We examine the scenario in which a nightclub LD (me) hosts a show with its own traveling LD. Should make for an easy day for me, eh? Perhaps. In the red corner, wearing cargo shorts, five laminates and a radio with a Jack in the Box head on the antenna, weighing in at 100 pounds soaking wet, is El Vato de la Ruta, the tour guy… And in the blue corner, wearing carpenter’s trousers, an aloha shirt and a grimace, weighing a lot more than he used to, is Surly McGee, the house guy.
Let’s get ready to…Rumble? Aren’t we allies in this war on demanding artists, tightwad promoters, antiquated gear and unrealistic timetables? We’ll see.
I’m guessing you’re the person looking at the grid and counting on your fingers. Otherwise, you’re the one in the corner Skyping while others load in your gear. Or maybe you’re the guy standing at the door to the booth introducing yourself. “Hi, my name is…”
Stuckey. Since I’ll forget your name before you’re done telling me, I’ll simply call you Stuckey. You can do the same, since you’ve forgotten mine as well. Consider it a term of endearment.
No, I haven’t seen your rider. Or maybe I have, because I happen to have a conscientious production manager today, but maybe you haven’t, because your agent sent out their boilerplate lighting rider without your knowledge. The 400A service they requested is 90A. Have you seen my tech specs? Never mind, just hand me the pointy ends of your orange extension cords and I’ll stick ‘em somewhere.
Speaking of riders, your agent contracted my employer to provide you an in-house lighting tech to tie in power, assist with focus and run opening acts. That’s it. Everything else I do for you is, from a contractual standpoint, a favor. This brings us to a basic cultural fact of nightclub people. In the venue, everyone is, as I once heard a security guy call himself, a mirror. The attitude of security and the bar staff reflects that of the patrons and the attitude of the house crew reflects that of the tour crew. A spirit of camaraderie will be met in kind, but an attitude of entitlement may get your expectations managed.
I Care About Your Show — Almost As Much As You Do
Contract language and your people skills aside, I expect you’ll expect me to provide certain sundries: cam turnarounds, a spare DMX line to FOH and the odd jumper to reach it, maybe a modest choice of color. You seem like a good kid, so here are some milk crates to put your lights on since the road cases you normally use are a bit large for our stage. I’ve even got some scraps of Duvetyne to cover them. Expendables? Sure! They won’t buy me any, so I steal them from other tours to provide to you. I’m the Robin Hood of expendables.
Now you’ve noticed my spare movers and want to use them on the floor. Sorry, those are spares. Do I have a fan for your hazer? I’ll check… A desk lamp? Another monitor for the console? You want to hang lights on my backdrop pipe, and move the mirror ball? You don’t carry any color, but you want 1/4 CTO taped to the front of the movers and 1/16 minus green in the followspots. Oh, just one more thing…
Slow down, Columbo. Did my offer of milk crates unleash this flow of creativity? Nothing on your wish list is impossible, but we’re on a schedule. Load in started at 2 p.m., and doors are at 7. It’s now 4:30, and no task is complete.
See, the house LD wears many hats. By your own admission, you could have hired a tech, but chose to spend your budget on more lights. You should have rented a console, but spent the money on even more lights. I am therefore your programmer and tech. I will write your entire show, cue to cue, and somehow simultaneously be on stage deciphering the bizarre numbering system of your looms. Meanwhile, I will be your doctor, priest, pharmacist and stage mum. Just be advised:
Lack of Planning On Your Part Does Not Constitute an Emergency On Mine
I may also be the technical director, union steward, or bar-back. In the midst of bringing your show to fruition, I may have to connect shore power, change a light bulb in the office, advance another show or change a keg.
It’s 7:05, and we’ve only been programming for 20 minutes. You’ve done me a favor making me miss catering, but now we’re holding doors while 1,200 young girls stand outside in the rain screaming. They are not, it should be noted, dressed for the weather.
Finally, you resemble satisfied and make to leave. Despite your extensive floor package and knowledge of the music, you instruct me to save you some of my lights on the opener. Lacking confidence?
They’re already calling house lights, and I’m about to run your show for you when you return. After a few songs to make sure everything is sorted, I’ll give you and your six chain-smoking guests some space. Except you’ve got mirror ball cues for me, need me to refill your hazer, and then (this honestly happened) you “run out of ideas” and ask me to take over.
The show goes down, and with it, hopefully, your reliance on me. I’m pretending to take my union meal break while actually sneaking up house lights slowly enough for the promoter’s rep, but quickly enough for the staff. I’ll see you on stage just about the time you’re ready to get untied and bring in your backdrop. Only I don’t. I see you in the dressing room with a red plastic cup in your hand.
Stagehands, ever willing to put backline things in a box, are like kids getting shots when asked to put lighting things in a box. In your absence, they’ve left the stage strewn with forsaken lighting things. Because nobody leaves until your truck is loaded, I will wrangle them.
Enjoy that rock ‘n’ roll Zeitgeist tonight, for tomorrow your cables will be in wrong boxes and some movers may face the wrong way.
But Seriously…
These stereotypes are merely hypothetical. Lighting folks come in a rainbow of hues. You may be a 20-something noob, grateful for $700 per week and a shared motel room, or a veteran stadium guy paid 10 times that to slum it in the clubs with a heritage act or sponsored tour. Maybe I took this house gig as a form of retirement after 30 years in the business, or maybe I’m the owner’s 16-year-old son. You might have a house gig at home. I might be killing time between tours.
Regardless, be prepared. You’ve told me you couldn’t have done it without me, a flattering exaggeration, but you’ve got another show tomorrow and I won’t be there. Someone will, maybe as eager to please as I, but what if they’re not? Was I not eager enough to please? Don’t worry, next time I’ll take extra special care of you, because now we’re old chums. Ain’t that right, Stuckey?
Stosh Richenbach is a freelance LD who works out of the San Francisco Bay area as well as with his local IATSE affiliate.
