Say you had a bazillion dollars and it was your birthday. And you decided to have a party for, say, 1,000 of your buddies. What exactly would you do? I’d be that guy who hires Van Halen to play at my barbecue. I don’t count on it. However, I recently got to witness what happens when someone who could throw that type of a shindig actually does.
Warehouse One-Off
Last month, I was referred to a guy who passed my personal info on to a guy, who knew a guy, who had my numbers. So at the end of a long stream of emails one day, I found all I really needed to know. ”Are you open these dates to do a little programming?” I was on the dole that month, so I replied with a casual, “Sure. You know my rate. What’s the gig?” He shot back immediately, “Top Secret. Meet me in the city this week and we’ll chat.” I made a mental note and went back to nursing my drink.
I let a few days pass before I dropped by unannounced in the office of my connection. We took a walk out to the loading docks. I lit up and wait for him to talk. It was his gig, not mine.
“I got a guy throwing a party. But it’s totally secret, and I can’t really fill you in on details. He’s hired this cat named Tracey Dear to do the lighting. Tracey lights a lot of architectural stuff and special events around town.”
“So whadda you need me for? I’m sure he’s got his own crew.”
“Well, ‘cause I’m not sure he’s ever experienced what happens at these events.” He leans in and whispers the name of the client.
I smile. I’ve heard of these Bizarro type gigs before. It means a secret location with a lot of different theatrical stuff going on in a lot of places. For instance, they have multiple stages, rolling troupes of performance artists, dancers that appear out of nowhere. Flash mobs that have been rehearsed. Topping it off will be a double secret über performer whose name will not be whispered by anyone until they are revealed. I don’t care who’s playing. It’s a gig.
I’m packing heavy as I roll into an abandoned warehouse on the Southside. Got a console in the back of my ride, and it’s loaded with cues. I stride by the main stage. Four trusses of MACs. Alternating wash and profiles. They got that right. Off to the side, I notice a cabaret stage with some cheezy LED lights. I got no script here. Someone tells me I gotta light some clone band of some English pop act. I walk past that stage and look straight up at a massive pile of floating doors. Literally, there are 100 doors hanging in space, in the shape of a tornado. I look directly at the base and, lo and behold, it’s Bruce.
Bruce’s Doornado
I’ve gigged with this guy over the years. If there is some whacked out project that needs something bizarre constructed, I almost expect to see him on site. Apparently Bruce has been collecting doors for the last year. He sees one at a yard sale, in the trash, on consignment, it goes in his pickup. All these doors are hung on concentric rings, from a 60-foot-diameter circle truss in the sky. And it can spin forever. A frickin’ Doornado. Tracey comes over and introduces himself. He and Bruce take me on a tour. They show me places I will need to illuminate for certain staged events at this gala. Gazebos, swings, particle accelerators, walls made of grass. Foo Foo for days. This is all well and good. Finally, I ask where I set up my board. They look at each other in a shameful way. I knew I was boned before they opened their mouths. “Front of house is located in the eye of the Doornado.”
I squint as I watch the lighting guys hoist my console 10 feet in the air. I climb up and have a look around. Through the spaces between the doors, I can see 2.5 of the 4 stages. And some of them have no light. I was forewarned that I might find myself underlit. So I called in a few favors. I had the boys rob a few lights from the main stage. They didn’t mind. It was winter and they were being kicked back some overtime. Tracey was smart enough to be holding a dozen MAC 401s in his pocket. These are LED heads on steroids.
The client has a request. He wants the entire show (except for the secret act on the main stage) to be lit with orange, blue and green only. This is throwing me for a loop. Then I remember. This is Bizarro world, where everything that happens is the opposite of what should really be happening.
I have a five-minute dance segment coming up to rehearse. In my normal day, I would front light them in a bright flesh tone to augment their colors. I would backlight them with chasing LED products and pinpoint spotlights. Nope, here today I am front-lighting the troupe in orange. From some 401s the boys are clamping to rafters. And I am uplighting them with ColorBlaze strip lights in green. The colors combine to look like vomit. The client likes it. I know I’ll get paid.
Flying Blind
The show will open with a montage of projected video, after hordes of people have packed this refurbished warehouse to collect their booze. I have some performer around the corner set to swing aboard some floating set piece. I see none of it. Tracey and I spent 20 minutes last night writing five cues for the whole bit. He was my eyes and ears, while I held a radio. I was stuck in the Doornado. They spent three hours rehearsing. I hit GO while some thugs watched over my shoulder until the cues were executed flawlessly.
Next, I am informed that there will be six songs being performed on the B stage. Again, I can light them in any color, as long as they’re green, blue and orange. And they want the colors on at the same time. Three cues for six songs. Repeat when necessary. At the end of the last song, I need to throw a light on the stage to pick up the host. But I have no spots. Tracey has 10 Leikos. I call the boys over. “Gimme a front wash, Mikey P; Goose, go get me some correction gel.” I’m covered. Now I gotta get busy writing some cues for this unnamed pop star.
I get out to the console and sit just in time to hear Bruce yell, “Watch out, we’re rolling.” Lightning crackles over the PA, and my console starts to shake. I hear the squeal of iron twisting as the doors start spinning. I’m getting vertigo. Just as I’m about to hurl, they stop in their tracks as an announcement is made and everyone goes to dinner. Perfect, I get some silence to write a few cues. I look up and can’t see the stage. There’s no view hole in the Doornado for me now. “Bruce!!!”
He rectifies the dilemma, and two hours later, I have 100 preprogrammed cues in the board. We rehearse a few looks. The producer leans over to tell me it looks amazing. He whispers the name of the special guest playing tomorrow. I laugh to myself. I’m lighting an old codger who won’t leave his stool. But I’ll have a good time lighting the party band afterwards.
If Bruce can stop the doors in place.
