More on Ticketmaster
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Anyway, when Hitsville called Ticketmaster to ask how much service charges for the show are, the phone operators wouldn’t say. Oh, they’d cop to a $2 “shipping and handling” fee, and even a $2.25 “facility fee,” which turns out to be for parking. But even the phone supervisor refuses to divulge just how much money was going to Ticketmaster. “We don’t know,” he said. “That’s between the promoter and Ticketmaster.” “But you’re Ticketmaster,” Hitsville argued, fruitlessly. Some weeks ago the Trib reported that the service charge was $10; last Sunday the Sun-Times said $15.75. The latter is apparently correct, at least for the best pavilion seats at the World; sources tell Hitsville the actual ticket price is $100, with a $15.75 Ticketmaster service charge and a $2.25 parking fee bringing the total up to the widely reported $118. (With what I think can be charitably described as unspeakable temerity Ticketmaster adds on another $2-per-order “shipping and handling fee” to phone buyers, as if that’s not what its charge is for in the first place.) Here’s the question: on what grounds does Ticketmaster justify tacking onto the already exorbitant price of an Eagles ticket a sum four times as much as its normal, everyday, already exorbitant fee?
Poets on the Rock Stage
Watching O.J. Simpson’s absurdist flight from the law last Friday night, Hitsville was suddenly struck by a thought: What if Simpson the celebrity had not been born and bred in the uncaring, rough and tumble world of sport, but rather had been nurtured in the more solidarity-minded world of rock ‘n’ roll? There’s something about rock ‘n’ roll that I think might have filled a void in the Hall of Famer’s life. In rock ‘n’ roll, the artist is never truly alone: he or she is surrounded by bandmates, producers, agents and managers and label people, all concerned with his or her well-being. In the world of sport, by contrast, even the most popular figure, like Simpson, apparently had no one around to help him work through his problems. Even after he was accused of a grisly double murder, no one could persuade him to handle the charges sensibly. As a rock star, he would have had a trustworthy and loyal drummer or bassist at his side, or at least a manager and a lawyer to help him out. As it was, Simpson had no authority figures around. And he had no bassist. And he had no drummer. Sure there are some wife-beaters and murderous stalkers in rock music, but they find shelter in the fabric and discipline of the world of music. That, tragically, was something O.J. didn’t have.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Nathan Mandell.
