Nostalgia Bait: Sean Kingston Plays Game On Fenway
Graphic by Charlotte Heintz
by lily suckow ziemer
How did I end up at a Sean Kingston concert? It all started with an Instagram reel.
I was scrolling when I got an ad: “Sean Kingston at Game On!” Jokingly, I showed it to my friend only for her to exclaim, “I love Sean Kingston!” I didn’t know Kingston actually had die-hard fans, but apparently he defined her middle school years. Tickets were cheap, and next thing I knew I was sweating in a basement alongside hundreds of college students.
I was expecting a loose crowd of millennials, casually singing along and then promptly leaving. I was wrong. Everyone in attendance was around the age of twenty-one and ecstatic to see Kingston. A few girls even wore shirts with his face plastered on them. Turns out there’s a lot of die-hard fans.
A few minutes past his planned set time of 11:30pm, Kingston was absent. We were packed together, sweating in seemingly unventilated air. My legs were so coated in sweat it felt like I’d just exited a pool, and I had the hair of at least five girls stuck to my arms with how tightly we were crammed. Eventually, a manager in a snapback appeared to tell the crowd Kingston was “caught in traffic leaving New York” and would be a little late. A half hour passed, and he returned to deliver the same message, only this time met with overwhelming “boos.” He quickly pulled up an employee to pour shots into the mouths closest to the stage. The booing stopped and everyone stampeded forward. Did they want alcohol? Or was it desperation for any form of hydration?
Yet another half hour passed and still no Sean. Someone held up a phone with his Instagram story pulled up: a blank screen reading, “Boston I’m almost there… I hope y’all are ready,” time stamped two hours ago. On all sides I heard people telling their friends they wanted to go home. We were all shining with sweat and tired of dancing, but at this point my friend and I had been pushed to the front, only a few feet from where Kingston would be. Everyone agreed to stay. People were no longer persuaded by free drinks, and started holding up messages on their phone for the DJ to read. Already having extended her set by an hour, the DJ apologetically shrugged to questions of “where’s Sean?” The snapback man returned to joyously announce, “Sean is in the building!”
Still, no appearance.
A door opened. Music played. Bodyguards parted the sea of people for Kingston and his presumed posse of friends that remained behind him all night to walk through. Everyone screamed, forgetting any previous annoyance, even myself. I had little knowledge of Kingston as a person, but as he began singing “Take You There” a few feet in front of me, I too shed my anger.
Kingston had a soothing voice for a mainstream pop artist. Despite the dance energy his songs create, his voice is fit for emotional serenades. I time traveled back to the 2000s, remembering all the hits I’d forgotten were his. But it wasn’t long before we hit another roadblock.
The backing music had stopped playing. Kingston gave the DJ an impatient stare while she frantically moved about the table trying to get it to work. Soon, one of Kingston’s friends was shouting in her ear, then a worker from the Game On. As we watched the chaos unfold, I complained to my friend that they just needed to leave the DJ alone. My friend nodded, and looking at the crowded stage declared, “Too many cooks in the kitchen.”
A few “hold on’s” and half-hearted “make some noise’s” later, Kingston decided to go ahead with his next song, “Beautiful Girls,” acapella. He did a great job, and the audience enjoyed singing along. The moment was soured, though, each time Kingston directed a glare at the DJ.
The show would go on to be a few more songs broken up by Kingston insulting the DJ. She got everything working by the next song—with no one's help. Still, he constantly muttered into the mic, “this DJ.” He closed out the show with a shoutout to snapback-guy (who had just finished yelling at the DJ) and a final remark: “Boston, I love you guys. You need a new DJ though.”
Kingston sang six songs—one more than the publicized “five biggest hits!” A part of me wanted to be angry–had I waited this whole time for twenty-five minutes of music? Another part of me knew I’d cry if I was forced to stand in that basement any longer. His sixth “surprise” song was one the crowd didn’t know, likely a recent release. It was clear that the nostalgia trip was over and we all wanted to go home.
Right before going to bed, I found Kingston’s Instagram to check if you could see me in the videos he posted. When I noticed his bio I rolled my eyes: “time is money.”
Sure.