Let me start by saying I respect the hustle. Anyone willing to navigate eight European cities in eleven days to catch nine concerts clearly possesses a level of dedication usually reserved for Olympic athletes and people who camp outside Apple Stores for new iPhone releases. But when I read about this modern day musical odyssey, my first thought wasn't admiration. It was, has our collective need to out experience each other reached terminal velocity.

Now, before you accuse me of being a joyless troll who hates fun, let me state for the record that I once took a red eye flight from LAX to JFK solely to watch Rihanna adjust her microphone stand for 90 minutes. I get it. The magnetic pull of live music creates temporary insanity in otherwise rational humans. But there's something uniquely 2020s about turning concert attendance into an endurance sport complete with logistics rivaling D Day planning.

What struck me most about this continental crawl wasn't the swollen feet or sleep deprivation inherent in such an itinerary. It was the subtle tragedy of transforming moments meant for emotional connection into items on a scavenger hunt list. When your travel schedule makes a G7 summit look relaxed, when you're mapping venue locations instead of set lists, are you truly present for any of these supposedly transcendent musical moments.

Don't misunderstand, the shows themselves sound magical. LCD Soundsystem in a sweltering London dump where the air conditioning broke. Listening to thrillingly loud guitars while wondering if your travel insurance covers heatstroke, apparently, is now part of the premium concert experience. I suppose this qualifies as vintage authenticity. People romanticize sweaty 1970s rock clubs precisely because they tried to kill audiences through poor ventilation and questionable fire exits.

Here's what fascinates me. In an era where music exists infinitely and instantly in our pockets, we've somehow decided the solution is to physically break our bodies chasing live performances. It feels like a collective overcorrection. We spent two years watching pixelated livestreams from our couches and emerged with a manic need to collect live experiences like Pokémon cards.

The economics alone could fund a small country. Show tickets. Plane fares between eight cities. Hotels. Or train tickets if you want to pretend you're being frugal, like buying store brand champagne. Add in the carbon footprint of all this venue hopping, which feels particularly ironic at events where artists often sing about saving the planet between costume changes. Nobody wants to acknowledge that Drake's environmental impact would improve if we just let him use Zoom like everyone else.

As someone who literally camped overnight to be front row for a Beyoncé concert, I recognize my hypocrisy here. But there's a difference between committing to one transformative show versus treating concerts like passport stamps. When we turn cultural experiences into competitive achievements, we risk making the act of attendance more important than the art itself.

This phenomenon isn't isolated to music superfans. We see it everywhere. People marathon museum exhibits while filming vertical videos for social media rather than looking at the actual art. Book clubs speed reading novels just to say they finished. Culture becomes content becomes checklist items. The more we consume the less we absorb.

Let's talk logistics. European trains haven't been reliable since approximately 1937. Can you imagine sprinting from a Hamburg gig to catch an overnight train to Prague, only to discover your carriage now houses a family of goats and the dining car serves pickled herring sandwiches. You show up at the next concert smelling like a Dockworker’s armpit, trying to explain to security that no, the suspicious stains aren’t drugs, just paprika sauce from a questionable Berlin kebab shop you visited between soundcheck and encore.

Technology should theoretically make this easier, but often makes it worse. Apps notify you of last minute show additions sparking FOMO induced panic buying. Dynamic pricing turns ticket purchases into stock market speculation. You book flights before the tour dates are even finalized, praying the routing makes geographical sense. I once bought tickets to see The Strokes in Rio only to discover the festival was actually in Rosario, which, for those unfamiliar with South American geography, is quite the distance. My Spanish comprehension failed me spectacularly.

What’s lost in this frantic venue hopping are liminal moments concertgoers used to relish. The pre show anticipation while grabbing dinner near the venue. Post concert euphoria dissecting the setlist over late night pancakes. Random conversations with strangers who might become lifelong friends. When you’re already scanning train schedules during the third song, these human connections evaporate.

Music festivals already cornered the market on overwhelming crowds and questionable hygiene. Now regular concerts are following suit. At some point during the 15th rendition of All My Friends, packed into a human sweat lodge with 5,000 strangers, one must ask, could I have just listened to the record while taking a bubble bath. The answer is yes. Would it be as memorable. Absolutely not. We crave communal experiences precisely because we’re all slowly becoming feral raccoons who communicate primarily through reaction gifs.

Here’s a radical idea. Maybe enjoy one concert properly instead of speed dating nine artists across two weeks. Linger in the city afterward. Discover a great local band at some dingy pub. Buy vinyl from a record store instead of another toxic beer from the arena. Create memories beyond your Google Maps timeline. Cultural immersion should be a swim, not a cannonball.

Don’t get me wrong. I weep during overtures at Broadway shows and know every ad lib in Whitney’s 1994 MTV Unplugged. I’m that annoying person who shushes talkers during acoustic sets. My devotion to live performance borders on pathological. But that’s precisely why seeing concerts reduced to consumption milestones makes me queasier than festival porta potties in July.

Perhaps the solution lies in embracing slowness. Cherishing a single show so intensely you remember the way the bass vibrated your sternum. Letting those final encore notes linger in your bones as you walk through unfamiliar streets afterward. Being present rather than posting. If we must turn concerts into competitive sports, let’s at least compete for who felt something deepest, not who collected the most wristbands.

Next time you’re tempted to engineer a concert tour de force, remember, no eulogy will ever include, she had perfect attendance at every European festival, but terrible blisters. Prioritize awe over stamps in your passport. Let surprise tickets to an intimate show matter more than medicinal ones for your swollen feet. And for god’s sake, demand better air conditioning.