Spitters are Quitters

Ugh. I went to a certain concert at the House of Blues here a few weeks ago and was sorely disappointed by the opening act. I had previously not heard of Matt Nathanson, but am now plagued by him. He began by coming on stage, smirking at the teeming crowd of (mostly) teen girls, and grabbed water out of the hand of a security person who was walking the foot of the stage (I imagine for crowd control, but who would want to rush this guy?). There was already a water waiting for him on the stage, but I gave him the benefit of perhaps not having noticed it. He opened the bottle and swished water around in his mouth as I waited for his band to set up stage--they never came.

He spat the water there, at his feet, and winked. Let me say that again: he spat on the floor, then winked. I didn't forgive him, but I hoped his set--which I assumed to be acoustic--would entertain me. A rythm guitarist entered by his side while Mr. Matt gargled water and flashed his pearly whiltes in between defiling his workspace. But okay, okay, what about the music? After about twenty minutes of setting up his two guitars, we got to the meat of the matter. Or the gristle, as the case may be. After cracking a bunch of vulgar jokes about girls coming back to his room and the moms picking them up in the morning, he opened up with a sweet tune about wanting to give his all to some lucky girl. I would normally perhaps enjoy this irony, except that the song was canned and corny, and his voice wasn't all that great. he didn't crackle--Lord, the gargling spared us thatm but he was just plain....plain. He didn't gain a fan in me. There was one song that was almost good, but only almost. I would tell you more about it, but it was quite forgettable.

fin.