It’s good to know I’m not alone. I have this affliction, and I just found out that Reba McEntire’s mom had it, too. The condition probably has a clinical name, but I call it Frontrowitis. It starts by sitting in the front row at a country concert. Regardless of how you get the seats (win them, mortgage your house to pay for them, or get them the way Reba’s mom did at the Grand Ole Opry with good old-fashioned seat hopping), it comes on quickly after that.

If you’ve never sat in the front row, let me paint you a picture. The artist comes on stage, and immediately makes eye contact with you. Then Dierks / Kenny / Martina / Toby /Miranda starts to sing, right in front of you. You sing along, faking it when you have to, because how awkward would that be to not know the words? You leave the show thinking it can’t get any better than that. And to be honest, it never ever does. Hence, the illness.

Symptoms include post-concert euphoria and repeated story telling. (“Did I tell you I had my elbows on the stage?”) But the pain starts to kick in the next time a concert comes to town and you can’t get front row. You can get tenth row, but to you that’s like nosebleeds. A friend has a friend who can get you a box, where you’ll be forced to watch the show through binoculars. That is so beneath you. This is when you know you have it bad, when the front row has spoiled you for anything else.

The sad part is, there’s no cure. You can sit in the second through 135th rows and the artist can put on a fabulous show but your heart will still ache. I’ve had Frontrowitis for about five years, ever since I seat-hopped my way to the front row of a Kenny Chesney show at Milwaukee’s Summerfest. Now if I wanted to get one front row seat for his show in Indiana next week, I’d have to pay a broker $1448. That’s a pretty steep price to pay for what would really only provide temporary relief of my symptoms. Unless I could claim it on my medical insurance. Anyone know where I could get coverage like that?

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