The modern ticketing experience is a masterclass in how to alienate customers while extracting maximum value from them. Photo / Getty Images

The modern ticketing experience is a masterclass in how to alienate customers while extracting maximum value from them. Photo / Getty Images

Buying concert tickets used to be a simple transaction. Now it feels like competing in a low-stakes Hunger Games, where the prize is the right to spend $300 plus fees.

The modern ticketing experience is a masterclass in how to alienate customers while extracting maximum value from them. It’s fragmented, gamified and frequently broken. Somehow, we’ve all been conditioned to accept it.

The latest example is the presale circus ahead of the System of a Down and Faith No More concert, scheduled for February 7, 2027, in Wellington. It was a coup for the capital to secure the only show in New Zealand for these legendary 1990s-era rock acts, aided by an incentive from the government’s Events Attraction Package. I’m a super fan of both bands, so I was duly prepared for tickets to go on sale.

Once upon a time, that was straightforward. Tickets became available at a clearly advertised time, at clearly advertised prices, and that was that. Now there are layers: artist presales, credit card presales, promoter presales, venue presales, Spotify “top fan” presales, PayPal presales. Who even uses PayPal any more?

Each requires a different code, often a different login, and a different slice of your personal data. I had to sign up to the System of a Down fan newsletter so as not to miss out on receiving the all-important code: SHIMMY.

A dozen or so friends set up a Facebook messaging group to co-ordinate how to tick all the boxes just to have the privilege of queuing for a ticket.

On presale day, I found myself 5633rd in the Ticketek queue, the digital equivalent of being herded into a holding pen. My place in line felt arbitrary because it was. There’s no transparency, no accountability, just an advancing progress bar and the vague hope that I might get through before everything sells out.

At this point I didn’t even know how much a ticket would cost. Nearly 20 minutes into my wait, I was finally at the top of the queue when a screen popped up: “We are sorry, your access has been restricted,” it read. I tried again on my phone. Same problem.

Consternation reigned in the Facebook group. Our backup buyer had been frozen out of his own Ticketek account. A mad scramble ensued as others found the code, joined the queue and anxiously waited. Eventually, three friends got 12 tickets between them at $300 each – around $3600 plus fees.

I saw dozens of Facebook posts from others who had been similarly restricted. Were we mistaken for bots or scalpers? Who knows? Access was denied. I was willing to pay $300 for the privilege to see two great bands one last time. But it was a horrible experience.

This is systematic. Manufactured scarcity and control. At the centre of it is a shrinking number of players controlling the live music ecosystem. Live Nation, through its ownership of Ticketmaster and its dominance in promotion and venues, looms largest.

This gig didn’t feature dynamic pricing – essentially surge pricing for concerts – but it will be the next thing local concertgoers encounter. We’re told this reflects demand. But it also reflects power.

What it feels like is a take-it-or-leave-it experience. New Zealand, with our smaller market and fewer venues, is particularly exposed. If you’re a fan, you take it, because the alternative is missing out. A better way would be to do away with the presales, clearly advertise ticket prices upfront and have more robust tech platforms.

That gig in February will likely be my last stadium concert. I’ll stick to the smaller venues like San Fran, Valhalla and Meow Nui in Wellington that have more straightforward ticketing, more intimate gigs, the chance to support emerging bands and avoid running a gauntlet designed to wear me down.

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