Me and you. Soldier Field, Friday September 4, 8:00 PM.
VIP pit, at the base of the globe. The grand finale of the whole tour, and his homecoming.
Five days, Cade. Spokane to Chicago on Wednesday the 2nd. Friday night we're standing on the grass at Soldier Field with a fifty-foot globe turning over our heads, close enough to feel the fog come off it.
Me and you. That's the whole roster.
I've been run over by a truck and I've been liquidated down to nothing. I found God on the floor, not in a pew. I'm not telling you that to flex — I'm telling you so you know the money for these tickets came out of a comeback and not out of a windfall, and I spent it on this on purpose.
September 4 is the grand finale, and he's playing it at home. The field where he rebuilt his childhood house at midfield and set himself on fire and walked out of it. Twenty years of one man's life land on that grass Friday, and we're going to be standing inside the circle when it closes.
Everything else on this page is built around those six hours. Wednesday we land and eat. Thursday we walk the whole city so your legs are there on Friday. Saturday is trees. Sunday we fly home with a sandwich.
Read it, pack it, I'll see you at the gate.
Spokane → Chicago, September 2 to 6, built around Friday's pit. Tap any stop to open it.
Hotel in the South Loop / Museum Campus area, near Roosevelt and Michigan. Reason: it's a 20–25 minute walk to Soldier Field, so on show night we skip the entire 63,000-person rideshare mess in both directions — and after seven hours in the pit, that walk home is everything. We're also sitting on the Red, Green and Orange lines and a 15-minute walk from Millennium Park. He plays Soldier Field both nights, the 3rd and the 4th, so the neighborhood buzzes both evenings. That's a feature.
Spokane to Chicago usually means a connection, and either way the clock jumps two hours against you. One good meal, one look at the lake, bed.
Train south first thing, then the walking day — about three miles at a stroll, one continuous line from the river to the park. Spend the legs today so they're there tomorrow.
Nothing ambitious, nothing far, legs stay fresh. The hour-by-hour for the night itself is further down this page.
You'll wake up wrecked and happy. Slow morning, then the day swings over to my side of the table — one of the best public bonsai collections in North America, and I've wanted to stand in it for years.
Too wrecked for the Glencoe trek, easy version: the White Sox are home Saturday at Rate Field — 20 minutes on the Red Line, cheap seats, done by six. That's the park where Ye threw out a first pitch with his son.
Too wrecked, but still want green: Garfield Park Conservatory instead — free, 25 minutes on the Green Line, one of the largest conservatories in the US, fern room and desert house. Less bonsai, still my world.
Rain: whichever of the Art Institute or the Skydeck we banked on Thursday, plus the Field Museum and SUE the T. rex, a ten-minute walk from the hotel.
Morning flight back toward Spokane. The only job today is not missing it.
The realistic shape of the day. One caveat up front: exact VIP perks change by package — early entry time, merch item, dedicated lane — so your ticket confirmation email is the only thing that's actually true. Check it about a week out.
No re-entry at Soldier Field. Whatever we buy, we carry all night — through a bag check, then seven hours standing on turf. So it gets decided before we leave the hotel, not in a line at the gate.
Eight things. Tick them as they go in — the page remembers, so you can do it in two passes.
First tour in a decade, and the show has been rebuilt since it started. KING opens it now. The new-album run shrank to two or three songs and a greatest-hits back half moved in behind it. Recent stops have logged about two hours on stage; the SoFi nights ran closer to three. Tap each block. This is the shape of the show, in order.
No screens-and-catwalk setup. The whole production is one object — a giant spinning half-sphere sitting on the stadium floor, projection-mapped into Earth, the Moon, fire, static. He performs on top of it, alone, sometimes harnessed at the apex.
What that means for us specifically: we're at the base of the sphere looking up. The pit gets the scale, the bass, the fog rolling off the globe, and him passing directly overhead. What we trade away is the picture — the Earth and Moon transformations read best from height, and at SoFi the upper-deck resale was selling on exactly that view.
The move: the sphere rotates and he circles it, so don't panic about which side we land on. He comes to you. Take rail on any side over being buried in the middle of the so-called front.
There's a page behind this one. A hundred and one songs in seven movements, in order, with the footage cut in where it belongs — his whole life, start to now, laid out the way it actually happened to him.
Start it now and you'll be finished before Wednesday.
Then on Friday you'll recognize what he's doing while he's doing it, instead of finding out on the drive home.