Video: Jay-Z B-Sides Concert In New York City

Atmosphere.

What those who watched Jay Z's Terminal 5 show via a video stream missed by not being there was:

Approaching the venue on the far West Side of Midtown Manhattan on a warm and rainy night more than an hour before showtime and meeting scalpers near the hot dog cart on the corner of West 56th Street offering to sell the free tickets for $150, but indicating they might take less.

Hearing music industry types hobnobbing as you pass the VIP entrance, dudes in sharp suits and women in tight dresses saying things to door guardians like "I'd like to introduce you to Ty. He's our talent manager. He'll stand out here in the rain waiting for the others while the rest of us go inside and start drinking Jay Z's brand of cognac in the VIP area for free, okay?"

Standing in a line for the regular people at least a block long on one of the most non-descript blocks in New York, waiting to be patted down by "Event Staff" in mustard yellow polo shirts, the only major thing to look at during the wait being an under-construction tower with a curved base that looks like a concrete vacuum cleaner.

The ability, once inside the packed but, at 3,000 capacity, rather intimate venue, to Instagram a shot of the purple-lit crowd in front of the stage with the caption "Awaiting start of Jay Z at #Terminal 5. Seriously."

If you had a VIP ticket, the right to stand behind a fellow ordering a beer from a bar window on the first balcony, being told that if we wants he can order it at the cash bar, not here.

"OK," the beer drinker said.

The bartender was stunned. "Wait, you don't want to drink Jay Z's cognac for free?"

"No."

I ordered a ginger ale on the rocks, on hand as a cognac mixer.

Standing behind a tall gentleman in a hoodie imprinted "Bruce Springsteen: Darkness on the Edge of Town," and, sipping your beverage, tripping on the scene, the crowd's evident nervous, excitement as start time approached, this whole thing a bold business move on the rapper/mogul's part, thinking, "Meet the new boss, ace. Not the same as the old boss."

The smell rising up from the crowd, a mix of Gucci Guilty perfume, rum and coke, hormones, and rain-soaked cotton Civil garb and polyester Yankees caps.

As the lights fall, a non-tobacco scent, streaming from some discreet vaporizer pens, familiar both from my college days at Berkeley and my day earlier in Central Park.

A palpable ripple of thrills moving through the audience over the proximity to this mega-star as he takes the stage in this tight venue.

Unless you've got a $100K sound rig at home, the bass cascading from Terminal 5's two dozen 6-foot-wide speakers draped ceiling to floor made my jeans flap around my calves like a raincoat around a Weather Channel reporter in a hurricane.

The ability to choose to just watch the dual drummers do their thumping best for an entire song, choosing what your own eyeballs want to rest on rather than being subject to the decisions of a TV director deciding which camera shots to take.

Knowing that as you whoop, as you wave your arms, the star and his band can actually see and hear you and take in your appreciation at a fine, fine show.

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