One of my coworkers came to me the other day and asked me if I could handle a sticky situation with one of our clients. He told me that he couldn’t handle another problem because he was getting overwhelmed, and all he wanted to do was to go home. I was more than happy to help remedy the situation, and what was presented to me as a major issue was, in actuality, an easily resolved minor quandary. This, of course, does not make me a hero, nor does it make me a better person than my coworker, but it does cement in my mind the reason why I am such an advocate for labor. After all, the outcome of any gig is dependent upon clear thinking and the deftness of the crew.
I know how easy it is to become overwhelmed and to panic in high-stress situations. Chaos looms large and is only kept at bay by the knowledge and the skill of the workers involved. Having the support of an extra hand or a clear head has saved many a show from dissolving into bedlam, and while we do our best to prepare for the worst, even the best laid plans have been known to fail.
I’m sure every visiting engineer, at one time or another, has experienced the opening-act stress of not having a sound check or line check. Just as the band walks on stage, you realize that the lead vocal channel is dead, and if the problem is not resolved quickly, a universe of agony and torment is only moments away. Panicking, you turn to the house engineer and let him know your predicament. With a cool demeanor, he assesses the board and the situation, and without a moment’s hesitation, reaches with one skilled motion to change the input on the channel from “line” to “mic.” Without missing a beat, the singer’s dulcet tones are amplified and heard by the unsuspecting crowd. Though you might feel a little humiliated by your simple oversight, chaos is once again beaten into submission by teamwork and a cool head.
Live work is just that…live. It’s a risky business; however, with a little knowledge, planning and foresight, it can be an exhilarating experience. Great shows can be a heavenly experience, but it only takes one bad moment during the show to make one’s life a hell on earth. Remember that 60 seconds of dead air or feedback during a sold-out performance can seem like an eternity; unfortunately, even in the worst situations, we cannot just give up and go home. Therefore, it is imperative not only to be able to trust your gear, but to trust in the people who are working with you, as well. From loaders to stage hands, from engineers to riggers, from lighting guys to producers, each person needs to do their part while, at the same time, maintain a cool head and the flexibility to counter any obstacles that may arise.
Everyone has a unique personality and an individual style they bring to work. There are some people who do not feel as though they are working unless there is some sort of occurring drama that needs fixing. Other individuals insist upon acting like Scotty on the Starship Enterprise, constantly shouting, “Captain we don’t have much time. She’s heating up, and she’s going to blow.” Other people insist upon the “right way” to do things, and when they are asked to do something in a different way, they refuse before exploring the options. Over the years, I have found that I have been drawn to positive workers who do not see problems, only solutions. This doesn’t mean that we should unequivocally say yes to every stupid request from a client, and I am not implying that we should accept any situation that could possibly put people or an event at risk, but we need to be open and creative in the way we approach our work. Most gig drama is the byproduct of poor planning or lack of knowledge on someone’s behalf; however, there are times when the unexpected happens, and while it would be nice if we could just wake up from the bad dream, it is the nightmare that tests the true mettle of the worker.
That said, I was recently producing a high-profile outdoor event for Sloane Kettering Memorial Hospital, and we were minutes away from bringing up the talent. Since there was a curfew, we were on a deadline, but everything up to that point had been running like clockwork, we were settled into the gig and flying on automatic pilot. We were mixing front of house and monitors from stage left using the PM5D. I was standing next to the engineer listening to the MC finish his announcements, thus signaling the introduction of the talent. Suddenly, my engi-neer spread his arms as if he were nailed to a cross and let out a big “Whaa?” I looked down at the board — it was lifeless. I looked at the amps, and they too were off. Everyone’s worst fear was realized —the power had died, and we were minutes away from bringing up the headline talent, Gavin DeGraw.
My engineer turned off his amps and board, and I immediately ran to the generator. It was a brand new, 100 kW, quiet show generator ca-pable of powering the lights and sound for the event. I tried starting it up, and the motor turned right over, but the digital fuel readout only said 12 percent remaining. The generator only uses 3–5 gallons of fuel an hour, and we hadn’t run the generator long enough to use up 80 gallons of fuel, so unless someone had siphoned off the fuel, there should have been enough to carry us through the show and beyond. I called the generator tech on his cell phone, and he told me that the problem must be a faulty computer reading from the float in the tank. He told me to look inside the door; on the floor of the generator, I should see a small brass ring held down by rivets with a single wire attached. “Cut that wire, and you’ll be ok,” he promised.
I looked inside the first door, but the only wires I could see were connected to the motor. Looking inside the second door proved just as futile for, if I cut the wrong wire, my show would be over with no hope of revival. At this point, I had other techs, the client, artist manage-ment and random people in the park telling me what to do. My lifeline, the generator tech, was a half hour away, telling me to cut a wire I couldn’t locate. The generator was running, but now the fuel gauge read 10 percent, and my lifeline told me that when it hit 5 percent, it would shut off again. Time was running out, and I was beginning to feel like Sean Connery as James Bond in Goldfinger. Handcuffed to a nuclear bomb in the bowels of Fort Knox with mere seconds to go, James Bond makes the right decision and disconnects the correct cable to disable the bomb, leaving him with just 007 seconds to go in the countdown.
With help from my cool-headed engineer, we located the wire hidden on the chassis of the generator; with 7 percent fuel remaining, we undid the bolt (I didn’t cut it just in case it might be needed again) and freed the cable. Just at that moment, the generator hit the 5 percent mark, and the beast went dead. My lifeline told me to start it up once again and see what the gauge read. I did as I was told. As there was no digital readout, he told me we were in good shape and not to worry. With the generator running, we fired up all the gear and put the talent on stage for a wonderful performance, which satisfied the client and audience alike. The whole generator debacle lasted only five minutes, and if it were a nu-clear bomb we were trying to diffuse, we would have been late by a few seconds, but c’est la vie. Anyway, even though I may not have saved the world, I can confidently say that I definitely know the techs who I want on gigs with me — and not one of them ever mentioned going home before we found a solution to our high-stress problem.
Contact Baker at blee@fohonline.com.
