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Roadie
- A True Story
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The touring industry really hasn't changed much
since the 70's.
Ever wonder what a typical day in the life of a Roadie
is like? Well, actually that's a trick question since
there is no such thing as a typical day for a Roadie;
there are, however, average daily events. Let's start
your roadie day about midnight in Cincinnati. The
doors to the trailer are shut and locked, and everything
has been stripped from the Taft Theatre's dressing
room. A final check of the stage to verify nothing
of value has been overlooked, you say goodbye to the
union stage crew, and everyone piles into the motorhome.
The system for determining who drives is an inexact
science that combines shrewd negotiation, assessment
of each roadie's current fatigue, and in some cases
blatant bribery. Sometimes it was as easy as someone
volunteering.
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You feel good so you volunteer to take the first shift. No
one argues. You are now leaving the deserted downtown streets
of Cincinnati and you need to travel 622 miles to be at the
stage door of The Morris Stage in Morristown New Jersey by
noon (a mere 12 hours from now). A few minutes earlier you
had asked the Union Electrician what the easiest route out
of town was so you head towards his landmarks. The lights
are all blinking yellow in unison for as far as you can see
and there is a fine mist coming down to force the use of the
windshield wipers. Just enough moisture to obscure your view
but not enough to irrigate the grime in the path of the blades,
you respond by treating the glass to some windshield Visine.
You find Highway 71 and head North for Columbus.
A Co-Pilot is not a luxury that can be allowed. Sleep for
everyone not in the driver's chair is mandatory. You have
two Dr. Peppers in the cup holders within your reach, and
the CB radio is turned down very low with the squelch set
very high, so that you won't accidentally wake up your mobile
roommates. Aerosmith plays softly, as well, but it's hard
to hear due to the static. The beat of the wipers eventually
matches the beat of "Dream On" and then continues
past it to go out of sync. You settle in for a long drive.
Luckily you are alert but you know that's not likely to last.
If everyone drives his share it would equal about two hours
each. That's not very likely either. It's just like that scene
in "Platoon" where Charlie Sheen finishes his watch
and tries to wake up the next guy. If you can't get the next
guy up, you stay on watch (or in this case you keep driving).
If there aren't any headwinds you can get about 500 miles
without a refueling stop. You end up driving for four hours
before you finally pull over.
In the rest stop one of the band roadies comes up and relieves
you of the keys. You buy a Baby Ruth bar from the machine
and inhale it with three bites. You'd really like a Butterfinger
too, but you don't have enough change (the machines back then
didn't take dollar bills). You quickly get back on board since
you are always paranoid about being accidentally left behind
at a rest stop. Every roadie has heard the stories of a crewmember
left behind, and not discovered until hours later. Safely
inside you remove your T-shirt in preparation for slumber,
and for the first time tonight you catch a whiff of how bad
you really smell. You really need to find a shower tomorrow.
You think The Morris Stage has one in the dressing room, but
you can't really remember. The shower in the motorhome is
of course out of the question. Potable water is too precious
to use in mass quantities like that, and besides there are
seven cases of Heineken stacked up in there right now. As
the Motorhome lurches forward being dragged by the headlights,
you scientifically checkout the condition of the driver. "You
OK?"…"Yup". Now that you have satisfied
yourself that he isn't going to nod off at the wheel, you
crawl into your bunk. A split second later you wake up in
New Jersey. You wonder if we had acquired a warp engine during
the night. No warp engine, but somehow the Motorhome had successfully
found its way through Columbus and Pittsburgh and finally
to Morristown. You had garnered about six hours of sleep;
it seemed like six minutes. You ask the light guy, "what
time is it?" "11:45, (15 minutes to load-in)".
You grab a semi-clean T-shirt, put your steel toes back on,
and head for the stage door with your toothbrush in hand.
Finding a sink, you scrub your teeth and consider yourself
lucky since you remember the times you had to use warm Perrier
to rinse the foam from your mouth. You grab a half a turkey
sandwich off the deli tray and woof it down. You pop a Coke
and head for the dock.
Time to go to work.
You get to the stage door in time to see Fred backing the
rig. He almost always got it backed on the first try; it was
sort of a pride thing with him. It takes him twice today;
he must be in bad shape after that eleven and a half-hour
drive. You unlock the doors, fold them back and lock them
to the box. Fred backs up the final ten feet. As the stage
crew gets their final swigs of coffee and finish the last
bites of donuts, you assess the stage. Loading dock, good
local crew, and no surprises on stage (you've played this
hall at least twice before that you remember). It will be
your job to go in the box and direct the unload, you ask a
familiar face from your last visit if they have a shower.
"Yeah, there's one in the dressing room" comes the
welcome answer. You start to move the first of over 100 various
sized road cases that need to disembark. The cases almost
all have oversized castors, but many are very dense and heavy
and they do not move without a struggle. The stage crew integrates
with the roadies as the cases flow out towards the four corners
of the stage. Orders are barked out in shorthand "down
stage left", "upstage center", or "stage
right stack." The local crew is fluent in this form of
communication, as the cases take their appropriate locations.
The stage begins to resemble a large zig saw puzzle just after
the pieces are removed from the box. The entire truck is off
loaded in about 30 minutes, and then the fun starts.
The locals pair off with the sound, light, or band roadies
as the orchestrated chaos begins. The PA stacks are one of
the first things to go up so that they will clear the stage
for the light rig assembly. You build the base of the PA carefully
checking the stability of each cabinet, applying a strategic
nail where needed. As the pile gets bigger you climb on top
to pull the horns up to the top. The speaker cables around
your neck are connected one at a time to each speaker as the
other end hits the stage to be connected later on solid ground.
As the stage right stack takes shape you are thrown large
two by fours (spray painted flat black) one at a time, so
you can prop up the front edges of the horns, aiming them
at the various nooks and crannies of the balcony. Gravity
is the primary tool used to hold the stack together, since
any nails used will cause delays later when the stack is disassembled.
After you are satisfied that the stack is aimed correctly
(and stable), you repeat the process stage left. As soon as
your speaker cabinets aren't in the way the light guys start
to build the grid. Two large aluminum trusses are bolted together
with quick release pins. The Genie towers are positioned at
the Four Corners of the grid and the trusses are attached
to the towers. Large electrical cables are connected; par
lights that had been carefully housed in the protective confines
of the square truss are lowered out of their perch so they
are free to be aimed later. The two trusses are connected
together with aluminum beams forming a large square structure.
Once everything is ready four men simultaneously crank the
four towers lifting the structure to a height of about twenty
feet. While the PA and lights are going up another small group
of crew has moved the sound and light boards out to the house.
Each of these pieces of equipment weighs about 500 pounds,
is very fragile, and can be worth up to $25,000. A spot in
the audience has been chosen by the promoter (per your contract)
to be roped off for use by the two engineers. Frequently they
have not blocked out enough seats or the spot is totally unacceptable.
Since you have final say on this matter, you change the location
and let the promoter's rep know that he will have to move
24 ticketed fans come show time. He protests, but it's not
your problem. Several small cases holding equalizers and effects
are placed next to the boards, and the "snake" is
unwound off its large reel on stage making it's way up the
aisle to connect the mix with the stage.
Within a few minutes a race between the roadies that are
on stage wiring the sound and connecting the lights ends up
in a dead heat with the roadies in the house connecting the
boards. It will soon be time to fire up the PA, and start
checking lights. One of them is on the very top rung of an
"A" frame ladder, the other one at the board bringing
the faders up one by one. Another roadie starts marking the
stage with black gaffer's tape, performing the role of stand-in,
so the lights can be directed at the imaginary band members.
Hand signals are used to aim the lights and prompt the movement
to the next fader control. Shouting doesn't usually work because
the PA is about to awaken. You pop your cassette (you always
use the same one) into the portable deck. You slowly turn
up the bass cabinets first and the muffled sounds of rock
and roll (at least the parts below 800 cycles) shakes the
room. Everything sounds OK so far, so you bring up the mids,
now the hall fills with Mick Jagger singing your favorite
test song "Shattered" "Look at me! I'm in tatters....shattered."
Now the highs, the music crystallizes and takes form, "Go
ahead bite the big apple, don't mind the maggots!" Now
that the copper coils deep inside the magnetic housings have
begun to warm up you can safely bring up the gain. You need
to check for acoustic problems in the room so you open it
up and walk the hall. As quickly as possible you run to the
back corners, walk the width and breath of the hall to check
the evenness of the mids and highs. You rush to the balcony
(time counts here because taking too long could piss off the
stage crew). You check the angles of all the mid range and
high frequency horns visually, but mostly with your ears.
A second song replaces the Stones; it's Jeff Beck's "Blue
Wind", no vocals, but music closer to the type being
played tonight. You finish your walk before Jeff can finish,
satisfied that the PA is ready for action. By this time your
partner who is on the stage has fired up the monitors. No
music here, he's airing them out, looking for feedback. "Check
one, two, Tesssssssssst three four, ssssssheck one two, tessssssssssssssst,
three four." "Sssssssssssssssssssssssss, tessssssst,
sh sh sh scheck, one two." {There is actually a point
to all this inane chatter, he is looking for any problem frequencies
that could trigger feedback during the show, and an "sss"
or "ch" sound can commonly cause them} As he finds
offending hot spots on the audible frequency spectrum, they
are quieted using equalizers and parametrics. By now the lights
are done and the band roadies take over. Now that the stage
has some breathing room, the band gear is brought out from
the wings where pre-assembly had taken place. Everything is
placed on its mark (the black gaffer's tape) so that the lights
will find their targets during the show. Concurrently the
monitor guy starts micing the gear, hooking mic cables to
small snakes on the stage that are connected to the main snake
running out to the house. By sound check every mic will be
connected to the control board in the house, so that you can
control the level and characteristics off every single mic
on stage. The stage mix has a split of all the mics so he
can control them separately on stage as well. By now the nine
foot Baldwin needs to be put up (did I forget to mention that
we carried a nine-foot Baldwin Grand Piano with us?) After
removing its Anvil case protecting its black lacquer finish,
it ends up on its spine, perpendicular to the stage. Two of
the three legs are attached (one front and the rear one),
and we prepare for more of your volunteer work. You can't
remember how you got this task, it probably just happened
because nobody else would do it. After a detailed briefing
with the stage crew, and only with a roadie or two that you
trust mixed in, six to eight men tip the Grand Piano forward
towards the audience. They catch it when it gets nearly level,
resting on the two legs. You now get on your back, with the
third and final leg in your hand, and with a corner of a Grand
Piano (weighing as much as a small car) hovering above you,
you calmly attach the leg. When you finish, you scamper out
of the way and they set the last corner down gently on its
new support. The pedals are then attached (which is much lower
drama). You call out to see if the piano tuner is there. {An
interesting side note is that many of the piano tuners we
ran across were blind. I actually preferred them since they
were very fast and very accurate, so I requested a blind tuner
whenever possible) Sound check is about 15 minutes away as
the notes are adjusted one by one, while you pet the guide
dog. The band roadies are tuning the guitars using oscilloscopes
and pignose amps. The band gets there a few minutes early
and wanders around getting in the way. The Road Manager rounds
them up and takes them to the dressing room so your crew can
finish.
Your thoughts are on just one thing, a shower. It will have
to wait at least another hour.
The tuner is finished for now (he will be back just before
showtime to re-tune it) so is your new friend "Mozart"
the Belgium Shepherd. The band roadies are done and the band
starts filtering out to the stage. What follows is about 15
minutes of complete confusion as the musicians that haven't
touched their precious instruments in over 16 hours get reacquainted.
The drummer beats, then adjusts, and then beats his drums
again. The guitarists play scales, and the keyboardist tunes
and programs synthesizers. Eventually the organized sound
check gets started.
You sit in the best seat in the house, mic in hand (it's wired
to the stage mix, so everyone on stage cannot only hear you,
they can hear you breathe). The drummer's check comes first,
so you say "Right Kick" in your mic. The drummer
steps on the pedal of the bass drum about once a second. You
bring up that mic (you prefer Sennheisers 451 mics for the
kicks) and adjust the tone of it to get the most out of the
acoustics of the hall. Since the kick drum is the foundation
for most of the music, a lot of time is spent getting it right.
You repeat the process for the Left Kick (Yes, in case you
were wondering he has a bass drum for each foot). You move
on to the snare, another critical piece of the mix. Next you
ask for the hat (high hat symbols) and then for the kick,
snare hat combo. Now you are starting to build a mix based
on the levels of the mics relative to each other. The process
continues until you have the whole kit. On this tour that
means 12 separate mics, all deliberately positioned with booms
and goosenecks to be in the optimum position to give you the
best sound without interfering with the drummer's field of
battle. Next the bass guitar, only two channels here. All
the electric instruments have a direct input (electronically
pure sound, the same as what is being sent to the amplifier
on stage) and a mic on the amplifier itself. This mic picks
up the altered sound caused by the amplifier and speaker's
interpretation of the electronic signal being sent from the
pick-ups in the guitar. These two sources can be very different,
and can vary in quality. An example is that sometimes for
no apparent reason the direct signal may have a bad hum, or
the mic may be feeding back. When both are working perfectly
you find that a mixture of the two is the most pleasing to
the ear. That is what you work on now, mixing the two channels
in proportion to each other, and adjusting their characteristics
to get that "Ralphe" sound. After Ralphe lets loose
with his effect pedal (you only allow him to do it once during
check so you can gauge a safe level) you ask Stevie and Ralphe
to play together. This is critical. You have to get this sound
right since it's the foundation for everything else that happens
on stage. You repeat the process with both guitars and the
keyboards, meticulously equalizing the level of each individual
instrument to be heard without overpowering any other instrument.
The last piece before the violins is the grand piano. The
nine foot Baldwin is a challenge to accurately mic. You need
precision and a degree of volume. You have found that a small
condenser mic wrapped in acoustic foam placed in the largest
of the holes on the sounding board does a good job of capturing
the lower frequencies. The highs are collected by a mic suspended
over the short strings on a boom mic. It takes some tinkering
to get it right every night, but you are very familiar with
the big black monster, and you get the right sound in less
than ten minutes. Jean-Luc takes center stage (he's been out
in the house next to you offering suggestions up until that
moment). He puts each of four different colored violins through
their paces. He plays several snippets from the songs that
will certainly be played during the up coming show. His final
chore is to check the effects rack, using the echoplex to
multiply the apparent number of instruments to several dozen.
He barks at the band roadie that the sound is "dull",
and Joe grabs a bottle of denatured alcohol and proceeds to
clean the heads. "That's better", he says, as he
calls for the whole band. The whole band plays one song ("Trans-Love")
and then retires to the green room.
No time to eat yet, there's an opening act tonight, and it's
a big one. Ambrosia (remember them from Buffalo?) has been
booked to open the next three shows. Unlike some opening acts
that have two or three mics, this band will require moving
and readjusting all 24 channels. Also this band has vocal
mics and will undoubtedly need some monitor gain. You take
out your pocket notepad and deliberately note the setting
of every knob on the ADM board. Each channel has 6 different
controls and there are 24 of them, then there are the main
EQ controls, grand total approximately 175 numbers to be recorded
and reproduced during that change-over between bands. Your
partner is striking the mics while the band roadies move the
JLP gear out of the way. Ambrosia's roadies set up in front,
and the negotiation starts. "Can you move the grand off
stage?" "No, it'll go outta tune, how about you
set up in front of it?" A compromise is soon struck where
the Grand is rolled back far enough to allow the opener's
keyboard stack to be assembled in front of it without sacrificing
the delicate tuning. Mics are moved; a new soundman takes
his spot where you usually sit (you feel strangely like your
territory has been violated) as he starts the same process
you completed only 15 minutes ago. The check goes much quicker
than yours, mostly because they are told up front they have
30 minutes to complete it period. They don't quite finish
but are shooed off the stage by the promoter at 7.
Now you have to choose. You have one hour to eat or shower.
You pick the shower since you've been grazing all day off
the deli trays. The band will be sitting down to a nice home-cooked
(catered) meal, so you can use the dressing room shower. You
really hope there is hot water as you find a towel and a bar
of soap. As the water warms you rinse off the bar of soap
several times "just in case" since you never know
who used it last. It takes several agonizing minutes, but
the shower finally starts coughing up its warmest water. The
soap, water, and body grime combine together forming a foamy
dark liquid that spins down the drain. You start with your
hair, since you aren't sure how long the hot water will hold
out and that area of your body needs cleaning the worst. No
shampoo, you ran out last week and haven't gotten around to
re-supplying so you use the bar soap as a substitute. You
hurry for several reasons. One if you are quick you may get
some food. Two, there is a show to do in a few minutes and
if they open the house the "cattle" will want to
hear walk-in music. Three, and the most serious, you are highly
vulnerable for road pranks in that shower. Butt naked and
soaking wet, you could lose your towel and clothes, have cold
water thrown in on you, or have some other humiliating thing
happen that somebody just made up. You finish the blessed
event without incident, dry off, get dressed, brush your hair,
and head for the board.
The doors are about to open so in goes the Steely Dan tape.
Not too loud, but loud enough to make the hall not seem too
quiet. "Daddy don't live in that New York City no more",
finds its way from the magnetic coding on the cassette, down
the snake, to the amplifiers, all the way to the transducers
in the speakers, which vibrate some air that moves into your
ears vibrating little bones that cause your brain to recognize
them as sounds.
You now get your first (and only) break of the day. It lasts
about 45 minutes. You use the time to repair a bad mic cord
that you identified yesterday (I know you thought you were
on break, well this is as close to a break as you get). The
soldering iron attains the magic temperature, and you apply
a mil-spec {military specification} solder connection. After
reassembling the XLR connector you test the repair with your
VOM. The operation was a success. You flip the tape over.
The house is now mostly full, as you notice it's about five
minutes to eight.
You pick up the intercom headset and push the amber call light
several times. The monitor guy picks up the other end and
lets you know we're on schedule. The soundman for Ambrosia
makes his way out to invade your turf. You yield your throne
(but only temporarily) as you assume baby-sitting duties.
You must ensure that the equipment is not jeopardized, and
that Ambrosia doesn't use all the volume available (that's
reserved for your band).
Now the first pay-off of the night, the house lights drop,
the crowd cheers and as the stage lights come up to reveal
Ambrosia, the sound of their first note reaches your ear just
as your adrenal gland releases a miniscule amount of fluid
into your system, causing a "chill" to go up your
spine. Just like the shows you did with them less than a year
ago, the band accurately reproduces eight of their popular
recordings. The fans reward the artists with enough applause
to warrant an encore. At the conclusion of the encore the
stage fades into blackness and is replaced by the house lights
coming up.
You regain your rightful place at the controls, pop a tape
in, and begin painstakingly restoring the settings you had
discovered earlier during sound check. You know that these
are only the starting points, and that the attributes of the
hall have changed in the last few hours. You complete the
resetting of the board in about five minutes. A security guard
takes your place as you head to the stage to see what's left
to do. Ambrosia's gear is off stage left, they're going to
go ahead and load out. That's OK with you, plenty of crew
and it's not too cold out, so the door can stay open for a
few minutes. Your partner has already set up most of the mics,
as the band roadies move everything back to the designated
locations. You adjust a mic or two on the kit and then toy
with the high piano mic. Time to test each mic. One by one
you either say "test" or "check" or tap
on the mics in succession. The monitor guy raises his hand
each time you successfully test the next mic. When you get
to the 24th one, you head back to your board.
Now for the next fifteen minutes or so, you get to sit at
the board and mentally prep for the show. Actually you are
scoping the crowd, looking for bootleggers, checking out the
babes, and trying to look cool. Sometimes people come up and
talk to you. "How did you become a roadie?" (I should
have told them to read my book someday), "Is Gene-Luck
a nice guy?" (Actually it's Jean-Luc), "What's Jamie
like?" (I need to remember that one, until I can check
and see if Jamie's available tonight). You look down and your
call light is flashing. You pick up the headsets and hear
the road manager say "end of the next song". You
mentally estimate that Donald Fagen has about 30 seconds left.
He sings, "…don't take me alive" and the music
fades. The house lights gasp, and go black; the crowd erupts
in the blackness. A few barely distinguishable points of light
flit around the stage as the roadie's flashlights maneuver
the band to their lairs. The applause is broken as the voice
of the road manager permeates the darkness from off stage.
"Ladies and Gentleman, Jean-Luc Ponty!"
20,000 watts of colored light floods the stage as first notes
find their way to the fans. This is your busiest few minutes
of the day. You have to make changes quickly with no hesitation.
You first raise the main volume, compensating for the cheering
crowd. Then you make sure Jean-Luc's red violin in on top.
It is. Add a little bottom to it and move to the drums. Plenty
of kick, add a little snare, on to the bass. A little muddy,
add some top, lower the gain just a tad, balance the guitars,
where's the Arp?, add more keyboard, a little more, there
it is. Back to the violin, still on top, tweak the mid range
just a smidge. There! Perfect!!
You stay vigilant for the entire show. As the audience's ears
get accustomed to one volume level you take advantage of the
human bodies uncanny ability to sense an almost imperceptibly
small volume change slowly and subtly increasing that volume
during the course of the evening. It gives the effect of each
song being just a little more powerful than the preceding
one. You have every note of every song memorized and if anything
is not right it registers immediately and you make the needed
adjustment. It's a good show, the crowd is appreciative and
you take a moment to smile to yourself, satisfied. The last
song comes to an end, and Jean-Luc says, "Thank you for
coming to our show, good night!!" and the band exits
the stage. The house stays dark and the stage lights glow
deep amber, barely on. The crowd continues to applaud, as
the band regroups. About three minutes later (that seem like
30) the lights come back up as the band predictably returns.
They react to Jean-Luc's head nod by breaking into "New
Country", the recognizable hit off the album "Imaginary
Voyage." The crowd claps to the distinctive country-jazz
beat. The song comes to its conclusion too soon, and again
he tells the crowd, "Goodnight". Again the lights
dim but the house lights do not automatically come up. Here
the fans have their own destiny in their own hands. If they
respond with loud enough applause for the next minute or so,
they will be treated to a second encore, but they have to
earn it. Louie is under strict orders not to taunt the crowd
using the stage lights, if they are to get the second encore
they'd have to get it the old fashioned way. You look down
and see your call light flashing, it's the road manager, "What
do you think? do they deserve one more?" You look around
the hall and see a young man with his shirt off standing on
his seat working the crowd with his arms, urging them to not
give up. "Sure, one more." You smile as the band
takes the stage and does a song off the "Aurora: album.
Now the show is truly over, you've only seen a third encore
once, and that was at the Palladium in New York, the house
lights bring everyone back to reality and "the cattle"
file out of the exits.
You remain at the board, softly playing the Taj Mahal exit
music, while watching the crowd disperse. The girl who asked
about Jamie earlier comes up to you wanting to meet him. You
found out he already had a "date", so you tell her
to try again next time we're in town. Disappointed, she leaves
without comment. (You and the crew have a long drive tonight,
so trying to convert yourself to being her second choice has
no value). The band equipment is already being put back into
their corresponding road cases. The microphones have already
been tucked in to bed for the night, and cables are being
collected. As soon as a majority of the crowd is gone you
kill the sound and tell the stagehands it's OK to kill the
power. You secure the EQ rack, and with the help of the union
steward you replace the lid on the main board and twist the
latches shut. You leap up onto the stage and assess the progress.
The PA starts to come down, so you grab your gloves, tag the
biggest union guy to join you, and prepare to take residence
in the nose of the truck (When exactly, did you volunteer
for that duty anyway?). The last item off the truck eleven
hours earlier becomes the first one back on. You build a wall
of bass cabinets, and top it off with some cable bins. The
union guy is considerably larger than you, and seems to enjoy
seeing if you can keep up with him as you jointly throw the
cases into place. After the "dance floor" is full
(the raised area in the front of the box) the lighting trusses
roll in. The cases are getting bigger now so the box fills
up quickly now. Your partner is sending the cases in the right
order, the wrong case in the wrong order would be a time consuming
irritation that does not happen tonight. By the time the last
case is loaded your new shower is pretty much spoiled. Fred
nudges the truck forward about ten feet and you swing the
doors shut. Padlock in place, you now need to help Fred put
his bike back. With that done it's time to walk the stage
and dressing rooms. Not much left tonight, more Heineken that
we don't need. Why couldn't there be some bottled water for
a change without any carbonation? You say goodnight to the
Morristown crew and head to the motorhome. "Who's driving
first?" the drum roadie asks. You stay quiet knowing
that you drove at least twice as far as anyone else last night.
Louie broke the silence by saying, "I will". No
one argues. You hit your bunk, and hope the warp drive is
still in good repair. Midnight arrives to find you unconscious;
the day is now officially over. Another one now begins.
All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2001 Karl Kuenning
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