Somewhat like the universal tradition of the planned, obligatory encore, the “opening” act is an iffy-but-tolerated fixture of rock show liturgy. Everyone occasionally rolls their eyes at bands that depart into the dark when we all know the show isn’t over, only to return a few seconds later because, supposedly, the crowd has demanded it. But everyone also puts up with encores because, while usually a stunt, the rare transcendent one occasionally arrives to blow the previous set out of the water and the whole show into our beloved memories of great nights.

Opening bands are a similarly uncallable coin toss. We tolerate them because, honestly, who wants the real show to begin ten minutes after they arrive? That’s something like shots before dinner—no warm-up, no anticipation, no proper order of ingestion. We also have the vague sense that we’re getting two and half hours of music for our twenty bucks instead of just one hour, even though most of us would have had to be paid to sit through the first hour. (Even movie trailers get a better rap than that!) And like encores, an opening set will once and a while beat the headliner’s performance or at least generate some word-of-mouth. So the question, at this point, is why so many opening bands suck. If nearly every great band needs an opener, and a good set before great show always generates gushing buzz?

Well, first there are the obvious reasons, like the fact that opening bands have the impossible task of winning an audience who likely has never heard their name. And the whole of the setting in which the opening band plays reminds their listeners of some awkward facts: we are opening for X, therefore we are not X, thus you are probably listening to music at least somewhat inferior to something you consider good. And that’s not to mention the legendary feelings audiences have toward opening bands (evidenced by the fact that negative adjectives like “sucky” are rarely added to term “opening band”—it inherently connotes inferiority). To turn the opener’s prospects for much success from bleak to miserable, you’ve got the undeniable fact that live rock music just isn’t as great when you don’t already love what you’re hearing.

But so as not to pile on the depression too heavily, there are a few things opening acts can do to quickly evaporate the audience’s goodwill (and fail to harness their word-spreading power). Grating idiosyncrasies, usually forgiven of the Rock Star, are often quite bitterly held against the rock star. Not to worry; advance awareness of these sinkholes should drastically increase your chances of impressing a more popular band’s finicky audience. Based on numerous conversations with showgoers, here are the top five things opening bands can do to make themselves hated:

Believe in yourself. Too much. Hate to be the one to break it to you, but not only are you not Bono, you are not at all likely to be the next Bono (or Damien Rice, if you’re of the solo guitarist sort). Furthermore, everyone in the half-attentive, still-audibly-conversing audience is aware of the fact that you are probably not anybody yet, and may not ever be. So while it is indeed your job to project confidence in yourself and your product, you must realize that the presumption of the audience is that you are opening for [insert-popular-band-here] for a reason. Thus, give them as little material as possible with which to solidify that conclusion. Examples would be manically repeating your band’s name in a drum-roll voice, introducing a song (from your only recorded record—an EP) as “our big hit,” or chiding the audience in any manner.

Say “thank you” upon concluding a song to which no one was listening. This is just odd and awkward. Do not do it. Expressions of gratitude are often a disarming demonstration of humility, but outside the appropriate context (visible attentiveness by at least five persons or at least some muted applause), it appears formulaic and pretentious. If it’s obvious that no one cares about your performance, just bow slightly and thank the room—once—before you leave the stage.

Screech. Sure, there are quite a few bands whose vocalists are less than pleasant to the ear, but that mesh vocal oddity with other aspects of their sound. But you, my dear openers, as previously established, are not Thom Yorke or Billy Corrigan. No one in attendance has spent hours listening to your record, unpacking the layered infrastructure that sets off your unique vocals. You are new to probably 95% of us, and almost 100% of us do not appreciate having our eardrums punctured by feedback-inducing caterwauls. (The two individuals who particularly inspired this item shall remain nameless, but they are each the only female member of, respectively, the bands Stars and Stripes and The Noisettes.)

Play more than 5-6 songs. Even if you are having the best night of your life on stage and totally working the crowd, you’ve got trouble if you go over about 25 minutes. Which could be a real problem if the venue has you slated for a 45 minute set, so you’ll have be prepared to do some talking, dancing, etc. Because the truth is, we all came to see the band who happened to invite you to join their tour, and, no matter how great you sound, audiences can only take so much material that they’ve never heard before. So don’t spoil the goodwill and vows of CD purchases that have built up five songs in by stretching the crowd’s patience.

Allow random male members of the audience to get away with demanding “Freebird.” This ubiquitous, obnoxious behavior usually comes late in the headliner’s set, but sometimes shows up during the opener’s performance. Audiences may not love you, but they hate this guy, this “attention-starved, liquor-whipped troglodyte” as Paste so beautifully christened him, and those with common enemies are usually friends. So think of cutting comebacks or creative ways to humiliate the Freebird guy, and your opener points should skyrocket.

Best of luck! May your next set not blow as mightily.

David Sessions is the editor of Patrol.

Previously in Live: Jennifer Carden wrote a letter to indie kids. Nathan Martin chronicled 2007’s best shows (here and here). Our correspondents nationwide checked out The Swell Season, John Butler Trio, The Bravery, Josh Ritter, and St. Vincent.