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Friday, March 30, 2012

Tour De Absurd: Unbound By The Fundamental Rules Of Reality

Everybody's dealt with horrible vendors from time to time, and Sully's got some tales from the road to which we all can relate.

I was just bitten by a dog.

Truthfully, not 20 minutes ago when I went to pick up a piece of gear at somebody’s house.

When I pulled into the driveway, an unholy spawn of a late night dalliance between Benji and the Geico gecko waddled over to me, growled, then bit me on the f***ing ankle.

I screamed like a five year old, which somehow triggered the garage door to open and spew a teenage girl carrying the gear I was there for.

“This yours?” she piped. “Your dog just bit me on the f***ing ankle,” I squeaked. “”Really? Sorry…” She froze with a look on her face that indicated she was now invisible and I should leave wondering where’d that girl go?

Needing more satisfaction I called the owner of the house.

“Hello?”

“Your dog just bit me on the f***ing ankle.”

“That dog’s 13 years old, he’s never bitten anyone.”

“Oh. Cool. Never mind then.”

“You sure?”

“Hang on a tic, let me make sure my portable morphine drip isn’t on high. Nope, machine’s good… the f***er definitely bit me”

The vicious dog attack left me sulking about the hound’s total lack of fear and respect for me. Then I got mad at myself for sulking about not being feared by an arthritic Chihuahua. Skillfully, I managed to cram in a 30-minute session of bi-polar self-loathing and admonishment in the time it took to drive from the scene of the assault to our bus.

It suddenly occurred to me, as I stared down at the dog sticking out of my jeans, that this was a fitting coda to the four-week tour de absurd that I and the rest of my crew had just endured. During the preceding month, 90 percent of the production vendors we had met had attempted to convince us they alone were not bound by the fundamental rules of reality.

To prove this point, they had taken our advance phone calls, listened carefully to our requests, sagely reassured us all would be well… then rolled us over and tried to bite us on the neck when we showed up. Same deal as the dog. They looked us up and down and figured they could take us.

Act 1
Me: “Hey, how wide is this box?”

PA prestidigitator: “205 degrees for the long throw, 365 degrees for the downfill.”

Me: (Knowing it’s general admission) “OK.”

 
Act 2
The setting: a large field with bands of disgruntled raisins milling arrogantly about.

A2: “We’re ready, my lord. We are prepared for you to communicate with the magic box and give us the array angles for the sound system.”

Steak sauce: “I have spoken with the machine. It gives no advice today. You must have done something to anger it. Go now, butcher the factory program and burn the fatted DSP as an offering. Leave me.”

A2: “My liege, the troubadours will be upon us soon… Can you offer no wisdom for us to assuage their FOH knight?”

Steak Sauce: “Tell him…tell him… the sound will emerge crooked if you angle the speakers. Tell him flat… Yes, flat is best. Threaten to rub petroleum jelly on him and burn him as a witch if he questions you.”

A2: “You are indeed the wisest in the land.”

 
Act 3
Production manager motioning to four speakers hanging from swing chain flown with the aid of two winches off the front of a quad runner.

PM: “What da hell is that?”

Local vendor: “EV X-Array.”

PM: “No it’s not.”

Local vendor: “Yes it is.”

PM: “No it’s not.”

Local vendor: “Yes it is.”

PM: “No it’s not.”

Local vendor: “O.K., no it’s not. I bought an X-Array box and copied it.”

PM: “You mean EV X-Line. You copied X-Line.”

Local vendor: “Yeah, the big EV box. X-Array-Line.”

PM: “O.K., just so we’re clear…you pirated something from EV and call it X-Array.”

Local vendor: “Yeah. Sounds great too. Wanna see our V-Disc wedges?”

Act 4
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”.

 
Act 5
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…

 
Act 6
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.”

 
Finale
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.

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