A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again

On the (Nearly Lethal) Comforts of a Nostalgia Tour

Last weekend I attended the “Death Cab for Cutie / Postal Service 20th Anniversary of Transatlanticism and Give Up” concert in Austin, TX. Like most post-emo millennials, these albums helped shape my high school experience—and to be honest, I still trap unwanted feelings inside those songs. So of course, I was excited for the chance to hear them live, to bask in some collective nostalgia, and to celebrate art alongside other people who love it as much as I do. What I got instead was an experience that made me reconsider ever attending another concert again.

In his essay “Shipping Out” (commonly known by the title A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again), David Foster Wallace describes how vacationing on a cruise led him to an existential crisis. For Wallace, the cruise experience is crafted to make you feel like you're having a good time. The colors, words, images, and physical spaces are all curated to evoke pleasure and relaxation, rather than offering genuine opportunities to do nothing—a pre-packaged vacation designed to keep you, as he puts it, “pampered to death.” But being surrounded by this artifice of pleasure only made Wallace feel despair, and painfully aware of his own mortality.

The Death Cab show was at the Germania Insurance Amphitheater, and I was pleased to discover my ticket included “free parking,” given that paying for or finding a place to park is always an added hassle at concerts. What I didn’t realize was that the amphitheater is located inside a racetrack complex called Circuit of the Americas—complete with multiple parking lots, bleachers, and a carnival. Unsurprisingly, the “free parking” lot turned out to be about a mile from the venue, and the “complimentary” shuttles were too small and infrequent to actually save you any time.

Once you make the trek to the actual complex, you’re greeted by inflatable people soullessly grinning at you, welcoming you into a mini-carnival with a free roller coaster, various rides, and the usual carnivalesque food offerings like funnel cakes and nachos. (At first I thought I was in the wrong place.)

Like Wallace’s cruise, everything at the arena is set up to make you think you’re having a good time: bright lights, colorful displays, free rides, and loud music. The whole thing was nauseatingly corporate—everywhere you looked, huge signs reminded you of your benevolent corporate overlords. The “Brought to you by Spectrum” billboard was larger than the sign for the restrooms. I couldn’t help but think of the corporate-sponsored years in Wallace’s Infinite Jest—pretty soon, every concert will begin with “Mastercard Presents…”

There wasn’t a single aspect of the space or experience designed to make things easier; it was all a ploy to extract as much money from you as possible. After all, you’re supposed to be having fun! From the carnival entry to the “Win Tickets to See Queen with Adam Lambert!” display, everything felt like a goddamn chore. Why would anyone find pleasure in trekking through crowds, lights, and advertisements? Why would I want to miss the performance to wait in line and overpay for beer? It was like a funhouse of mirrors—but the image reflected back at me was a grotesque portrait of the current state of live entertainment.

The truth is, in venues this large, the point isn’t to enjoy the music—it’s to say you went. The actual experience of the show is beside the point. This was nostalgia dressed up in a corporate suit: tailored to remind you of the good times without actually giving you any. There were far too many people, and no one seemed to be having fun. I was surprised by how many didn’t even seem to know the songs, as if they had nothing better to do on a Saturday night than pay hundreds of dollars to trek through this arena, stand in lines, and overpay for beer and nachos.

Even Gibbard, the lead singer of both bands, seemed to be going through the motions—forcing himself to imitate the excitement of a live performance, jumping around and clapping in an attempt to motivate the crowd. He looked spiritually checked out, and I don’t blame him. These days, people attend live shows expecting the artist to simply perform at them. They don’t want to participate. They're more concerned with filming the moment than being present for it. They’re not there for joy—it’s just something to do. (As Wallace observed on the dreaded cruise ship: doing nothing is akin to death.)

Notably, the so-called “New Sincerity” movement, with which Wallace is often associated, began in Austin.

The soullessness of nostalgia perfectly reflects our hollowed-out culture, where the experience of spectacle replaces any sense of authenticity or existential risk. Most of the people there seemed only vaguely familiar with the music—and they’d laugh at you if you even attempted to enjoy yourself. In fact, the people around me openly mocked those who were (at the very least) trying to connect with the music.

After Death Cab performed my favorite song from Transatlanticism (“Passenger Seat”), I looked up and quietly said to myself, “That was worth the panic attack.” A group behind me burst out laughing and started repeating the line in a mocking tone: “That is almost worth the panic attack, haw haw haw.” I mean—what kind of life are you living if you go to a Death Cab show just to feel superior to other people?

In a 2003 interview, Wallace criticized the oversaturation of irony in TV and fiction, which he believed threatened to destroy the possibility of earnestness and sincerity. He paraphrased Lewis Hyde’s essay on John Berryman to warn that irony, when it becomes a way of life—a default lens for experiencing both self and world—risks becoming “the song of the bird that has learned to love its cage.”

People are trapped in a self-imposed prison of insecurity, where the only thing they know how to do is laugh at others. Not because they’re cruel, necessarily—but because they don’t know what else to do.

The truth is, the concert experience has become just another manifestation of corporate greed, and seeing nostalgia acts won’t help us reclaim the innocent pleasures we might have enjoyed twenty years ago. Back then, we didn’t know how cringe we were—but now that we do know, the only way out of defensive irony is through it to the other side: post-cringe sincerity.

I wouldn’t consider myself someone who does the whole “back in my day” thing, but really—back in my day, you bought a ticket to see a band in a repurposed house with terrible acoustics and decently priced drinks. Now, you buy a ticket with a 40% service charge to see that same band play those same songs in a soulless warehouse that charges twenty bucks for a White Claw.

And God help you if you actually let go and enjoy the moment. People will assume you’re trying to prove something—like you think you’re a “bigger fan.” (That’s an actual comment I received at the Broken Social Scene 20th anniversary show last week.) But seriously—who gives a fuck? I’m not here to prove anything. I’m here to enjoy the music.

The least we can do is be fully present at a concert where artists are taking real risks in the service of art. Or I guess we can stay safe in our little bubbles—self-assured assholes who mock performers for taking an extra minute to tune their instruments. (Something I’ve witnessed more than once.) People are too awkward and self-conscious to enjoy themselves. They’re afraid of the vulnerability that comes with being earnest, and so it’s easier to mock someone else than to do the spiritual work required to actually feel something.

Next time I’m feeling nostalgic for the music I loved twenty years ago, I’ll just stay home, put the album on, lie on the floor and cry.