It’s a tough job. Being the opening act for a bigger, more popular band is much like being invited to a really wonderful party only to have all the other guests ignore your attempts to engage in conversation. You take to the stage brimming with enthusiasm only to be confronted by rows of empty seats because half the audience has chosen to have dessert rather than turn up on time. If you’re lucky, the evening will end with you raiding the band rider but not much more. Such is the lot of a support band.
It’s a tough job. Being the opening act for a bigger, more popular band is much like being invited to a really wonderful party only to have all the other guests ignore your attempts to engage in conversation. You take to the stage brimming with enthusiasm only to be confronted by rows of empty seats because half the audience has chosen to have dessert rather than turn up on time. If you’re lucky, the evening will end with you raiding the band rider but not much more. Such is the lot of a support band.
Brisbane group The Grates were an ideal choice to support The Flaming Lips. In singer Patience Hodgson, they have a not-so-secret weapon whose enthusiasm was not merely palpable but luminescent and prone to leaping off the stage, seizing unwitting patrons by the shoulders before giving them a good shake. She took to the stage wearing what I can only describe as a mumu made of tinsel. It was obvious that The Grates had not turned up solely to pick the eyes out of the catering before taking the rest of the night off. They were making a real effort to entertain.
It’s at least ten years since I’d last seen The Grates It was at the Corner Hotel, Richmond, and they were supporting a British band that at that has long since receded into obscurity. I’m not even sure if they’d released their first album. But they were energetic and engaging, just as they were all this time later. However, some things have changed during the intervening period. Ten years ago, people went to concerts to watch. Now it’s an arm wrestle for attention as the act on stage does everything they can to distract patrons from staring at their mobile phones.
He was sitting two rows ahead of us, a couple of seats over. His mobile phone had a face bigger than Bert Newton and its aura of unwelcome illumination proved an aggressive distraction. I don’t blame him for bringing a mobile phone to a rock concert – my own was in my pocket at the time – but I cannot for the life of me figure out why he would sit there and play with it whilst a group was on stage doing all they could to entertain him. Here, now, were The Grates; dressed like the love child of Grug and a box of Christmas decorations, and this dude was ignoring them completely in favour of his mobile phone.
I appreciate that times have changed, really I do. That the pace of modern life is such that people must remain connected at all times, lest a highly amusing cat video should be released without their knowledge. But this guy wasn’t doing anything useful. Because the screen was about the same size as the electronic scoreboard at the MCG, I could see what he was doing. He started scrolling through something that, because I do not wish to give it even a skerrick in the way of free publicity, I shall refer to as ‘FaceHole’. From there, he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time looking at Seinfeld memes, focusing in particular on those featuring George Costanza.
Granted, it’s certainly possible that these were not the colossal waste of time and general pimple on the backside of humanity they appear to be. For all I know, this guy has made the study of Seinfeld memes and their relation to, I don’t know, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, his life’s work and what seems to a neutral observer such as myself to be stultifyingly stupid is, in actual fact, part of a deeper commitment to unlocking the eternal mystery of the human mind. On the other hand, he could simply be a jerk.
On stage, the band pulled out all the stops. Super-douche, as I had begun to think of him, checked his messages and sent some emails. Armed with half a bag of Maltesers, I gave serious consideration to sending a few chocolate missiles his way, followed by a barrage of verbal abuse. There is, I feel, no sign of opprobrium less ambiguous that a small piece of chocolate in the back of the head followed by a few choice words. However, keen both not to overreact and to preserve the few remaining snacks I had, I decided to keep my thoughts and the Maltesers to myself. I did this partly because I am, in essence, a peace-loving guy and partly because, I assumed, his rudeness would be confined to the opening act and, surely, would cease, once the headliners appeared.
As it turns out, I assumed way too much. The Flaming Lips are one of music’s greatest spectacles, with confetti cannons, giant space-balloons and an inflatable Catfish forming part of the show. These, however, are no competition for Seinfeld memes. He remained glued to his phone throughout, pausing only for a moment to lift it above his head and film part of the performance, presumably to remind himself at a later date than he had, in fact, attended. The only other time he seemed to pay any attention to the events around him was when a giant space balloon bounced on top of his head and he glanced up, looking annoyed. He probably went home frustrated that his night of meme exploration was interrupted by music. I should probably have told him all this. But I’m sure that, had I done so, he would merely have shrugged his shoulders and answered me in the words of Mr. Costanza, ‘Well the jerk store called and they’re all out of you.’ Touché, George.