Holiday Special: Blaze Up Anew
96 Hours of Concert-Going: A Photo Essay
Hi there. Welcome to Active Faults.
One day in August my alarm went off — 5:40 AM.
By then I had slept for three hours with the ceiling lights on, fearing that I’d drift into too deep of a REM cycle and miss the moment. The Waiting Room opens, even though I had been waiting long before it did.
People like us shuffle life by concerts. Plans hang in midair until the tour dates announcement drops like the sword of Damocles. That’s how time is told.
Seconds ticked by until it didn’t and I held my breath to find out my place in the Virtual Queue. Four digits that started with a 9, for a venue that only holds about 22,000. I was prepared to resort to some extremely costly means.
Better news came from my best friend Abby, who you’ve met. She was inexplicably ahead in the queue and scooped up 4 seats for us and our friends at their face value, VIP packages inclusive, 7 rows down from the extended stage. We couldn’t believe our luck. Later we discovered that our section's resale prices came to more than $14,000.
We were going to see SEVENTEEN live, and here’s what happened, told through photos.
I started envisioning outfits in late August, and dyed my hair in late October for maximum resemblance. The four of us wanted to recreate one of their iconic stage looks. We didn’t know we would find our identical twins in the VIP check-in line. The two groups of four women in various shades of purple pointed to each other like the Spiderman meme, simply marvelling at each other’s uncannily coordinated brilliance and shouting: “WE NEED TO TAKE A PHOTO TOGETHER!”
Another fan in the line took it for us, and the crowd dotingly chuckled.
Two days before the show, we went to an official pop-up store with the misleadingly grandiose name “SEVENTEEN The City”, near the notorious Skid Row of Los Angeles. When we arrived at 9 AM, two hours before the opening time, there were over 100 people in a snaking line. A lot of them sat on the curb, just a few blocks away from nearly 4,400 of those who sleep on it.
The first bunch of shoppers piled out and spoke to us like prophets. They unboxed albums on the spot, paraded the Pop-Up Exclusive Photocards amongst us like holy scriptures, and reviewed the quality of the Pop-Up Exclusive clothing items, unphased by the HYBE staff present. Get this one but don’t get that, they wisely counselled. My friend W, who you’ve also met, asked one of them out loud: “Can I touch the hoodie?”
The girl recommended we get it because it is thicker than it looks. We couldn’t in the end. Even though we came two hours early, it was already sold out when we got in at 1:30 PM. News of this spread to those who planned to visit the day after, and we heard that people started queuing at 1 AM the next day.
Strangely enough, the albums never sell out. I really, really wonder why.
A handful of Chinese girls had gotten their friend, stationed at the top of the line, to snatch fast-selling pieces for them at the back. She came out holding 10 albums alongside it and started to pull the photocards by the door. We await each proclamation in Chinese as if she’s Dumbledore drawing names from the Goblet of Fire. ‘DINO’ and ‘SEUNGKWAN’ elicited a mild “awh”. ‘DK’ and ‘MINGYU’, a slight gasp. ‘JEONGHAN’ and ‘WONWOO’, a full squeal and a leap from the ground.
Some of those albums would be discarded in a cardboard box, tossed onto the streets for other fans to take, causing huge environmental waste on the one hand, but also heroically granting access to albums to those who can’t afford it.
I struggle to describe the interior of the pop-up —— I’ve seen more intricate designs on Animal Crossing. It was as if a non-fan had scrambled it together overnight, which probably was the case: tacky neon signs, grainy prints of the members’ headshots, and intriguing choices of photo backdrops that made the whole thing feel like that Willy Wonka Experience in Scotland. Their music blasted from the speakers while the music videos were projected onto the bare, warehouse walls.
Squeaky-clean, fairy-tale men just a stone’s throw away from their polar opposites.
Tinselled systems of oppression co-existing in the mile radius, both so well-oiled you won’t notice their murmurings.
And then, the lot of us, who pass it by not knowing we’ve always been a part of it.
The night before the show, we went to a dessert cafe that was participating in the grandiose fan event “The City” turned out to be. HYBE was collaborating with numerous premises in and outside of K-Town including restaurants, nightclubs and the Santa Monica Pier. In some of these places, SEVENTEEN branded gifts would be distributed upon purchase. Others, there were to be light shows and dedicated party nights and sightings of the official mascot, Bongbongie.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen spatialised meaning-making at this scale and with such company-warranted legitimacy before.
What we received were stickers and postcards with production costs that could not possibly have exceeded a single Holy American Dollar. Although there were four of us, they had ration it to three sets maximum.
But the patbingsu was good though.
The Day was here. We arrived at the stadium, 2:00 PM, Californian sun blazing. The show wouldn’t start for another six and a half hours, but VIPs have an early registration time so we can, you guessed it, line up for an exclusive goodie bag.
Soundcheck, the pre-show rehearsals only VIPs have access to, was cancelled that day due to technical delays. The football game from the night before meant that the stage couldn’t be built in time. Instead, we now have a “post-show goodbye” segment. This was only communicated to us two days prior - perhaps fearing a torrent of refund requests, cancellations, riots. Soundcheck has always been the most weighted perk within the VIP package. Without it, it practically means we paid twice as much for nothing. They waited until it’s too late for us to back out.
So the queuing began. One hour to check-in, two hours to get merch you didn’t even want, because everything was sold out. Only albums got restocked, wheeled in on broken trolleys by stadium staff we cheered the presence of. He walked through us like Moses, like Lisan al-Gaib.
Stock updates do not get communicated, and that’s the way it should be. Total information insularity, deliberately enforced. Everyone should stand in line without a clue, so that once you reach the Holy Booths you’re too tired to care and too desperate to spend.
They waited until it’s too late for us to back out.
Instead, you rely on the prophets. Fans ahead would diligently report back from the frontlines: the T-Shirt is sold out, but they still have the Jacket, ridiculously tagged at $180.
This is where you talk to strangers without hesitation, because you are One before the Lord. Freebie creators drown you in little glittery packets of self-printed photocards, key chains and bag charms, all handmade out of pure affection. Friendship bracelets extend its imperial reign beyond the Eras Tour.
I received enough to fill a Trader Joe’s shopping bag.
Here, SEVENTEEN is but the language of love. The container of it.
As the freebie endorphin high wears thin, the queues would get to you.
Concerts punish the most devoted. Casual enjoyers can always rock up to the venue before the door closes and slip in with ease. The less casual you are, the more you’re compelled to invest, sacrifice, endure. It’s a corporeal feat, a divine trial, a testament of loyalty. You micromanage when to eat, hydrate and pee.
Not sleep. You never sleep as a fan.
Any spare time you have, you can trade photocards. When my friend went to the Seoul leg of the tour, this is what she spent 4 hours doing.
Here’s why pulling JEONGHAN and WONWOO photocards instigates the most intense emotional reaction from those Chinese girls: they’re priced the highest in mainland and South Korean markets based on the two members’ popularity. Back home, collectively determined exchange values result in an established system of bartering.
In Tier 1, JEONGHAN and WONWOO can only trade with each other. Tier 2 consists of SCOUPS, HOSHI and MINGYU who can be traded with each other. How anyone else can be traded depends on the specific “card face” (卡面) i.e. what it looks like, how rare it is, the state it is in.
Fascinatingly, this system collapses outside of East Asia, at least in Los Angeles, because popularity varies from region to region. In Southeast Asia, things function under yet another set of rules. Japan is its own world.
W traded my SEUNGKWAN mini-picket (I can’t explain what this is without sounding crazy) with JOSHUA, and then JOSHUA with SCOUPS.
Abby asked me: “In what kind of economy can you use SEUNGKWAN to ‘purchase’ SCOUPS?”
I had to clarify that it is indeed not that kind of economy. We indeed had to barter strategically, to incrementally increase the value of our asset through an intermediary before securing the desired product.
As Abby drew SEUNGKWAN again when she wanted someone else, W started to approach fans who dressed like they ‘biased’ him. Searching for the right demographic to fulfil the “double coincidence of wants”. We found a girl in the queue who happily met our demand, because she’s been trying to draw a SEUNGKWAN and she drew someone else we wanted. A win-win.
Exchange values collapse in front of emotional values.
Security checks commenced as backing tracks got tested. In the video, you can see W holding SEUNGKWAN above her head - we were still hunting for a barter subject then.
In the video, you’d see how people started to sing, even in the idol’s absence. The connection to other fans cohabiting the space matters so much more.
It’s never really about recognition or acknowledgement, but always, always about resonance.
It is also why some of SEVENTEEN’s biggest hits were not performed but compiled into a sing-along segment, where the stadium got into a screaming match in front of an unoccupied stage. It was one of the best moments. You no longer need God when you embody faith.
Too many hit songs (including the song ‘HIT’) were omitted from the setlist. K-Pop manufactures euphoria and their concerts manufacture disappointments. The most profitable emotions to weaponise are always the negative ones. You’re supposed to feel hollowed out, unsatiated, dissatisfied, so you’re always coming back for more. TXT has a song called Back For More.
The show abruptly started around 9:20, probably in a rush to beat the noise curfew, when a third of the seats were still empty. Security checks logistics were so poorly managed that a lot of fans missed the first 6 songs by the time they sat down. I expected to see online protests, but there were seemingly none that took off. We were lucky enough to even get shows, an American leg, 11 out of the 13 members.
The post-show goodbye made me laugh. Even the members looked like they didn’t want to be there, after midnight, when the temperature plummeted to render our outfits into arctic tortures. My kneecaps still hurt as I write this issue. Everyone was worn down to the bones.
But we sat there still and watched them slowly stroll around the floor area, waving to us in silence because they weren’t allowed a microphone. Too much noise, too late into the night. They mouthed to us, half in Korean and half in English, and we had to read their lips to decipher the cryptic message. Some of them had a megaphone, but their voices got swallowed by the vast emptiness of the space that we shared. The lights were too bright and it was too quiet. I can hear the ringing in my ears.
I can see too much - the cracks of our made up faces, the sweat stains on theirs. They tried and tried to be heard, promising they’ll return and professing love. They looked like us.
One day in November, 2:00 AM. You find yourself already reminiscing the show not one hour after it wrapped.
JEONGHAN wasn’t there because he enlisted. After a certain level of fame, enlistment becomes as much a success factor in itself as its forthcoming, the foreboding sense of it. It acts first as a looming deadline that encourages hard work from the idol, and then to hold fans hostage until the day he returns. It’s extortive. You put down the payment for the reunion tour at the first instance of missing that person.
By the time of the reunion tour, you’d feel like you have suffered together. That you have survived an ordeal alongside them, and commitment spurs consumption, in every sense of the word.
I was standing outside of the stadium for Day 2 when I wrote this piece out in my head. Abby took one look at me and rolled her eyes: “you’re working again, aren’t you?”
I laughed. I was working, but mostly savouring that moment.
We were in line for the security checks. They wanted to see our VIP wristbands, so we had to hold our arms out, high in the air. One person curled their fingers into a tiger sign that HOSHI loved doing, and all of us behind them did it together, in conspiring giggles. People cheered, the bond electrifying, telepathic and indecipherable to anyone else on the ground.
Another world was about to come alive and we were about to blaze up anew. The anticipation has always been the main act. Waiting energises.
We waited with shallow breaths. Daylight was bleeding away and the moon was out, clear and ashy in the sky.
The doors open, and we cheer, again.
