Dear Bands, Don’t Be Dicks

Exhibit A:
In high school I was a huge NIN fan. I bought all their shit (albums, patches, bootleg VHS tapes, shirts, etc). One day I made my poor Dad take the day off work to stand in line for a pair of concert tickets for my friend Yolanda and I while we were in school. I stressed out about it all day and when my Dad picked me up after school, and I asked him about the tickets, he did a fake out “well, I tried … ” causing me to almost kick the windshield out with my Doc Marten, but then told me to open the glove compartment and there were two tickets to the show. I think I screamed all the way home, and continued to do so off and on until the night of the show. During the concert, my friend and I met some random guys who told us that if we wanted to see Trent up close, that we should walk around to where the car ports were at the side of the venue, and wait for him to get into his car (I wanna say it was a Silver Porche??). If someone approached me with this now, I’d probably pepper spray them before they got to finish the sentence, but whatever, we were stupid and as soon as the house lights came up, we ran, leaving trails of clove smoke behind us, over to the car ports to see Trent. We waited there for no less than an hour, and finally we started seeing people trickle out of a side door. Trent was one of the last people to come out, and as soon as it registered that that WAS in fact him I was looking at, I called out, “TRENT!” That’s it. Nothing embarrassing. No “I love you” bullshit. Just his name. When the echo of the word faded, Trent Reznor looked up at two, beaming, adoring, teenage girls, and flipped us the bird.

I never spent one goddamn dime on NIN after that.

Exhibit B:
The first concert I ever went to with friends, sans parental supervision, was the first ever KROQ Weenie Roast in Southern California. At the time I was obsessed with The Lemonheads and they were on the bill. I was there with my boyfriend (weeeeiiiiird) and my friend Matt, and we were smoking cigs (you could still smoke at shows then) and talking crap about who knows what. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a tall guy about to pass our row, and turned my head just in time to lock eyes with EVAN DANDO! I leapt straight up and said “Evan!” and then put out my hand to shake hands. He didn’t seem annoyed, so I also asked him to sign the back of my ticket stub. Twenty some odd years later, I still have that ticket stub, and will fight any man or woman who talks badly about Evan Dando. I will also spend money on any random piece of re-released whatever he puts out, and try real hard to support his solo work.

To end this, I will address bands directly by saying:

Dear Bands,

Being a dick will only add up to tipping the dick scales against your favor until one day you are playing empty Indian Casino Resorts and going home each night with the sound guy instead of hot fans. Nurturing loyalty is profitable, if nothing else. Stop cutting in line at coffee shops, stop wearing sunglasses inside, stop acting put-out during interviews, and be careful which doors you slam, because you never know who may be behind them. Mind your manners or we will gladly escort you right back to that job at the grocery store you worked at a few years ago and punch the clock for you.

Love,
Fans

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by Kelly