There was a time—not long ago—when you could attend a live show and expect nothing more than $18 beers, overpriced parking, and the existential dread of being the oldest person in the crowd wearing glitter. That was the pact. You show up, the band plays, you lose your voice, maybe your dignity, and you limp home with a new tote bag and tinnitus.
But in America™, even joy needs a trauma clause.
This week, outside a Los Angeles music venue, a driver plowed into a crowd, injuring at least 30 people. There was no protest. No chase. No manifesto. Just people waiting to hear music—and then the sudden, feral reminder that sidewalks are more suggestion than sanctuary.
The driver? Shot on site. The crowd? Screaming in stereo. The venue? Probably still selling merch online.
Because if you can’t monetize the mayhem, what are we even doing here?
In other countries, concerts are cultural events. In America, they’re group therapy under threat.
We’ve learned to scan the exits between songs. To clock the guy in the trench coat. To pretend it’s normal when security frisks us harder than TSA. To dance, but not too freely. Because what if this is the moment they write about? What if your last memory is mid-chorus, just before the tires screech?
“We came to feel something,” one attendee said. “We just didn’t think it would be this.”
This isn’t about one driver.
This is about a country where the absurd is the expected, and the headline “30 Injured Outside Concert” competes with weather updates and brunch specials. Where news anchors use the same tone for mass trauma as they do for traffic jams.
A driver plowed through a crowd? Bummer. Now back to the five-day forecast, and don’t forget your umbrella—it’s raining blood today.
“At first I thought it was part of the show,” someone said. “Like performance art or some viral marketing thing.”
Of course you did. Because in America, violence is branding. Grief is a playlist. And the line between spectacle and tragedy disappeared three mass shootings ago.
This is not satire.
This is the reality we’ve gift-wrapped in irony just to survive it.
Because when you live in a country where any gathering could be your last, you learn to laugh loud, post fast, and keep your head on a swivel between Instagram stories and impact trauma.
“We wanted a mosh pit. We got a crime scene.”
And what will we do now?
We’ll keep going to shows.
We’ll pretend the concrete isn’t stained.
We’ll buy tour shirts that say “Alive in LA” and try not to hear the sirens under the encore.
Because in this country, joy is an act of rebellion.
And survival?
Well, that’s just crowd control.