Welcome to My Nightmare

I work in an audio/visual department at Harvard University. My clients are brilliant economists, poets, physicists and historians. On any given week, I’m knee-deep in Noble Prize winners. I’ve pinned mics on Mikhail Gorbachev and Yo-Yo Ma. But what kept popping into my dreams at night? Mixing for a rock ‘n’ roll band. I mean, come on, you can only sit through so many high-level organic chemistry lectures before you start yearning for the world of rock ‘n’ roll.

About a month ago, I was doing sound for the Kentucky HeadHunters in a small town not far from my hometown.

They originally hired two production companies before mine, but apparently the first guy ended up in jail and the second guy couldn't find any help, so I took on the gig barely meeting the ridiculous rider — especially for a band that hadn't had a hit since the ‘80s. Nonetheless, I rented some monitor gear that I was lacking.

This AV company calls me up for a hotel testimonial dinner… just baby-sit a small system with a couple of mics for speakers. I get there and it's an improv company with eight lavs and a couple of wireless 58s with a Mackie 16ch and no EQ whatsoever. There are two powered Mackies jammed up against the plaster walls, a tile floor and lots of glass in the walls and ceiling. I'm thinking of taking a hike, but I'm supposed to be good enough to make it work. 

I was contacted by a regional electronic music festival to handle their main stage — they needed someone who could mix esoteric/eclectic "bands" with bizarre instrumentation based around DJs. We've done lighting for the gig and I was looking forward to the experience… until the festival called and told me that they had booked racks 'n' stacks already and just needed me to bring "the rest.”

I get a call the other day from a local production company that I’ve been doing work for lately. They say they need me as an opt-out at this synagogue for two days and that it’s “the lowest level mixing gig” they’ve got. I’m like, “sure, why not?” — they're paying my rate, and I've got nothing planned those two days, anyway.

In 1997, I was employed as chief sound engineer aboard the world-famous RMS Queen Elizabeth 2 ocean liner. I was having a great run, and things were going smoothly. Then, as we came through the Panama Canal and stopped in Acapulco, I contracted conjunctivitis, commonly known as pink eye, in both eyes.

“Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.” — Murphy’s Law

Back in the day (1982), I was the electronics tech for a sound company out on a major tour. More than 210 dates were booked, including a Euro tour leg, and I was a happy camper. Living on the bus was tight as there were 13 of us crammed into the Eagle 10, and seating accommodations rivaled that of the “Hot Bunk” approach used by the Navy — you get up from your seat, and the three-second rule applies: Three seconds later, someone else has your seat.

So, I am hired to design/set up a show at a high school and train the guy after me how to run sound. It’s a pretty simple setup for this show (four headsets, four floor mics and four choir mics plus tracks from a CD), so I figure with about three weeks to go until show, I should have plenty of time to set up and train this guy.  

My two combined nightmares both deal with my band — supplying a P.A. to my own band and not having them help. As any anklebiter will tell you, it may not be a lot of gear, but it’s sure not a little, either! I need help to set up, and my band sure didn’t want to help out. As soon as I got to the gig the whining started. “That’s too much P.A. gear, Dave. You won’t need it all.” 

This was not so much of a nightmare as it was a huge pain in my ass — someone else decided I was young and “must know nothing,” and so when they looked bad because they didn’t listen to me, well, it was still all my fault. 

Once upon a time I was working for the original large-scale rehearsal/ rental company in Los Angeles. We got a gig for a super-high-profile show at The Century Plaza Hotel Grand Ballroom: a $1000-a-plate benefit concert with Stevie Wonder.

We got in at 3 p.m., miked everything up quickly and got ready for soundcheck. That’s when the promoter — who was also mixing front of house for the show — came up to me freaking out and saying he can’t mix! All the faders are about a third of the “normal” level, the subgroups a little higher, and the masters are at 25 percent.

I recently helped out a friend of mine doing FOH and tour manager duties for two weeks on a U.S. promotional tour. This was a van and trailer tour, which I found refreshing and intimate for a change. We were scheduled at a state fair, and I was saddled with only one crew guy. We pulled up to a 60-foot by 40-foot stage with a decent roof that seemed to have some "water puddle" issues. I climbed up on the deck and was overseen by a gentlemen sitting in monitor world; let's call him Chester. I introduced myself as Tommy with the band Hedley, and asked if there were stagehands. Chester said something akin to, "Don't know, don't care and unless I have heard of you, I really can't be bothered."