For a while now, the only reason I travel abroad is for live music. Why else would I go to another country? There will still be people there. Buildings. Landscapes. Even if they’re nicer or more impressive, they no longer move me. My brain doesn’t produce dopamine anymore just because I see a beautiful view. My standards have risen. You could take me to the Great Wall of China and I’d probably say:“It’s just a fence.” Which, to be fair, it is.
So when the idea of flying to London for the last show of Fred Again..’s USB002 tour was thrown on the table, the table practically collapsed under the weight of the suggestion.
It was easier to find the love of your life than to find tickets for Fred’s shows. Especially for the very last one.
“Good luck finding tickets,” everyone kept telling us.
“True,” we replied.
Meanwhile the ManiFredation group chat kept shrinking as soon as the discussion shifted to actually booking flights. “Are you insane? You don’t even have tickets.”
Again: we probably are.
Given my terrible track record with requests I’ve previously made to the Universe, I wasn’t expecting miracles just by leaving things to fate. So we didn’t sit around doing nothing.
When our plane took off from Athens, I was already deeply disappointed. When the flight attendant asked me if I wanted coffee or tea, I burst out, half-teary: “I WANT FRED.”
We spread our nets across the entire internet. One step away from moving operations to the dark web.
Desperate Facebook posts in private fan groups, written in CAPS LOCK and stripped of all dignity, DMs with scammers on Reddit, bots on Discord, flirty attempts on Instagram with Fred’s collaborators, next-level LinkedIn stalking of high-ranking members of the event organization. Every single lead ended the same way: disaster.
When our plane took off from Athens, I was already deeply disappointed. When the flight attendant asked me if I wanted coffee or tea, I burst out, half-teary: “I WANT FRED.”
This was widely misunderstood by the entire airplane – especially her – who thought I was asking for a freddo espresso.
“We just arrived from Athens with no tickets,” I told a guy with blonde curls. “Same,” he replied.“Just arrived from Australia.”
You might say: “The world is literally burning and you’re worrying about concert tickets.”
Exactly. Because the world is burning, I care about things like this. It’s my way of temporarily escaping reality, which seems to get worse every day – and I get worse with it.
Meanwhile, in some online thread we had read about a pub near the venue that functioned as an informal resale hub. Basically a small black market.
Drunk English people selling outrageously expensive tickets to people like us, with pure desperation written across their faces. We might not have had tickets. But we did have outfits.
So when we opened the door of the pub, we walked in like three black-clad, introverted curses, faces long enough to sweep the floor. Two hours before the show. No rest for the wicked.
Completely sober, we had to immediately overcome our social awkwardness. So we split up and started asking around for mercy.
“We just arrived from Athens with no tickets,” I told a guy with blonde curls. “Same,” he replied.“Just arrived from Australia.”
Our case didn’t even make the Top 10 saddest stories. The real stars were some desperate Indian fans, far more emotional and far more organized than us.
Great, I thought. There are worse situations than mine. And I immediately walked away, because neither of us had anything to gain from this interaction – unless I asked him for hair-care tips.
“Don’t worry, money is not a problem,” I remember saying in my best Greek Jeff Bezos voice to a pale ginger guy sitting at the bar. He promised he would ask a mate who supposedly had three extra tickets.
Lies.
After interrogating the entire pub for no reason, we decided to play our final card. Stand outside the venue and threaten to set ourselves on fire if someone didn’t find us tickets. Personally, the only reason I hadn’t already done it was because I vape now and don’t carry a lighter.
Things outside the venue were even worse. Our case didn’t even make the Top 10 saddest stories. The real stars were some desperate Indian fans, far more emotional and far more organized than us. They had giant signs asking for tickets. Meanwhile we asked ChatGPT to write a message on the spot, put it fullscreen on our phones, and showed it to people.
Embarrassing. Truly.
Then, thirty minutes before the show started, luck finally smiled at us.
A geeky guy with acne and glasses – who looked exactly like Peter Parker before the spider bite – appeared like an angel from heaven and asked: “Are you looking for tickets? ’Cause I got two.”
“My boy, can we kiss you?,” I said.
“Eleni, kiss him.”
She didn’t.
But he still sold us the two tickets. As a performative male, I gave priority to the women in the group. The goodbye scene felt very Titanic-like.
“Go. Go and don’t look back,” I told them in English, because suddenly I felt the need to experience my tragedy in a more international language.
“I’ll manage. Don’t worry about me. I’ll finish it,” I added in Greek, to honor the land that invented tragedy as entertainment and kindly passed it down to me.
It was an extremely emotional moment. Everyone nearby looked like they might cry. Perhaps my performance played a role, because a few minutes later a very polite Gen-Z English shepherd approached me and offered to sell me the last remaining ticket he had.
I have never handed money to another human being faster in my life. When I passed the first security check and saw my friends in the distance, we ran toward each other, hugged, and started jumping around like kangaroos.
Whatever I say about the set – which lasted four and a half hours – will be insufficient, and there is nothing I hate more than feeling inadequate.
We couldn’t believe we had actually pulled it off. When the doors opened, we sprinted inside and ended up among the first people standing right in front of Fred.
Whatever I say about the set – which lasted four and a half hours – will be insufficient, and there is nothing I hate more than feeling inadequate.
The Reels and TikToks from that night – even though they’re fantastic – don’t do it justice.
The energy in that room cannot fit inside a 4K video or a phone screen. All night long Fred kept bringing friends on stage to perform live vocals over the tracks he was mixing: Jamie T, Kano, Ezra Collective, BERWYN and Joy Anonymous. A lineup that already felt like a dream.
Behind him in the crowd you could also spot other musicians dancing — like Caribou.
As I write this I’m back in Athens. I have returned to my normal life and slowly coming down from the adrenaline of the experience. In a week I probably won’t even be thinking about it anymore.
There will likely be five new wars to focus on by then. Or worse. Who knows.
But I also imagine that years from now, whenever the three of us happen to be in the same place again, there is no chance we won’t talk about that day. The day we randomly flew to London for one night. And it turned out to be the best one of our lives.
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