There was a time when we were unbelievers. We dismissed the itineraries for bands like On The Speakers and Fleetwood Mac as simple lists of dates, cities and venues often sorted in chronological order. We rejected the idea that the travel plans for Michelle Malone could heal the daily cuts and bruises that bit into our psyche like so many mosquitoes swarming hungrily over a bare fleshy arm on a humid night. We failed to understand, or even to grasp, the singular notion that the schedules for acts such as Reel Big Fish and Barenaked Ladies often symbolized mankind’s constant struggle to rise up over the animal, vegemite and mineral. Yes, we were blinded to the obvious. Of course, we were so much older then.

But we’re younger than that now. And with every ticking of the clock, as every second counts down to our life’s inevitable final encore, we not only appreciate the new tours, we rejoice in their everlasting fluidity. We immerse ourselves in the dates for Alabama, we bask in the glow that rises from the routing for Live and we drape ourselves in the lists of support acts for Iron Maiden. Yes, this is our purpose in life, a noble cause indeed.

But what if? What if that worldwide roulette wheel of love otherwise known as the live event industry was to suddenly grind to a halt? Would the sun not rise if there weren’t dates for Willie Nelson? Would the stars in the evening sky not sparkle? Would the galaxies refuse to spin? Would the cosmos evaporate into a bottomless void of bar bands and Karaoke sing-alongs if we didn’t deliver new dates for bands like blink-182 and Jane’s Addiction on a daily basis? Would civilization as we know it cease to exist?

Yes, we know these are foolish questions when the answers are so obvious. So we come to work each day and jack our intellectual inner selves into the vast throbbing network that is the concert industry. We compile dates for Michelle Wright, we analyze the routings for Patty Loveless and Rick Braun and we count, then recount the additional shows for The Nadas. For tracking the schedules, the changes, the new dates for artists like 38 Special and Little Feat, makes us more than cosmic lynchpins in the incredible lightness of being. We are your humble servants, dedicated to bringing you the latest for Smokey Robinson and Lonestar, and that your wish for shows is our only command and your happiness our sole reward.

That is, unless they stop paying us. Then we’ll have to consider other options.