I can't complain.

But sometimes I still do.

Life is grand. This retirement thing is starting to make sense, so, too, our decision to move to Tucson, Arizona. We’re healthy, it seems, and we get to go on a lot of fine adventures. So, other than the pitiful New York Mets and Tucson’s summer heat, what do I have to complain about?

Concert audiences.

I’m done with going to concerts.

Angie and I went to see Bob Dylan on back-to-back nights in Phoenix and Tucson. Wonderful shows each, with Bob leading a magnificent band through 90-odd minutes of contemplative, almost quiet songs. He added Julian Lage to the mix – a brilliant guitarist best known, I learned, for his jazz chops. Most jazz recorded after 1980 or so misses the mark for me, so I was unfamiliar. But boy oh boy after about three songs, I was entirely wowed and became an immediate fan. A few of his records are on their way to my house right now.

See this show if you can. And if you can stand idiot audiences.

Me.

The virtuoso performances on stage occasionally broke through the utterly inane and full-throated conversations going on around us. In Phoenix, the increasingly inebriated friends to our right let out the standard-issue “WHOOO” and “BOBYYYY” at random intervals. They were having a good time, so they weren’t nearly as obnoxious as a couple guys a few rows behind us who thought Bob’s show the perfect time to discuss their scintillating opinions on politics, crypto, and the evergreen favorite: talking about other shows they’d attended.

The Tucson show took us outdoors to a small amphitheater astride one of the local casinos. As the audience drifted in from what appeared to be a day’s full of gambling and drinking, most had trouble finding their seats. As did amphitheater staff and security, who thought it was a good idea to sort out confused ticket holders by standing right next to our seats and speculating on where Row PP, Seats 108 and 109, might be. Nearby, another of our favorite Concert Etiquette Pests: the people talking throughout the song, and then at the end, when they hear everyone else clapping, they join in and shout the obligatory “YEAH!” for the song that they just did not hear.

And sure, Bob’s crowd is generally a little long in the tooth and might not have the bladder control of our collective youth, but to watch the same people get up a half-dozen times (and aren’t they always the ones in the center of the row, causing the entire row to stand so they can do the Bugs Bunny “pahdon me excuse me pahdon me excuse me beggin’ your pahdon” thing) kinda detracts from my ability to enjoy what’s happening on stage.

Me, center.

I blame myself. Music, for me, is not a community experience. I like sitting in my room listening to records where it’s my call as to whether it’s background or the point of focus. My daily walk includes by necessity a playlist I’ve made for the day. I like listening on my terms and, no, I don't want to sit there and try to listen to music while the dunderhead behind me wants to talk about crypto.

And I don’t want to be That Guy who shushes people who go to concerts to have a good time. You want to sing along? Have at it! You want to jump up and down and get into it and be excited about being at the show? More power to ya.

Alas, I’ve found myself being That Guy more often that I like. I just cannot understand why anyone would pay today’s ticket prices to go to a concert and sit there and talk through the entire thing.

Me, center.

I applaud Bob Dylan’s strict prohibition against phones and cameras – enforced in Phoenix by strobe-carrying ushers ready to zap the disobedient without warning. I hate going to concerts and seeing nothing but a bunch of arms holding up their phones to take video that they will never watch. And no, please don’t sit in the row ahead of me and spend the night scrolling through Facebook or whatever.

Another favorite, King Crimson, enforced its no-cameras ban with admirable vigor during its eight-year run that began in 2014. Angie and I went to a few of those shows, each preceded by repeated announcements that those found using their cameras during the show would be ejected from the venue. These were never cheap tickets for anyone in the room and yet, each time, we watched as even those in the first or second row trying to sneak a video or photo were yanked unceremoniously from their pricy perch and dismissed from the theater.

You go, Bobs Dylan and Fripp!

And, of course, I’ll see you at the next concert.