My friend is the biggest NIN fan ever.

If the band nears orbit, or even within some flight reach, she's there. If I'm lucky, she asks me along. Lately, I've been very lucky.

I've seen NIN three times in the past year.

I like NIN, but I'm not the fan. I know Trent Reznor by name; and, through fan association, I know a great deal of trivia about the man, the band, and the compositions of the same.

First was Coachella. Next, Seattle. Only, it was more like Eastern Washington came over (she quipped) than seeing them in Seattle. And when, the third time, we actually were in Eastern Washington, it was exactly the same.

A side benefit of seeing this NIN tour is that Bauhaus also is on tour and somehow the tours synced up, which means that now I've seen Bauhaus twice this year too.

Being sick as a dog at Coachella left giant scratches in the spinning memory of the whole affair. Scenes flicker in and out of blankness. I remember what I told you, and one of those clarities is Peter Murphy.

Bauhaus opened for NIN at Sasquatch. They came on and stayed like my memory of their performance at Coachella, and I stood in the crowd in awe. So many so-thought youthful and energetic bands understand far less the politics of performance—the difference between being yourself and putting on a show, and the obligation of performance versus the audience's role, which is exonerated of reciprocity.

Halfway through the set some drunk frat-boy types pushed into the crowd and began booing Bauhaus and yelling at them to get their old asses off the stage. With them were the Hot Topic set. All seemed solely interested in participating in the commercially generated idea of NIN instead of being witness to a live performance. The seeping of this attitude through the crowd sickened me a little. I didn't want to be there among them, those fucking zombies living in the past in some MTV-generated mythos of rock 'n' roll. It was so dumb.