Do you know which "artists" I feel most sorry for? The people who used to be in legitimite bands, but who are now "the backing band" to a young, up and coming teeny bopper like Ashley Simpson or Nick Carter. I was just watching Ashley Simpson's triumphant return to stages of "SNL," and just felt really, really bad for her backing band.

They all look cooled and hip enough, but they also looked too cool and hip to have just come from "the ground up" with Ashley Simpson. These guys weren't Ashley Simpson's next door neighbor, or fellow classmate. No, these guys were recruited. They were recruited by some kind of record label executive who wanted to cash in on Jessica Simpson's marginally talented sister.

"Jessica is popular and has made us all rich," the record executive would say, "but let's see if we can double our profits by propping up someone else who looks almost like Jessica Simpson. But instead of doing bubble-gum pop like her sister, let's have her do bubble-gum rock pop like my 9 year old daughter sees on the Mickey Mouse Club."

And then they go out and find the backing band. They need the lead guitarist too look like a mix of John Lennon and Elliott Smith. They need to have the dark, jet-black moptop, and the matching black Converse All-Stars to match. Their pants need to be black, but the most recognizable feature about these pants needs to be a silver chain that connects to the top of the left pants-pocket. His shirt needs to be a tight flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a thick brown leather bracelet and the lower portion of a tattoo that reaches up to his armpit.

The drummer just needs to be cute. His playing is usually marginally talented, at best. He needs to be able to keep a steady beep of about 90 BPM, and have the ability to occasionally strike a cymbal. He *must* have curly hair. If the drummer must wear a shirt, it must be tight and green. You won't be able to see his pants.

The bass player must have the Brad Pittian combination of buzz-cut and equal length face fuzz. He must have face fuzz because the bass player will be the bad boy of the group. He will be the guy that sulks with his hands in his pockets, while standing in the corner. He'll be the guy that the creepy Show Biz Father and Ashley Simpson manager Joe Simpson will try, but fail, to keep his sexual hormones away from his daughter. His clothing must consist of slightly flared jeans and a white as snow undershirt with the neckline slightly stretched out.

And the manager will go out and find this band. Just like a college sports recruiter goes across the nation looking for new recruits to play Quarterback, this guy will hit up every single bar in entire cities, looking for the perfect matches. I must find my bass player, but only after my lead guitarist.

And he will gather a list of potential candidates. And with this list and a handful of polaroid pictures of the different guys playing in the band (unaware that they were being recruited, let alone photographed), the guy will go to his "next level up in the corporate executive chain."

This "next up in the corporate executive chain" will make the decision for his multi-billion dollar corporation, and through this decision, the company stock promises to jump a tenth of a percent for a new act has been Chosen. And so he makes this decision and lets his "next lower on the corporate demotion chain" know of his final remarks, and sends him back out into the world with plane tickets to the cities of each of the selected men firmly grasped in his hand. The Shareholders rejoice. Rejoice!

This man approaches each of these struggling artists, some of them creators and leaders of their respective bands, and asks them the ultimate values question: Do you sell out your band and your music, for the guarantee of millions of dollars and international fame? Do you see the guys in your band? Do you see the guys that sweated in a garage with you while you learned A7? Do you see the guys who jammed out with you in your garage, when the rest of the world was at work? Do you see the guys in your band that were there with you at your first gig? Do you see the guys in your band that held your head up while you vomitted Vodka into the nastiest toilet bowl in Indianapolis? Do you see *those* guys and tell them, "Guys, we've come this far. Let's say I leave you now and go make myself a very rich man?"

What must that conversation be like? That must be the most awkard conversation anyone could ever have. The other guys in the band must be absolutely disgusted with you and your values, but they must also be moderately jealous of their lucky soon-to-be-former bandmate. But regardless, the other bandmates are forced to take the high road. Whether they are pissed, or ragingly jealous, they are almost willed to make the "I can't believe he's selling out" mantra. They're not the ones going onto new bandmates and new friends. They're the ones going back home to their old friends, and what's left of their once-band. They're giving up their dreams. They're the ones that have to live with the concept that, they came THIS close to making it on our own until that a-hole prick left us high and dry. While you're swimming laps in your Olympic sized pool, they're sweeping the leaves out of theirs, wearing nothing but sandals, black socks, and a bathrobe.

And so all of these guys drop their bands, and get together for their new band, not fully knowing what kind of music they're going to be playing. They're the ones that have to pick up their instrument again and repress the "I'm a hired assassin" thoughts to the very bottom of their mind, while playing the same three chords for the rest of their life. They're the ones who have to listen to a teeny-pop princess tell *them* how to play their instruments, and what chord they should play during the "bridge." They're the ones that have decided for "hearing the same 12 year old poems everynight," over "making the songs and art you wanted to make everynight."

All I'm saying is that it must really suck being a "Backup Band."