Editor’s Note

What you hold in your hand is something pretty unusual for FOH–a themed issue. Most of what you will find between the covers of this month's collection of live audio missives relate in some way to the world of house of worship sound. Before you non-churchy road warriors run away screaming, don't worry, there is plenty for you here, too. That includes coverage of a decidedly un-churchy Ozzfest.

It has been about two years now but as I sit here trying to compose my thoughts for this month's missive, I am reminded of a particularly busy Saturday night doing work for FOH back in L.A. before we all made the move to the desert.

First came a call from the production team with Dream Theater who were loading in at the Pantages and wanted me to come down. Next came the reminder that I needed to get down to the Forum between soundcheck and the Metallica show so I could drop off the trophy that Big Mick Hughes had earned as the winner of the Parnelli Award for FOH Mixer of the Year (Mick had been on tour when the awards were given out and not able to make it to the event). And then I got a call from Steve La Cerra, a friend from previous editorial pursuits and someone I had been trying to make space for in FOH (he's now our Bleeding Edge columnist). He was in town mixing Blue Oyster Cult (one of my personal fave rock bands) at a place called the Canyon Club. This was a circuit that would have taken me from my then-home in Altadena to Hollywood, on to Inglewood and way out west to Agoura Hills. That's about a 100 mile loop which, in L.A. on a Saturday night… Well, let's just say it was going to be tough. I ended up missing the Dream Theater thing while stuck in traffic, arriving at the Forum for Metallica just minutes before they went on so I ended up staying for the entire show so Mick and Paul Owen and I could chat a bit after the show, and then blasting out to Agoura Hills to catch the last three songs of the BOC set and talk with Steve for a few minutes. A nutty day.

As I have mentioned here before, my wife is the queen of reality shows. I give a nod of gratitude to whatever power controls such things, as I am fortunate in that she has not gotten into the really bad ones. No Swan or Bachelor or Date My Dad or whatever the true dreck is. But we do get plenty of Survivor, The Amazing Race and American Idol. What can I tell you? Her latest thing, more of a game than a reality show, is Deal or No Deal. If you have missed it, there is a big, tiered stage with a bunch of hot model chicks, each with a briefcase that holds a placard with a dollar figure on it. The player picks one case which becomes theirs, and then starts having the models open cases, hoping for low numbers and that their own case holds the big money. After every few cases, the host calls an offstage "banker" who figures the odds based on the cases already opened and offers to buy the contestant's case for an amount somewhere between the lowest and highest numbers still in play. The host tells the contestant the amount the bank is willing to pay for their still unopened case and says "deal or no deal." Hence the name. The contestant has to decide if they want to take the amount offered, or chance opening more cases and finding out that their own case holds a buck. (Side note, the host is a comedian named Howie Mandel who is, these days, a pretty big deal. In the late '70s, I saw Howie Mandel at the Comedy Store in Westwood, CA and he was way weirder than his current image would suggest. Weird–and funny–enough that I still remember it.)

So there I was, sitting in the living room, laptop fired up, reading copy for the issue you hold now. It was about 9 p.m., and sadly, in an all-too-common situation, my wife and I were both working on magazine projects. Like I said, I was reading, and she was doing design and production on a freelance project that required her to operate in a program she was unfamiliar with.

It was hard to concentrate because it meant ignoring the screaming and swearing coming from the general direction of the area where my wife was sitting. Note that I did not say the screaming and swearing were coming from her, just that they were emanating from that general direction. (Hey, I've been married for 18 years; I have learned something along the way.)

Driving can be a dangerous thing. Not only for the obvious "the guy in the other car may be drunk, or an idiot, or both" reasons, but because long drives can lead to thinking–in my case, a very dangerous thing.

In this case, I was headed across Highway 166 from the central coast of California (specifically Pismo Beach) where I had done a weekend as a guitar sub for an '80s tribute act, headed for Bakersfield and then Highway 58 to Barstow and up the 15 home to Las Vegas. I was home for 36 hours before heading south again to the Timeless Communications headquarters for production on the issue you are reading now.

Change is, once again, in the air. There has been so much happening in the past month or so, and so many things in flux that I am finding it impossible to put it into any kind of coherative narrative (I know, that should be coherent, but it just sounds so much cooler the other way…), so I think the best approach this time is just to throw out a bunch of bullet-point ideas and see what makes sense in the end.

I so hate to use a line I have used before in a column, but sometimes there is no getting around it. Remember that TV show, Hill Street Blues? (For you pups out there, it was way back in the dim past in a time called the '80s.) Every show would begin with the crusty old Sarge doing the daily briefing for all of the street cops, and he would always end it the same way–"Be careful out there."

It's one of those nights. It is 4:15 a.m. and I can't sleep. You know how it is: I'm tired, but my mind is racing and I can't fall asleep. So, what the hell? It's a perfect time to write this month's missive.

It will be early to mid-January by the time you read this, but I am writing it a few days before Christmas. As we begin 2006 with this issue, I find myself looking back on the past year. Most of us do that and, like most of you, some years bring a sense of opportunity lost and others of accomplishment, some of sorrow and some of great joy. As I look back over the last 12 months, I am struck with a profound sense of gratitude. It has been a year of growth, both personally and professionally, and a year of many changes.

Don't you just hate it when I use this limited amount of space to wax philosophical instead of writing about something cool like gear or new tech? I can hear the groans already. "Oh crap, here he goes again. Can he please just get to the f'ing point? Forget it, maybe I'll just turn to the FOH Interview or the Road Tests."

Sorry, but this is what happens when I actually have a little time to think. A bunch of stuff has gone down in the past couple of months that may seem unrelated, but–at least in my twisted mind–adds up to an important point.

News flash: I actually went to a show recently and PAID for tickets. They were really crappy seats. And I bought them from a ticket broker. I did it for my lovely wife, who is a big Eagles fan and had never seen the band (not even this postmodern version). I, on the other hand, saw them at the Fabulous Forum on the Hotel California tour, which means that, yes, I am officially old. Not really. That was in, what, 1977? So I must have been about two years old at the time. I wasn't 17. Really.

About a week before we put this issue to bed, I had a day full of contrasts. After the usual morning of too-early rising, getting my daughter to school (did I mention that high school in Las Vegas starts at 7 a.m.?) and then making my daily bitch-out phone call to some casino PR guy who was standing in the way of a story, I went down to the Strip. There I met up with Ross Humphrey and the rest of the Blue Man audio crew at their new theatre at the Venetian, which they are set to open right about the time you are reading this. Very cool, very state-of-the-art and very creative. And yes, you'll get to read all about it next month.

When FOH first started publishing three years ago (yes, this issue marks the end of our third year), we had already talked about the electronic components of the magazine. The Web site has been there for a while, and the electronic version has grown rapidly and has extended our reach to areas of the globe that were impractical when it came to mailing printed copies of the magazine. But on the question of peer-to- peer, electronic communication online, it might have seemed that we were slacking.