Long before I spent most of my waking hours at Rolling Stone, I spent my teenage summers working at a large amphitheatre in New Jersey. While my peers were serving greasy chicken fingers at the concession stands and ripping ticket stubs at the front gate I was lucky enough to work backstage. Working there, I was assigned some really bizarre tasks like helping Britney Spears' assistant track down a nail salon in central Jersey that would cater to Brit's gel acrylic manicure habit (it's harder than you think) and picking blue M&Ms out of a bowl for a band I won't mention (I swear I did this). And while I missed out on the experience of actually attending a show as a patron, I thought I'd seen and heard it all at PNC. Until now, that is.

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