2025 was a packed year for Jay-Ho!
Some shows had an excellent run, while others struggled—not because of quality, but because the market became overcrowded. October, in particular, turned into a traffic jam of events, with everyone assuming it was the perfect time to host shows. Somewhere along the way, a quiet assumption also took hold: Jay-Ho must be making a lot of money.
(Sarcasm intended.)
During show days, our business phone is usually handled by my team. Occasionally, if they’re tied up, calls get forwarded to me. It’s quite common for unfamiliar callers to open with, “I know Jay, he’s my friend,” followed immediately by an expectation of a discount.
Before my last show, one such call stood out. A woman inquired about tickets and casually remarked,
“If you’re not desperate to sell, then I’m not desperate to buy.”
I paused—not because of the price—but because of the mindset behind that statement.
It made me wonder:
Why would someone want to attend a show only if the organizer appears desperate?
If a show needs desperation to sell tickets, isn’t that already a signal that something is wrong with the show itself?
That single line quietly captures a deeper issue many event organizers face in small community markets.
Familiarity Changes Behavior—and Not Always for the Better
In close-knit communities, professional boundaries blur easily.
People negotiate harder not because the ticket is overpriced, but because they know the organizer—or know someone who knows them.
Friends bargain.
Friends of friends bargain more.
After securing discounts, many then ask to avoid transaction fees and request Venmo or direct transfers to “save a few dollars.” For organizers, this creates additional manual work, reconciliation issues, and accounting headaches—costs that are rarely acknowledged.
And sometimes, that’s still not enough.
Requests escalate:
“Can we get a picture with the artist?”
“Can I get stage time?”
“Can my kid be the MC?”
Some so-called community influencers even suggest these favors in return for buying two discounted tickets.
At times, it feels like everyone wants something back simply for attending a concert by a well-known artist—as if the organizer needs to “show a crowd” and therefore must accept every demand.
One incident still stays with me. We once offered a free ticket through our partner Apna Bazar on a $100 grocery purchase. The winner called and asked for one more free ticket. When told the second ticket had to be purchased, he replied, “No problem, I’ll come alone.”
Strange, but telling.
Attending live events is a luxury, not a necessity.
And yet, universities have repeatedly shown that live cultural experiences have tangible mental and emotional health benefits—very different from endlessly scrolling Netflix or watching content alone at home.
Still, even well-meaning supporters often assume discounts are their right.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth:
Knowing the organizer does not reduce the cost of producing a show.
The artist’s fee doesn’t change.
The venue cost doesn’t change.
Sound, lighting, visas, flights, hotels, insurance, marketing—none of it changes because we share a community WhatsApp group.
Everyone Is an Artist. Everyone Is an Organizer.
In small markets, another challenge quietly exists.
Everyone believes they are an artist—or could organize a show better.
Social media has made performance look effortless.
A reel goes viral, and suddenly years of training, discipline, rejection, and craft disappear from view.
But becoming a professional artist takes decades.
Organizing a successful show takes capital, experience, risk appetite, and countless unseen hours.
A failed show doesn’t just lose money—it damages trust, future opportunities, and the entire ecosystem.
The Politics of Community Events
Community politics is real.
Personal agendas are real.
So are silent expectations, comparisons, and camps.
Sometimes, good shows suffer—not because they lack quality—but because they don’t align with someone’s preferred narrative, group, or ego.
That’s when art becomes collateral damage.
A Tale of Two Ticket Buyers
Ironically, many of the same people who negotiate endlessly for a community concert will happily pay premium prices for global or Western artists—without hesitation.
No bargaining at checkout.
No phone calls asking for “last price.”
No emotional leverage.
Which raises a hard question:
Is there still a subconscious belief that our own artists—and our own organizers—should come cheaper?
If so, that mindset didn’t stay behind when we moved countries.
Respect the Craft. Respect the Effort.
Good shows don’t happen by accident.
They happen because someone chose professionalism over shortcuts—and risk over comfort.
Supporting quality events means more than attending them.
It means valuing the work behind them.
When we respect art, artists, and organizers equally, the entire community grows.
And when we don’t, we quietly ensure that fewer good shows take place.
That would be the real loss.
