The Rock Show

I am of several minds re: young Matt Fraction's observations on Opening Acts. On the one hand, I have sat through my share of bad opening acts—and it wasn't even that they were bad, per se, just horribly mismatched: whose genius idea was it to pair Phranc with the fucking Pogues, f'rinstance? Her self-described Jewish-American militant lesbian folkie shtick might've been mildly enjoyable some other night, in some other venue, in some other mood, but...

On the other hand, I have had the good fortune to see some pairs of bands so well-matched that the evening felt like a double-bill—the Blue Aeroplanes' triple-guitar attack (with backing dancer) blending into The Church's mighty roar in one thick hazy smear of psychedelia.

On the third hand, I have occasionally gone to a show just to see the Opening Act, and split before the headliner—it's a fine thing to see Richard Thompson spitting bullets, why should I ruin it by subjecting myself to the loopy caterwauls of Rickie Lee Fucking Jones?

On the fourth hand, I too have been the Opening Act. And it is a profoundly odd thing to get off work at the 9-to-5, hump your equipment down to the club, sip beers until showtime, then play your guts out to palpable indifference—and then have to hang around 'til last call to collect your shitty chunk of money, coming off your adrenaline rush to sleep a fitful, exhausted sleep in a dressing room stinking of sweat and disappointment, while the headliners float through their set on a wave of adulation.

And you hate them, you fucking hate them—long-haired layabout fancyboy fuckers with their flash clothes and their foreign accents, oozing sex and charisma, dampening panties with a lilting word or a smouldering glance, bound for some luxury hotel for an epic night of blowjobs and soma and no dirtbag job to go to in the morning, while you throw your amps in the back of your shitbox car and take the long drive out, stopping for a microwave burrito at the Store 24 on your way back to the suburbs and the prospect of three hours' sleep before heading off to work again, dragging your dead body through its grinding paces again.

So I am not entirely without sympathy for the Opening Act.

Also, I think his math is off.