Why You Should Never Do Shrooms at a Billy Joel Concert

By SpinFork Staff | Forked Up

It was supposed to be a chill night: two tabs, a $19 stadium beer, and the comforting promise of “Piano Man” somewhere in the middle third of the setlist. Instead, I ended up arguing with a sentient spotlight, weeping during “Uptown Girl,” and having a full-blown existential crisis triggered by a harmonica solo.

Let this be your warning.

0:00 — The Mushrooms Kick In

I took them in the parking lot. They tasted like sadness and wood chips. No turning back. By the time we reached our seats, I could already hear the bassline of “Movin’ Out” in my teeth.

Billy hadn’t even taken the stage yet.

0:17 — “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” Is a Portal

I’m not sure how long the song actually is. In my perception: four years. During the saxophone solo, I fell into a memory I didn’t recognize—possibly someone else’s—and emerged married to a mannequin named Deborah. When I came to, I was holding a breadstick I didn’t purchase.

0:43 — Billy Joel Ascends

At first, I thought it was just a lighting rig. Then I realized Billy had lifted off the stage and was slowly rotating like a rotisserie chicken. He made eye contact with me and said, “This one’s for the lonely molecules.” No one else heard it. Of course they didn’t. He was speaking through the fog machine.

1:00 — The Piano Talks Back

During “Vienna,” his piano whispered, “Time is a construct. Let it go.” I wept. My friend Jeremy asked if I was okay. I told him, “I am Jeremy now.” He left to get nachos and never came back.

1:19 — I Become a Billy Joel Song

I didn’t hear “You May Be Right.” I was “You May Be Right.” My consciousness dissolved into pure electric piano stabs and regret. Someone bumped into me and I shattered into six small business loans and a divorce.

1:41 — Joel Enters My Bloodstream

Not metaphorically. Literally. At this point, I was certain Billy Joel had miniaturized himself and entered my circulatory system. Every time my heart beat, it played “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” I begged security for help. They offered me a T-shirt.

2:00 — He Plays “Piano Man.” I Leave My Body.

It’s not a song. It’s a summoning ritual. Everyone sings along. I float above the crowd and see myself singing too, badly. My ghost high-fives a janitor. The harmonica solo opens a rift in the astral plane. I pass through.

I emerge in 1983. Billy Joel is there, and he’s furious.

Final Verdict:

DO NOT DO SHROOMS AT A BILLY JOEL CONCERT.
Unless you’re prepared to confront the raw machinery of time, capitalism, and the emotional weight of Long Island.

Also, there’s no encore. There never was. There’s only “Captain Jack,” and he is not okay.