“Oh, oh, life. Who understands these things? Who understands them?” Says the final verse of “Party”, a song by Bad Bunny included in A summer without you Who understands that having tickets for a concert does not guarantee the owner that he will be able to enter to enjoy it? Dozens, maybe hundreds of people with tickets stayed outside the Azteca Stadium and missed Bad Bunny’s first concert in Mexico City. Damn new year and what it brought them. Some fans of Benito Antonio Martinez Ocasio had their ticket cloned. Others simply did not manage to get in before the concert began, at ten o’clock at night, although they spent three or four hours queuing and advancing little steps. Inside, the party began with a half-filled stadium, and policemen in riot gear sealed the entrances. “We don’t know why they don’t let them pass anymore, but we have to be here,” justified an officer, his helmet and shield well fastened. There were attempts to slam the door and several youths climbed onto the roof of the main entrance. “Benito, help us, they won’t let us pass!” shouted one who was trapped outside.
The usual suspects ruined the night for hundreds of people: Ticketmaster, the company that provided the tickets, and Ocesa, in charge of the logistics of the concert. Some were more frustrated than the night. They lost a dream. Daniela had received a ticket from her mother as a 15-year gift. When she and her brother arrived at the entrance, they were told that their tickets—which cost 8,000 pesos each—had already been used by someone else, sorry. It seems inevitable to have to learn at such a young age from these frauds and their impunity, that you have to know what it is like to live in Mexico. “They told us to settle with Ticketmaster, to sue them, nothing more,” says Daniela. “It was a gift from my mom. I feel very sad. I was very excited to see my favorite singer. Now, even if it is, we are going to stay here to listen to it when it starts, ”she said with resignation.
Another affected, Tania, was left outside with her sister because they closed the entrance. “No one has come to explain to those of us who have a ticket why we can’t get in,” she protests. Estadio Azteca later reported that it closed access due to the issue of duplicate or cloned tickets. Holy solution in which they paid just for sinners. “We are leaving now. We decided to give up. I am very angry, frustrated and sad. It doesn’t seem fair to me,” says Tania with a lump in her throat. Other people who couldn’t get in either decided to sell their tickets at discounted prices, and there were still those who bought them, people who didn’t understand in time that the outside was a gruesome scene from which they were not going to be able to get out.
Several parties on the banks of the Azteca had been organized through Facebook and Telegram groups among those who had not been able to buy a ticket in the 10 months prior to the concert —which was sold out—. But until here it was not possible to hear the music that was born from the stadium. As soon as the shouts of the public that were able to enter arrived, God’s favorites, those outside called them. “We are definitely the best warriors and God gave us the worst battle,” said Israel, 22, holding up a sign pleading for someone to sell him a ticket. Among the Bad Bunny pirate food and souvenir stalls, people came across looking to buy tickets and resellers offering them at offensive prices (at 8,000 thousand pesos for the passes that originally cost 800, in the stands furthest from the stage). The resale, an illegal business, at least in theory, happened under the noses of the police in Mexico City. “A reseller wanted to give me one for 12,000 pesos, ‘because that one was original, since the fake ones were giving them for 4,000.’ Look at the impudence ”, commented a mother desperate to find an entrance for her son.
Abigail, a 22-year-old nurse, had walked four hours with a sign that read: “I’m looking for a ticket. They just don’t want to retire. I have a cat to feed. Coming from Nezahualcoyotl, a marginalized eastern municipality of the State of Mexico, Abigail could only pay 3,000 pesos, but no reseller gave in to her budget. “If I don’t make it in, I’ll fall into depression,” she said. And she laughed, trying to downplay her words. She then admitted: “I have been depressed, because I ended a seven-year relationship, he ended me, and there was a cheat. I had to go to the psychologist, and for me this concert was to free things that I carry. That’s why I don’t want to give up.”
—Have Bad Bunny’s songs helped you?
—Yes, they have helped me in my mental recovery.
“My breakup hit me a lot,” he remembered. The song with which he most identified me is “Un coco”, because there Bad Bunny mentions that he would like a coconut to fall on his head and erase his memory. And I would also like that to be erased from my mind so that I no longer be sad, so that I can let go.
The alleged celebrations outside the Azteca happened in a contradictory way. Shouts of “slam door slam!” and the whistles against the policemen were silenced by those who tried to figure out what song Bad Bunny was singing now. “Put 10 pesos more in volume!” asked an assistant. Suddenly, silence. Muffled sounds from within, almost indistinguishable. The audience, quiet at first, straining their ears, was deciphering the rhythm. And then a chorus began under the full moon that was last night: “I don’t know if I’ll see you again, if I’m going to get lost tomorrow!” And again screams and bellakeo and laughter. Beer cans, vodka bottles, tequila, whiskey already appear here. You can already see those who sang, danced and kissed drunk. The smell of marijuana appears, which today is smoked as a rasta, if God allows it (allowed it). Cell phones disappear, stolen. Wallets stolen. There are already people crying with frustration. And people who, despite everything, cried with emotion, enjoying the night and many beautiful things. What are these contradictions of experience but acts of a certain magic.
In there are the indisputable followers of Bad Bunny. But out here are the true believers of him, his parishioners, those who pray to him, those who do not need to see him, or even reach to hear him, to imagine his presence and recite his creed from memory.
“I’m kidding, I did put up a candle so I could get a ticket tonight,” America, 19, said, still hopeful, an hour before the concert began.
—What saint did you put it on?
“To San Benito,” he says.
He has disguised himself as the sad heart on the cover of a summer without you and came to Azteca, south of the capital, from Tepeji del Rio, a municipality in the State of Hidalgo 72 kilometers away. That red heart, for now, represents his mood. When she finally sees that tonight she won’t have any luck, she breaks down in tears. Her sister comforts her. She comforts a red heart that is sad and cries.
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