Hundreds of people who're pissed that they got there early, wondering if it was worth it just to get street parking. Skeptical and unconvinced, slammin' lyrics and bombin' riffs notwithstanding. Still too stressed from work, not liquored up like they like, and really, let's face it, you're not the Shins...   What's a band to do? Brave face, my friend. Brave face. Because every single one of them is an opportunity. Over that annoyingly loud buzz of vapid conversation that even you can hear from the stage, every one of them is a new soul waiting for your touch, and because you've done all the hard work, and you've done your homework, all you have to do now...is play on. Soon, they start asking why they didn't know about you sooner. Like where have you been their whole "I'm in touch with the musical heartbeat of this indy-indy town" lives? -Where are you from?  -Is the lead singer's accent how he actually talks? -What's this band's name again?  Hmm.  That's a crap name, we're not even sure what the second word is.  Sprint?  Split? -Wait, is he pulling out a frickin' harmonica?  A harmonica?!?  -Sick.   The harmonica suddenly and simultaneously makes you hipster chic and a down-home bon homme. "I still can't bring myself to dance, though," says the stiff-hipped hipster crowd. "Hell, I don't even know the words to the songs." "Well maybe I'll just rock back and forth." "Just a teensy bit. I can't help it anyhow, my innate sense of impeccable rhythm makes my head bob like this." "Wait, is that guy playing a trash can lid tamborine?..." And then they're smiling.   Some to themselves, because they're proud of you.   Some to you, because they're appreciative.   And some just can't help it.   And you. All you Did was...play on.   Keep playing.   You're playing your asses off, three of you are drumming like it's goin' out of style and you're strapped to the front of the train. The guitar dude is now the percussion dude, and the the keyboard dude is now the third percussion dude, and between a harmonica, a washboard, a trashcan lid, drum kit, bongos, a cartwheeling midget in the back with a cowbell on his head, and the guy in the audience stage left who is loudly, rhythmically clicking, it clicks.   Clapping, whooping, hollering. By golly, even dancing. And they said you'd never be more than band geeks. "Duh," you say. "We never wanted to be anything BUT band geeks." ----------------- In our life, in our time, we have all been the opener. Selling our selves and not just our music, it's never been a comfortable place, and really honestly never should be. But it should feel good, it should feel gooood, because there's no better opportunity than a captive audience and a license to perform.   And there's something romantic about it. The headliner's got a reputation to uphold. But the opener? Making like a high school teacher, winning unconvinced and unmotivated hearts and minds.   And if it ain't romantic enough that you're opening up for the band of bands in the city of cities, then it's Paris-in-the-springtime romantic that you're winning hearts on coin flips and card tricks, and that your reputation is the hat on your head, the 'stache on your lip, and your swagger.   Win hearts and minds. Be the opening act sometimes. Break out your trash can lid tamborine.