The three principal characters enter upstage center and proceed downstage in slow motion, their movements reminiscent of Apollo astronauts bravely approaching an ill-fated capsule.
Bonded by an invisible energy, their gaze begins tracking the seventy-five degree seating angle until at last their eyes settle upon the top seat, 600 feet aloft. One holds a laser range finder and whistles quietly at the data it yields.
Their attention is suddenly diverted to the single horizontal row of two EAW KF750s stacked neatly on the stage deck. A small man rapidly approaches the group.
He is equipped with a large black belt dubiously supporting a brick-like walkie-talkie with a solid three-foot antenna fully extended.
The effect is not unlike a remotely controlled Hobbit. A roll of gray tape used to seal air conditioning vents dangles from his meaty wrist, and he is thrusting an irate digit at the tiny speaker array.
Small Man With Big Belt: “I don’t want to hear it! Them speakers cover front row to top row perfect. They’re 70 degrees up and down so we don’t even need to tilt them. Sounds exactly up there like it do down here. I don’t want any of your smart-alecky talk about math. We done it this way for 10 years and it sounds great. Now, welcome and go away, I mix the opener tonight and I gotta make sure they’re happy”.
A man stands beaten, his feet loosely clutching the prefabricated stage. His attention is captivated by the scene unfolding before his weary blue intelligent eyes…Men of ill-advised employment are hoisting a large-format console by attaching a 1/4-ton drape motor to its top-riveted session handles.
They stand under it, marveling at the graceful way it swings in the cool breeze. Our hero calculates that when the first handle lets go, the desk will swing low, hijack a stagehand at it’s nadir and force him to ride it bareback halfway to the rafters.
As the console reaches it’s apex and the second handle shears away, the desk will immediately divest itself of it’s passenger and enter a vertical spin, 25 feet off the ground, shortly proving wrong the load-out adage, “gravity is your friend”.
Quickly, without remorse, the sad man dispatches an intern to the balcony with a bin of economy popcorn and two video cameras. Word must reach the outside world of the transgressions that have transpired here…
Me: “What version of the prediction software are you using?”
Them: “Ashly crossovers. They’re out front.”
I own a cat that hides behind the drapes when in trouble. It sits perfectly still, avoiding all eye contact, staring straight ahead looking like a paisley tumor respirating below the front window.
She is so convinced of her sudden undetectability that I have no choice but to accept the fact that the curtains have spontaneously evolved a tail and I should look elsewhere for her.
I marvel at her ability to gaze directly into the face of truth and maintain plausible deniability. Like the vicious miniature wolfhound noted earlier, the cat has eyed me up and come to the conclusion that she’s got my number.
I’d start dutifully working on a complex about my lack of respectability within the various animal phyla, but I know from experience, it’s not just me.
Many of the band guys I run into step off of the bus in the morning with dingoes latched to their ankles. They all have stories that somehow involve PA and lighting vendors avoiding eye contact and hiding behind backdrops with only their five D-MAG lights sticking out.
Sometimes I’ll look into their eyes, pat their dogs and smile with them, offering these words of solace: “get your sun block out boys, we’re goin’ to Hell.”
Me: “Two horns are popping red and two are green. Which is correct?”
System provider: “Which is better?”
Sully is a veteran live sound engineer and really has no clever off-hand remarks for this space at this time.