Why Applaud the Swift-Kelce Wedding? The Venue Name.

Beyond the guest list and dress maker, we’re still in the dark about much of the Taylor Swift-Travis Kelce nuptials after more than a week. But one thing we do know—and as trivial as it sounds, it’s worth acknowledging.

The name of the venue where they wed.

I know what you’re thinking. What’s so special about Madison Square Garden, aside from its record-breaking residencies by Billy Joel and Elton John through the Knicks mania that recently took place there?

Well, let’s start with the fact that it’s simply called Madison Square Garden.

When it comes to the unharmonious rebranding of arenas and stadiums around the country, where does one start about the way naming rights have overtaken venues that host sports and music? If you’re headed to see a show on a major tour these days, you may find yourself walking into the T-Mobile Arena. Or the Barclays Center, TD Garden, the State Farm Arena, the Prudential Center, the American Airlines Center, the UBS Arena or the Smoothie King Center. That’s not a list of venue names; it’s an upscale strip mall with multiple ATMs and snack shacks.

The very first concerts I ever attended were at MSG, Carnegie Hall and the Garden State Arts Center and the Capitol Theatre, the latter two in New Jersey. The Capitol (not to be confused with the one of the same name in Port Chester, New York) is long gone, but GSAC, as some used to call it, is now the PNC Bank Arts Center.

And, as I was reminded last week, that list of retitled arenas and sheds also includes the Northwell at Jones Beach Theater.

As someone who thinks “No Time,” “Laughing,” “These Eyes” and “Undun” are unassailable AM-radio ear worms of yore, I felt compelled to see the current reunion tour of the Guess Who. Actually, the lineup is fronted by just Burton Cummings and Randy Bachman, who regained the rights to the Guess Who name in 2024 and are touring the States to celebrate (and capitalize on) that victory. As Cummings made clear during the show, with more than a patina of sweet revenge in his voice, they also want to dispel any memories of “the fake Guess Who” that played state fairs and what not for many years without him or Bachman.

Cummings also pointed out that he’s now 78, and he and Bachman did look and sound their age at times. Bachman was seated during the entire two-hour set, and Cummings can’t quite scale the octaves the way he once did. But with the help of their backup players (one of whom, Jeff Jones, was a member of Ocean, as in “Put Your Hand in the Hand” Ocean!), they kicked out the Canadian rock jams pretty well.

Cummings recreated his flute solo on “Undun” (“I’m no Ian Anderson,” he cracked), and Bachman reminded the audience of the glories of lumberjack rock by way of three of his Bachman Turner Overdrive hits. The timelessness of the Bachman-Cummings catalog (the songs I mentioned, along with the post-Bachman “Share the Land”) was undeniable; they don’t write songs like these anymore, equally grounded in Vegas schmaltz and rock dynamics.

And along with my friend and fellow concert attendee Tom Junod (author of the justly acclaimed In the Days of My Youth I Was Told What It Means to Be a Man: A Memoir), I wondered if Cummings slipped in a tribute to the late Lester Bangs. Bangs’ 1972 piece on the Guess Who posited them as the ultimate crass, rock & roll guilty pleasure and compared them to the Doors. So was Cummings honoring Bangs by wearing a Creem T-shirt and incorporating a bit of “Roadhouse Blue” into the still ridiculously over-the-top “American Woman”? Maybe. And if so, good for him. (Plus, the line about the American “war machine,” coming from a Canadian band, hits even harder than it did in 1970.)

Every so often, I would glance around and see the signs for the venue. Jones Beach is a lovely venue on Long Island with views of the Atlantic, and the staffers were capable and friendly, especially the usher who told us we could “stretch out” since there were a few empty seats in our row.

But I’m not sure I want to be reminded that there’s an urgent-care clinic (an excellent one, I should add) around the corner from my home every time I walk into a concert venue.

None of these changes affect the music, of course. I’ve seen terrific shows in many of those venues in recent years. If corporate funding helps those buildings survive, so be it. But just rattling off the reconfigured names makes me nostalgic: for the days when scalper bots weren’t forcing us to play hundreds (even thousands) of dollars for tickets, when a can of beer wasn’t $30, and when official T-shirts were better than the bootleg versions and not the other way around.

And, too, when the names of performing arts centers and theaters were quirky or picturesque: the Armadillo World Headquarters in Austin, the Boston Garden, the Fillmores East and West, Winterland and so many more. The names reflected the underground, idiosyncratic culture that birthed rock & roll, as opposed to the business that overtook it.

Officials in Tucson, Arizona, had the right idea. Four years ago, they decided to rename the Tuscon Music Hall in honor of one of the city’s favorite daughters. Thus begat the Linda Ronstadt Music Hall. It’s nice to know that at least someone is still marching to the beat of a different, non-corporate drum.

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