The festival coordinator at the 6th and Red River activation zone scanned my ancient media badge, frowned at the lack of blockchain verification, then offered a $22 "heritage sampler" of local IPAs; what began in 1987 as $50 worth of Xeroxed schedules, backyard kegs behind the Black Cat, and actual music at the Ritz has metastasized into a $1,650 platinum tier that tracks your steps, curates your conversations, and prices working musicians out of the very week built to celebrate them.
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The scanner at the door on Red River demanded my company name before I could hear a band; inside, a panel on 'tokenized fan engagement' ran long while the actual musicians loaded gear through a service alley lined with sponsored scooters. The 1998 version cost $45, required no lanyard, and somehow produced better memories than anything optimized by a growth hacker.
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I fed quarters into the 2nd and Congress meter only to watch them fall through while a QR code demanded I download an app for $4.75 an hour; the same spot in 2007 bought three hours, a Shiner Bock, and enough change left for breakfast tacos.
6 min read