They entered the main clubhouse. It was a moderate sized area, specifically designed and set up for the purpose for which it was now being used. There were a variety of couches and chairs arrayed around the perimeter of the room. In the center were catering tables upon which aluminum tins of food and tubs of beer and other liquids upon ice were resting. A small, but well-stocked liquor bar had been set up next to one of the tables as well. For those who enjoyed that sort of thing, there were a few cigar boxes that contained high-grade marijuana, rolling papers, and a water bong. There was no cocaine available, however. Celia had drawn the line there. If someone wanted to sniff some of the white powder, that was their business, but they needed to score it on their own, and not do it in front of her.
Larry Candid, the tour manager that Aristocrat Records had assigned to keep things rolling along, was waiting for them in the room. He, like any tour manager worth his salt, was an aggressive, two-faced snake, but one with superb organization and leadership skills. His main focus, his prime-directive, was to make sure that the show went on every night and he would lie, cheat, steal, maim, and possibly even kill to make sure that happened.
“Great show, great show,” he told everyone as they trooped into the room. Larry said this to them every night, regardless of how their show had actually gone, and Celia suspected that he did not even see most of the shows since he was usually back in the dressing area, directing this or that, making phone calls, or doing paperwork.
“Thanks, Larry,” Celia told him, walking immediately over to one of the drink tubs and pulling out a bottle of Gatorade. She opened it and drank half of it down without taking it from her lips. The venue had been muggy tonight and she had been sweating more than usual. Her skin was damp and sticky and her blouse was sticking to her. Large sweat stains had formed in her armpits and on her back. Even her hair was damp. She could not wait to get into the shower. But first, she needed to get some water and electrolytes and food into her.
Most of the other bandmembers had the same idea. Gatorade bottles were opened, consumed, and then tossed into the trash. Only then did the beer, wine, and liquor start seeing some action. Celia left the hard stuff alone for now. Instead, she grabbed another Gatorade and then went over and picked up a paper plate and started to put food on it. She would eat and hydrate a little more and then, once fully cooled off, she would go take her shower. Then she would have a nice glass of chilled white wine.
As Celia sat down to eat, Larry came over and sat next to her. Larry was not one to just shoot the shit, she knew, so he undoubtedly had some business to talk.
“What’s up, Larry?” she asked, knowing that he was fan of just getting to the point.
“Just wanted to run something by you,” he said. “You already know that both Chicago shows sold out weeks ago.”
“I do remember you telling me that,” she said from around a mouthful of garlic infused chicken breast.
“Well, the word that your shows are worth going to, coupled with the ongoing success of the album, are getting around. We release tickets for sale a month in advance of the venues in question. For the past week now, every one of those venues has sold out within twelve hours of release.”
“Twelve hours, huh?” she said, impressed and proud of herself.
“Twelve hours,” he said. “And the word on the street is that the scalpers are charging up to a hundred and fifty dollars apiece for the general admission section tickets and up to three hundred bones for reserved.”
“That’s insane,” she said, shaking her head. “What are we charging for those tickets?”
“Twenty-five dollars for GA, forty for the reserved,” he said sadly.
“Madre de Dios,” she said. “I guess being a ticket scalper is where it’s at, huh?”
“It’s interesting that you should say that,” Larry said. “Because that’s exactly what I want to discuss with you.”
“How much the scalpers are charging?”
“Yes,” he said. “You see, I was talking to the home office a couple of hours ago, right before you and the band took the stage. They made a very interesting suggestion.”
“Did they now?” Celia asked carefully. Experience had told her that when Aristocrat made a suggestion, it was usually something she was not going to like or agree with.
“Yes,” he said. “Now, hear me out before you say no.”
“Uh huh,” she said, putting her stern face on.
“It’s like this ... you’ve heard that the Eagles are on the road now, right?”
“Yes,” she said. “Everyone knows that.” And not just in the music industry. The Eagles reunion and the release of their latest album, Hell Freezes Over, had been big news for the past five months. After an acrimonious breakup in 1980, the popular band had put aside their differences (or at least buried them for the time being), managed to record some new material, had gone out on tour, and were now selling out venues to legions of nostalgic baby-boomers across the country.
“Have you heard what Henley and Frey and the boys have done with ticket pricing?” Larry asked next.
“No,” she said. “I’ve been a little too busy with my own music to pay attention to what other artists are doing.”
“It’s very lucrative, very engaging,” Larry prompted.
“Explain,” she said, knowing that the tour manager did not usually use words such as ‘lucrative’ or ‘engaging’. Thus, he was spitting out a spiel that had been fed to him by the Aristocrat suits.
“It seems that when the Eagles found out what scalpers would be charging for their shows, someone asked the question: ‘Why are we letting these lowlife scalpers snatch up all the tickets and then resell them for hundreds, sometimes even thousands of dollars, while we, the band and the record company that produced the music, are losing money on the tour?’”
“Okay,” Celia said slowly.
“The answer to that question,” Larry said, “is that there really is no reason besides tradition and custom. It has always been assumed that the purpose of the tour is to promote an album release so therefore it is in the industry’s best interest to charge as little as feasible for concert tickets in order to pack the venues. The tour doesn’t have to make money, although some still do—this one, for instance, and the Intemperance tours as well—because that is not its purpose. Promotion is the purpose.”
“That has always been my understanding, Larry,” Celia said. “Are you saying the Eagles are doing something different?”
“They are,” he said. “You see, they have realized a fundamental fact of life. Their live performances are in extremely high demand and they are a limited commodity. For every city the Eagles play in, there are an average of twenty thousand tickets available per show. But there are hundreds of thousands of people who want those tickets and are willing to pay top dollar for them. Why should the scalpers make all the money off of that supply and demand imbalance? Why shouldn’t we be the ones raking it in? That’s what the Eagles asked themselves.”
“Are you saying they are scalping their own tickets?” Celia asked.
“Not exactly,” Larry said. “They are simply following the rules of capitalism and charging what the market will support for them.”
“They’re not charging twenty-five for GA and forty for reserved?” she asked.
“They are not,” Larry said. “In the first place, there are no general admission tickets at an Eagles show. All seats are assigned and reserved. The price is being set depending on the location of the seat.”