Want more Jeff Edelstein? Head over to jeffedelstein.substack.com Guns N’ Roses is touring this summer. They’re playing MetLife Stadium. It’s an hour away. I should be excited. After all, Guns N’ Roses was my band. “Appetite for Destruction” is a perfect album. Not “perfect for its tim e.” Perfect. Period. I legit rank it as the best rock album of all time. Fight me. And “Use Your Illusion I” and “II” are bloated and indulgent but still contain more great songs than most bands manage in a lifetime. For years — decades, really — I’ve been trying to turn those two albums into one perfect 70-minute record. Fourteen songs. No filler. No mercy. Like, if it was just one CD. It cannot be done. Every time I think I’ve cracked it, I realize I left off something essential and the whole thing collapses. This is what my brain does for fun. So yes, on paper, I should be excited they’re coming back to New Jersey for a monster stadium show. But … I am not. Because when I picture actually going, the whole thing, from buying a ticket, driving to the Meadowlands, sitting in traffic, paying for parking, walking approximately one full Appalachian Trail from the lot, standing the entire time, and using a bathroom that feels like it should come with a tetanus shot … what I feel isn’t nostalgia. It’s resistance. It’s not so easy I saw Guns N’ Roses twice when I was young. Both times at Giants Stadium. The first was 1988. I was 16, and they were opening for Deep Purple and Aerosmith. They weren’t mainstream yet. “Appetite for Destruction” was out, but they were still right on that edge of stardom when I got the ticket two months earlier. They were huge if you were paying attention, invisible if you weren’t. For me, they were the reason I was there. It felt like getting in early. Like knowing something before everyone else caught on. Then “Sweet Child O’ Mine” came out, they zoomed up the charts, and this opening act packed the stadium. Years later, I got to interview Slash, and I mentioned that show. He immediately perked up. “That was my favorite show ever,” he said. Apparently, they’d been touring Europe and had no idea how hard they’d hit in the States. They expected a normal crowd. This was their first show back. Instead, there were 100,000 people and the place went completely bananas. He said he was about to devote an entire chapter of his autobiography to that night, which he actually ended up doing. That show felt like lightning. I was 16. I had no responsibilities, no injuries, no opinions about bathroom logistics. I stood for hours and never once thought, “Is there a place to sit?” The second time was 1991, during the “Use Your Illusion” tour. Same stadium. Bigger production. Same feeling. I was 20 and assumed this was how concerts worked forever. Out to get me The music didn’t change. I still love it. I still know every word. I still lose alarming amounts of time arguing with myself about “Illusion” track lists. What changed is all the surrounding nonsense. The traffic. The parking. The standing. The crowd. None of that used to matter. It was just part of the deal. Now it’s the entire deal. Standing for three hours used to be automatic. Now it’s a strategy session. I look for railings. I scout walls. I start thinking about whether I can casually squat without drawing attention. My back gets involved early. My knees join the conversation. My patience leaves the building. I didn’t get nostalgic. I got logistical. It’s not that I stopped liking concerts. It’s that concerts started demanding a lot more from me physically, emotionally, and orthopedically. It could be mine Here’s how this works in my ideal world: I do not drive. I do not park. I do not walk a mile. A helicopter lands gently somewhere near my seat. Possibly directly on it. I am escorted inside. I sit comfortably. There is climate control. There is food that does not come in a foil wrapper. There is a private bathroom that looks like a real bathroom and not a sociological experiment. I watch the show. I enjoy it. I leave easily. I am home before midnight. I wake up the next morning feeling fine. That version sounds fantastic. The real version, which includes paying $100 for nosebleeds, standing the whole time, fighting traffic, and getting home at 2 a.m. feeling like I lost a bar fight is a tougher sell. At best, I’m not rocking. I’m carefully swaying, like a man protecting his lower back. I’m not saying I won’t go. I’m saying the bar is much higher now. The 17-year-old version of me would’ve done anything to be there. Would’ve slept on concrete. Pretty sure I did sleep on concrete. Would’ve figured it out. The current version of me is perfectly happy on the couch, putting on “Appetite for Destruction,” and remembering a time when concerts didn’t feel like endurance events. Maybe that’s aging. Maybe some things are better left as memories. Or maybe I just don’t feel like paying $100 to stand for three hours. That’s probably it. Still, if anyone has a helicopter, I’m flexible. ...read more read less