Local Openers Matter
It’s 6:45 p.m. on a Tuesday. Or maybe a Friday, it doesn’t really matter. Doors technically swung open at 6:00, a fact advertised on a crumpled flyer taped to a telephone pole somewhere and buried in the algorithmic depths of a social media event page. Inside the venue, the air hangs thick with the faint scent of stale beer and anticipation… or maybe just stale beer. The only confirmed life forms are the bartender, diligently polishing glasses that will soon be sticky again; the sound engineer, scrolling through their phone while occasionally nudging a fader like a slumbering beast; and perhaps one solitary, incredibly supportive significant other, clutching a rapidly warming White Claw near the stage lip, radiating nervous encouragement.
But stage right, bathed in the indifferent glow of whatever house lights are functional, the first band is already tuned up. They’re buzzing with that potent cocktail of nervous energy, cheap caffeine, and the sheer, unadulterated hope that tonight might be different. They are fired up, ready to launch into a setlist practiced to perfection in a cramped, damp basement somewhere across town. They are giving it their absolute all—even if half the potential audience is currently locked in a fierce internal debate three blocks away: "Do we have time for Waffle House before the real show starts?"
Ah, Waffle House. That glorious, fluorescent beacon of late-night sustenance and questionable life choices. The spiritual home of the scattered, smothered, and covered crowd. Look, we’ve all been there. We've all weighed the siren song of crispy hashbrowns against the muffled thump of an unknown band's kick drum filtering out onto the street. Maybe you're genuinely trying to beat the pre-show hangries. Maybe you're employing complex rock show calculus: "Doors at 6, first band never starts before 7:15, second band around 8:00, headliner 9:15… perfect, Waffle House window secured." Maybe you're just strategically lingering in the parking lot, catching up with friends, delaying the inevitable $10 cover charge until the band you actually paid to see is imminent.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth, whispered over the sizzle of bacon and the clatter of plates: what you’re missing while you’re contemplating the structural integrity of pecan waffles might be more important, more vital to the very fabric of the music scene you claim to love, than you think. Because those early-set bands? The ones playing to the bartender, the sound guy, and the lone White Claw Crusader? They matter. Profoundly.
And not just in a polite, pat-on-the-head, “good for them for trying” kind of way. Openers are the bedrock of your local scene. They are the bubbling primordial soup from which future headliners emerge. They are the R&D department of your favorite genre, testing out new sounds, new riffs, new ways to connect. And sometimes, just sometimes, they deliver the most electrifying, unexpected, and utterly memorable set of the entire damn night. Yeah, even if their merch table is literally a repurposed cardboard box overflowing with sharpie-labeled demo CDs and a handful of slightly wrinkled, possibly misprinted T-shirts.
There’s something deeply humbling—and let’s be honest, kind of ridiculously heroic—about screaming your lungs out, pouring every ounce of your passion into intricate guitar solos or gut-wrenching lyrics, for a room containing precisely five people, three of whom appear to be deeply engrossed in a group text about weekend plans. It’s a trial by fire, a crucible forged in indifference. I once photographed a deathcore band whose guitarist snapped a string mid-song during their opening slot. Didn't miss a beat. He finished the song thrashing on five strings, borrowed a guitar from the next band for the rest of their set, and delivered an absolute scorcher fueled by pure adrenaline and spite. They won over maybe ten new people that night, but they earned them. That kind of grit isn't manufactured; it's pressure-tested in the often-empty crucible of the opening slot.
Thinking back nearly two decades to my own gloriously mediocre band… man, those early shows were something else. Loading our cheap, heavy gear into venues hours before anyone cared, soundchecking to cavernous, echoing rooms where your snare drum sounded like a gunshot in an empty warehouse. The nervous huddle backstage, trying to hype each other up, convincing yourselves that the dozen people scattered across the floor were actually a "pretty decent early crowd." Then, the blinding stage lights, the thirty minutes of frantic energy, the sweat, the occasional feedback squeal, maybe a polite clap or two. And finally, the abrupt silence, the adrenaline crash as you haul your gear back out past the growing queue of people just arriving for the band after you. It’s a unique emotional rollercoaster, swinging from hopeful ambition to stark reality and back again, all before 8 p.m. Those sets, those seemingly thankless gigs, are where bands get sharpened. It’s where they learn stage presence, how to handle blown amps, how to fill awkward silences, how to win over a room full of crossed arms and skeptical expressions. Every single band that has ever graced a festival main stage, every act whose vinyl you treasure, started right there, grinding it out in the early slots, pouring their souls into performances that most people didn’t even realize were happening yet.
And here’s the kicker—sometimes those openers, unburdened by expectation and fueled by raw hunger, have the mostto offer. There are no rockstar egos demanding specific water temperatures or rider requirements involving only blue M&Ms. There’s no pressure to play the "hits" because they don't have any yet. There’s just the pure, chaotic, beautiful energy of a band desperately trying to connect, to make a mark, to win over strangers one visceral riff, one clever lyric, one impossibly energetic drum fill at a time. They don’t know if their set is going to land like a revelation or crash like a cymbal falling off its stand, but they are swinging for the fences regardless. As my fictional punk philosopher friend, "Strummer" Joe McGee, once wisely slurred, “A great show is like a three-course meal, man. The opener is the appetizer. It wakes up your palate, gets you ready for the main course. You skip the appetizer, you’re just a dude waiting impatiently for steak, missing half the damn experience!”
It’s a special kind of lightning in a bottle—and it’s an energy source that countless people miss out on simply because they decided Waffle House, or the patio smoking circle, or the pre-show parking lot tailgate, was more important.
Let's talk about that audience behavior for a second. We see you. We see the "Patio Smokers," huddled outside under the flickering neon, catching muffled snippets of the first band between drags, only venturing inside when the cigarette pack runs dry or their preferred band is soundchecking. We see the "Parking Lot Tailgaters," extending their pre-game just a little too long, convinced the real party doesn't start until the room is packed. We see the "Merch Table Mavens," strategically loitering near the back, Browse wares and chatting, using the opener's set as ambient background noise until it's time to secure a good spot for the main event.
Why does this happen? Laziness? Habit? A genuine belief that openers are inherently inferior? Maybe it's a symptom of a scene that's become complacent, where familiarity breeds a kind of selective attendance. People know the headliner, they trust the headliner, so they invest their time and money there. But this mindset, this collective tardiness, has consequences. It creates an energy vacuum. The band feeds off the crowd, but the early crowd often isn't giving them much to work with. It sends a message, intentional or not: "You're the warm-up act, the background noise, the thing we tolerate before the real music starts." How do we shift that? It starts with acknowledging that showing up early isn't just about seeing the opener; it's about participating in the creation of the night's energy from the very beginning. It's about viewing the entire bill as the experience, not just the final act.
Think about the "What Ifs." You might be missing discovering your next favorite band. History is littered with legendary acts who cut their teeth opening for others in near-empty rooms. Imagine being one of the handful of people who saw Nirvana open for Sonic Youth in 1991. Or catching Green Day opening for Bad Religion back when they were just kids piling out of a van. What about The Killers opening for Morrissey? Or Ed Sheeran opening for Taylor Swift? These weren't anomalies; they were the proving grounds. By skipping the openers, you're essentially playing lottery avoidance with musical history. You might be standing outside debating hashbrowns while the next big thing is pouring their heart out inside to a dozen people.
And let’s not forget the venue and the promoter in this equation. They aren't booking openers just to fill time. A well-curated bill builds momentum. The energy (and crucially, the bar tab) starts low with the first band and ideally grows throughout the night. If the room is dead empty for the first hour or two, it kills the vibe. The bartenders make less, the venue struggles, and the promoter, who likely took a financial risk putting on the show in the first place, sees a lower return. If openers consistently play to empty rooms, it becomes harder for promoters to justify booking newer, developing acts. They might start booking shorter bills, or only sticking with established names. This shrinks the opportunities for new talent, stagnating the scene. It's a ripple effect: skipping the opener doesn't just affect that one band; it subtly undermines the health of the entire live music ecosystem in your town. The promoter needs people there early to make the night work financially and atmospherically.
Now, let’s take a minute to talk directly to the bands who’ve clawed their way to the top of the flyer. Congratulations, you made it. The dressing room might be slightly bigger, the rider might actually get fulfilled, and people are definitely showing up for you. But cast your mind back. You weren’t always the headliner. Remember begging promoters to get squeezed onto terrible midweek bills? Remember playing that Tuesday night slot in Omaha to literally nobody but your own drummer’s disgruntled ex and the sound guy who was clearly watching Netflix? Don’t forget what that felt like. Don’t be the rockstar who hides in the green room until five minutes before your set. Watch the openers. Stand side stage. Give them a nod, a word of encouragement. Maybe even shout them out from the stage later. Use your platform not just to play your songs, but to validate the bands sharing the bill with you. Give them the same solidarity and support you desperately wished someone had given you back when your merch display was that cardboard box. Being a headliner isn’t just about playing last; it’s about setting the tone, fostering camaraderie, and acknowledging the ladder you climbed.
And finally, for the fans—the lifeblood, the reason any of this exists. Look, we get it. Life is complicated. Work runs late, babysitters cancel, traffic sucks, and sometimes, yes, the lure of Waffle House is strong. Doors are often ridiculously early. But if you truly care about the music, the artists, and the community that forms around sweaty rooms and loud amplifiers, make an effort. Do your best to be there when those first tentative notes ring out.
Consider this your unofficial, slightly sarcastic "Guide to Being a Good Show-Goer (Especially During Opening Sets)":
Show Up On Time-ish: Aim for doors or shortly after. Yes, you might stand around awkwardly for 20 minutes. Consider it 'anticipation building.'
Pay Attention (Even a Little): Put the phone down for a song or two. Make eye contact. Nod your head. You don't have to mosh, but acknowledging the humans pouring their souls out five feet away is basic decency.
Applaud: Even if it wasn't your cup of tea, they showed up and played their hearts out. Acknowledge the effort with some claps. It costs you nothing.
Control Your Conversation Volume: The opener's set is not the designated time for you to loudly recount your entire work week to your buddy by the bar. Take it outside or at least keep it down.
Mind Your Vibe-Killing Clouds: Yes, Karen, your massive, fruit-scented vape cloud drifting directly into the singer's face is, in fact, distracting and not atmospheric stage fog. Take it to the designated area, please.
Visit the Merch Table (Even If It's Cardboard): Seriously. Buying a $5 sticker, a $10 demo, or even a $20 T-shirt can make a massive difference to a band running on gas money and dreams. It's a tangible vote of confidence.
Spread the Word: If you dig an opener, tell someone! Post about them. Share their music. Become an early evangelist. You get bragging rights later.
Resist the Waffle House Temptation (Until After the Show): Okay, maybe you can still go. But go after. Let the promise of scattered, smothered, and covered be your reward for supporting the entire damn show. Think of it as earning your hashbrowns through musical patronage. The Waffle House will still be there, gleaming under the fluorescent lights, ready to embrace you post-show. Will that killer opening band ever play that same raw, hungry set again? Probably not.
You might discover your new obsession. You might witness a moment of pure, unscripted magic – a busted string turned into legend, a shy singer finding their voice, a riff so potent it rearranges your DNA. At the absolute very least, you’ll be actively participating in the messy, vital, beautiful process of keeping underground music alive and kicking. You'll be contributing to the energy, supporting the venue, and giving a platform to the artists who need it most.
Buy a weirdly designed shirt. Tell your friend about that band you didn’t expect to like but totally slayed. Help build the kind of vibrant, supportive music scene you’d want to be a part of if you were the one nervously tuning up on stage at 6:45 p.m., hoping someone, anyone, is listening.
Because at the end of the day, every band you love, every festival headliner, every artist whose poster hangs on your wall, started as an opener.
Every scene worth bragging about, every venue that feels like home, was built and sustained by the people who showed up before the main lights went down.
So next time you’re checking the set times, tempted to hang back, grab one more beer at the bar next door, or surrender to the siren call of late-night breakfast foods… remember: the openers are already on stage, giving it everything they’ve got.
Show up for them. They’re showing up for you. The hashbrowns can wait.