all-consuming as the ideas they’re engaging with — mental anguish, faith and religion, internal and interpersonal implosion.
Raye often describes music as medicinal. Backed by the London Symphony Orchestra and Flames Collective choir on “I Know You’re Hurting,” her melodies and harmonies are bandages and sutures. When she instructs the listener to “close your eyes and let this music get to working,” she exudes the wisdom of an elder passing home remedies through generations. At a time when easier access to music often means increasingly passive listening, these albums replace momentary distraction with connection and compassion. They give the audience something to return to.
Raye included the voices of her grandparents at the start of “Life Boat.” The portion her grandfather contributes, where he says, “I’m living, not giving up,” was recorded just days before his death. More voices flood in across the next four minutes. They all repeat some variation of “I’m not giving up, yet,” some with more desperation than others. “Say it,” Raye says, stern and direct. “Say, ‘I’m not giving up, yet.’” The mantra is set against the kind of thudding club beat that defined the earliest phases of her career. Drums and synthesizers are interspersed with delicately arranged strings, but there’s something transcendent about the contours and echoes of Raye’s voice.
That kind of vocal power is something Rosalía speaks about often: Duende. The flamenco term refers to a type of enchantment delivered through an especially evocative vocal performance. It’s not necessarily about technical prowess, or precision. “There’s something so ethereal and divine about el duende,” Rosalía told The New York Times last year. “El duende is something that visits you. It’s something that comes to you.” It makes the listening experience feel targeted and personal. This funneled into Rosalía on Lux. The record unravels in a way that transcends the barrier of language.
Rosalía begins “Mundo Nuevo” in Spanish. Its translation reveals she’s searching for a hint of truth. She finishes “De Madrugá” in Ukrainian with something searching for her this time. “I’m not looking for revenge,” she sings. “Revenge is looking for me.” The London Symphony Orchestra and the Escolania de Montserrat i Cor Cambra Palau de la Música Catalana choir bolster the album, their arrangements ranging from anxious and erratic to soothing and hypnotic.
Rosalía introduced Lux with the first single “Bergain,” which splinters across German, Spanish, and English. When Yves Tumor’s voice cuts through on the song’s outro, the persistent repetition of “I’ll fuck you till you love me” is harsh and abrasive against the preceding moments. Rosalía chases that friction across Lux. Like her mix of languages, she challenges the listener with existentialism and ruminations on the afterlife. It might turn some listeners away, but the ones who stay are rewarded.
Most of the record was inspired by saints, like Teresa of Ávila or Joan of Arc. Their history adds a third layer to the depth of Lux; Hemlocke Springs similarly fixates on religious motifs on The Apple Tree Under the Sea. She weaves in medieval tales and impulsive adventures made for a storybook. Positioning herself as a character in her fantastical stories gives her audience someone to root for while creating some distance between fiction and reality.
In that sense, The Apple Tree Under the Sea shares a theatrical ease of access with This Music May Contain Hope. Raye’s cautionary tales about traitorous South London men who should be banned from WhatsApp play into the same spectacle as Springs’ “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Ankles” and “Moses.” There’s a prelude towards the end of The Apple Tree Under the Sea that features the voice of a man who sounds far away as he preaches about sin and final judgements. It gets even harder to hear him when the sounds of running horses and marching feet cut through. The suspense builds into an orchestral outro that leads into “Sense (Is),” a booming, optimistic song about making the most of a clean slate and a glass half full.
Springs’ journey is the shortest within this set of albums. It spans 10 songs in just over half an hour, but retains its complexities with winding plot twists. Where she leans into communicating through stories and allegories, Raye through a version of theater, and Rosalía essentially through multinational cathedrals, Williams’ Ego Death at a Bachelorette Party brings listeners into an excruciatingly vivid reality. The achingly haunted “True Believer” walks the streets of Nashville. It moves down Broadway and past repurposed clubs. It attends the churches and questions the rhetoric presented in them. It runs parallel to the moments across the album that brings listeners into a home with fragile glass walls.
The album’s most shattering moment arrives towards the end: “Good ‘Ol Days.” It’s not as distressing as “Negative Self Talk,” or as sobering as “Whim.” It glides along a warm groove and drops burning one-liners with pointed specificity. What fortifies it the most is an appearance from Williams’ grandfather midway through the song. “You are so tacky/I think that’s why I love you so much,” he says in a voicemail message. “I just had to call you first on my new phone/I love you, y’all have a blast, bye.” The interlude emphasizes just how interior the content of the record is, made up of real moments, people, and feelings.
There’s a false perception in pop music that the best way to connect with the masses is to keep things broad — that vague generalizations are easier for people to latch onto. But the hyper-specificity and confrontation on these albums form real connection, creating the feeling that the listener is being trusted with someone else’s secrets and struggles — and safe to embrace their own, too.
There’s bravery in how these artists are driven by conviction. They understand the reach their platforms provide, but have little interest in idolatry. They each use different formats to craft a sense of togetherness even in their most intimate moments, like it means more to show someone they aren’t alone than to tell them. They ask for patience as they remind listeners it’s commendable to try. Some people don’t come to music looking for this; it can be challenging to have an artist in your ear telling you to bring your most shattering emotions and memories to the surface. But those are the kind of records that endure over time.