Last week, news broke that Madonna was being sued by two fans in New York who had bought tickets to a show at the Barclays Center in Brooklyn that didn’t begin until 10.30pm, two hours later than the advertised time, and didn’t end until about 1am.
The lawsuit from Michael Fellows and Jonathan Hadden included the argument that “many ticketholders who attended concerts on a weeknight had to get up early to go to work and/or take care of their family responsibilities the next day”. The story was greeted with eye-rolling in many quarters, with the sense that this was merely an instance of those crazy litigious Americans taking “where there’s blame, there’s a claim” culture to an absurd extreme. But while it remains to be seen how this case shakes down in court, I think Fellows and Hadden may have a point.
Some musicians see their job as a lifelong holiday from responsibility. Such lowly, quotidian concerns as having to work the next day, getting home in the middle of the night, or sorting out childcare are for the little people, too banal for renegade superstars to worry about. Turning up on time doesn’t go with the lifestyle: punctual isn’t punk. (Full disclosure: my own punctuality is poor. I’m not proud of that, and I don’t think it makes me rock’n’roll.)
But there are limits to an audience’s tolerance of that. Seasoned gig-goers will know the unspoken rule that 15 minutes are generally added to a stage time to make sure all bums are in seats. When it stretches beyond an hour, however, it tips over from artistic waywardness into outright disrespect.
The Madonna story takes place against the backdrop of a changing culture regarding late nights. Students and young people don’t drink the way they used to, and nor do the old. The nightclub industry has been hit hard by a reluctance to stay out till stupid o’clock. Earlier curfews are a growing trend: London’s legendary LGBTQ+ club Duckie recently ran a popular series of daytime events, and the actor Vicky McClure and her husband, the producer, actor and writer Jonny Owen, have attracted much attention for their afternoon club, Day Fever, in Sheffield.
However, audience dissatisfaction with tardy performers is nothing new. Axl Rose is notorious for his arrogance regarding timekeeping. In 2012, I attended a Guns N’ Roses gig in Newcastle at which he didn’t take the stage till 10.45pm, presumably too busy getting his cornrows braided and stuffing his face with pizza. He was booed on his arrival and by the time the show ended at 1.40am many fans had gone home.
I don’t blame them. I once left a secret Prince show at Bagley’s Warehouse in London at 4am, midway through an interminable muso funk jam. I couldn’t quite believe what I was doing – walking out on the GOAT – but I had to admit to myself that I was tired and bored. At least that gig didn’t pretend to be anything other than a very late-night session.
Lateness is one thing, but shows that are objectively awful are another complaint-worthy category. In 1995, I was present at what was wrongly billed as a Wu-Tang Clan show in Ilford that in reality involved Ol’ Dirty Bastard, unassisted by any other Clan members, mumbling listlessly over a CD. He made the mistake of staging an open-mic rap battle in which he was spectacularly owned by a local kid: “I paid £12.50 to get in this place/To see this shit it’s a fucking disgrace!”
Sometimes, of course, there are extenuating circumstances. The ropiness may be a symptom of a slowly unfolding tragedy. In 2007, I saw an Amy Winehouse show in Brighton that didn’t begin until 10.10pm, with rumours that she had been seen drinking on the beach beforehand. (The show, when it finally happened, was great.) And I was at the Birmingham NEC in 2010 when Whitney Houston, on her notorious Nothing But Love tour, gave a seemingly part-mimed performance that became a national scandal. We all know how that ended.
Other times, there’s no such excuse. The Oasis documentary Supersonic includes the story that Liam Gallagher somehow forgot that they were due to perform two nights at Knebworth in 1996, and partied so hard after the first one that he was barely able to function for the second.
Of course, slick professionalism can be dull. Sometimes, the most memorable shows are ragged around the edges. For example, Nicky Wire’s entertainingly shambolic, rosé-assisted solo performance at the Hay festival in 2006 is still recalled with fondness by Manic Street Preachers fans.
And a certain masochistic pleasure can kick in with hindsight. Attendance at sub-par shockers becomes a war story, a medal to wear. I was present at The Worst Gig Of All Time when the rump of The Stone Roses headlined Reading in 1996, featuring Ian Brown honking tunelessly – even by his foghorn standards. I’m weirdly glad that I saw it.
But in order for those things to happen, the band have to actually be there: I attended at least two Pete Doherty shows where he simply couldn’t be bothered.
What, then, do we want from performers? At a bare minimum, be there and actually perform. And, barring acts of God (as opposed to acts of make-up artist), show up at approximately the advertised time.
Simon Price is a music journalist and author. His most recent book is Curepedia: an A-Z of the Cure
