While the team settled in and a waitress took coffee orders, road manager Glen Ague turned to Jake. “Two things, Reedy. Your bike is here and what’s the low down on the talent?”
“Ta Glen, where is she?” The Triumph was Jake’s sanity on tour. For the smaller tours he had no choice but to leave her behind, but when a road train was involved, and if the stars aligned, Bonne got to go on tour as well.
“Car park.” Glen pressed keys into Jake’s hand. “And?”
“Professional, but there’s a problem with Jonas. Flaky. He should be here now.” Jonas missing in action was a bad sign. In a strictly hierarchical sense, Glen worked for Jake as did all the crew, but practically the roles of tour manager, road manager and stage manager worked closely together, that’s why the absence of Jonas who was both EP and stage manager for this tour was a problem. Without the stage manager’s input there was no one looking out for the specific needs of the band and the other talent on stage and backstage.
Glen grimaced, worrying his new goatee with a finger. “And Rielle?”
Jake shook his head remembering her sharp tongue and water cannon act and the way she’d undressed him with her insane-coloured eyes. “Little hellcat.”
Glen grinned back. “Just how we like ‘em, eh?”
When the last coffee cup was delivered, Jake started the meeting. Each of the team leaders had been provided with a tour bible: a document providing all the details they’d need to produce staging, sound, lighting, and vision based on the show’s creative and technical design.
“It’s standard big venue lighting including gladiators,” said Tim Beatty, the lighting director. Tim wore a t-shirt that said, Don’t mess with an electrical engineer. It megahertz.
“This is no redneck laser show,” Tim’s offsider Lizard said, making reference to mirror balls used in pub and club shows.
“What would you know, you silly spark fairy?” teased the sound engineer, Bruce Ng, sipping his second black coffee.
Tim shook his coffee spoon at Bruce. “Hey, Liz isn’t just an ordinary silly spark fairy: he’s my chief truss monkey as well.”
“For a guy called Lizard he does look a hell of a lot like a monkey,” agreed Bruce, as Lizard made predictable monkey noises and scratched under his arm.
Jake dropped his head and laughed. This crew of guys was like a family with all its ticks and tensions, but with one clear purpose: to stage the most professional concerts possible. They sat there in their standard pre-show work uniform of old, over-washed, tatty tour t-shirts, jeans and rubber soled boots, each of them with an identification laminate on a lanyard around their neck. During the show they’d be universally dressed in black so they could move around the stage and set without attracting undue notice.
In the general scheme of things, the sound guys thought they were kings because no one would hear the concert without them. The lighting guys acted like big shots because no one would see anything without them, and the staging roadies would bet good money on being the only ones who did any worthwhile work at all. Front of house fought with backstage, spark fairies slagged off riggers, video techs looked down on roadies, security got in the way of a good time and everyone had it in for the tour manager who could make their life hell. And that was just how Jake liked it.
“Video specs are clear, standard Jumbotron screen. Nothing too difficult, except rigging cameras for the Hand of God sequences,” said Collin Ng.
“Better be nice to my spark fairies then,” said Tim.
Lizard, scratching his shaved head, muttered, “Yeah, what he said.”
“You know how many spark fairies it takes to change a light bulb?” said Collin to his brother, Bruce.
Bruce answered, “As many as you want. One holds the bulb, and the others drink until the room spins.”
“Was that ever funny?” asked Glen.
The big voice of Bodge Baynard, head of the staging crew, cut across the general hubbub. “Staging design is interesting, lots of suspension, lots of scaffolding.”
Lizard pumped his fist. “Truss monkeys rule.”
Bodge ignored Lizard. “The only tricky thing is this Hand of God contraption. It’ll be a bastard to get right from a technical and safety point of view.”
“We’ve added more time in the rehearsal schedule to handle that,” said Jake, to comments of approval from the crew.
Glen turned to the enormous bald man sitting to the right of himself and Jake. “Are you ready for bump-in, Grunt?”
“Ready,” said Grunt, a man of much muscle and few words. “We unload the trucks after we finish here and we’ll be ready for technical rehearsal tomorrow.”
“What’s the plan for security?” asked Glen.
“Low key, they don’t think there will be much trouble here. Tall poppy syndrome works in their favour,” said Jake with a shrug. He wondered about that. Aussie fans were generally considered more laid back, some even said more respectful—if you could believe that—than fans in Europe or the US.
“When do we have talent here?” asked Bodge.
“Tomorrow afternoon.” Jake knew for most of the crew it would be a long night with only snatched sleep until the next evening. There was still no sign of Jonas, so he decided to wrap up. “Anything else for now?”
“Reedy, what are they like?” asked Teflon, one of Bodge’s crew.
“They’re pros, Tef,” said Jake, thinking of how well organised Rand and Rielle had been yesterday, despite the family feud. “It’s going to be a good tour.”
“Reedy, mate, come on,” Teflon urged, wrinkling his forehead under his red bandana.
Jake laughed. “You guys want me to dish dirt on them, you bloody sods.”
“Does a chicken have lips?” said Teflon.
“No!” several people said at once.
“Oh!” Teflon said, his head suddenly jerking forward as Bodge whacked him one. “Is the Pope a Catholic then?”
“Tef, you’ll meet them tomorrow,” said Jake, still laughing.
“Reedy, we just want to know if she has lead singer disease?” said Bruce. “I want to know how hard I have to work to make her sound right. She could be all auto-tune for all we know. Is she any good?”
Jake shook his head. “I haven’t heard her. We’ll all find out together.”
“I just want to know if she’s as fit a bird in person as she is in the music vids.” said Collin, giving Bruce a nudge.
Jake just grinned and received a chorus of appreciative, “Ahhhs!”
“I’ve got a question,” said Bodge. “How reliable is the ‘book of lies’?”
All eyes switched to Jake. An accurate tour program was important, it saved time and money, but more importantly, it let everyone know where they needed to be and what they needed to have done by a specific time and date.
Jake put his open hand down on his copy of the tour bible. “Scout’s honour, this one looks good.” But he was worried, without Jonas’s input they only had the written tour bible to go by. If it was inaccurate, they’d be in trouble.
“Hey Jake,” called Teflon. “There was a rigger, a fairy and a tour manager backstage and this genie appears out of the smoke machine and offers them each a wish.”
“Are you for real, Tef,” groaned Lizard.
“How old is this joke?” said Glen, slapping his forehead.
Teflon continued, “The rigger says, ‘I’ll have a number one hit single, twin girlfriends, and a house in Byron Bay.’ And the genie waves her wand, and the guy disappears in a puff of smoke.
“Well, he would,” agreed Bodge.
“The spark fairy says, ‘I’ll have a platinum album, a yacht and a harbour view penthouse.’ And he disappears in a puff of smoke too,” said Teflon.
“Gotta love that,” said Tim.
Teflon looked around at his audience, gearing up for the punch line. “The genie turns to the tour manager and says, ‘Anything you wish for is my command,’ and the tour manager says…”
“‘I want
those two bastards back here right now!’” chorused the men at the table, making their waitress look around in surprise.
Ah, it was going to be a good tour.
5. Cheap Seats
When Rielle Mainline walked on stage wearing tiny, frayed, cut-off denim shorts and a skin-tight white singlet over a red lace bra, all the sounds of labour stopped as every man hammering, taping, climbing, fixing, or just hanging around breathing, paused to check her out. She was bookended by thick rubber soled, lace-up boots and a tumbled, messy bun that showed off the ink behind her ear.
She was well aware of the effect she had, but ignored it. She sat on the front edge of the stage, dangling her legs and looked out at the stadium where in three nights’ time she’d be performing.
Other than trips to the gym, her first official meeting with Jake, and the problem with Jonas, Australia had so far consisted of a long flight, fractured sleep in a darkened hotel room and an afternoon staring out the window at nothing much. Maybe things would be okay.
She hadn’t seen Jonas since the disastrous meeting, but she’d heard him and Rand arguing in the hotel corridor, and she hadn’t seen Rand either. He’d taken off somewhere yesterday and didn’t come back last night. What had he found in Adelaide, of all places, to interest him?
Three things had to happen in the next half hour. Rand had to appear, and she knew he would. No matter what he’d been up to, he always showed up. Jonas had to demonstrate he was seeing straight and she had to prove to the crew she was worth all the fuss.
She assumed Australian crews were much like American ones, loyal to each other before anything else, but ready to break their backs for anyone they thought deserving. A good crew could make poor talent look good and sound better, but an inspired crew would make the Ice Queen concert unforgettable. And that’s what she wanted—for her audience to have the experience of a lifetime. And for that she had to work it.
She got to her feet and grabbed a passing roadie. “Would you get me a live mic please?”
The roadie yelled, “Bodge, live mic on stage,” disappearing to be replaced by a big, silver-haired guy, holding a microphone and sound pack.
“I’m Bodge. I’m your guy on stage. Whatever you need, me and my boys will look after you.”
“Where’d you get that name from?” Rielle studied the heavy-set roadie as openly as he’d assessed her, arms lifted, to let him wire her up.
He grinned at her. “I was always good at, you know, bodging things together.”
When she was all set, she said, “Thanks Bodge,” and went to the front of the stage again. She paused, listened to the sounds of construction and two lighting roadies arguing about gel filters. She took a deep breath, and sang the opening verse to one of their hit songs, Ignorance.
“Step around the trouble, step around the hate, don’t go laying that on me, treating me like bait.”
By the time she hit the end note, there was silence, not a single hammer fall, not a footstep. She sang, “Step around your prejudice, step around your fate, don’t be blaming me for your bad psychological state.”
At the end of that line, the silence was replaced by murmuring and scattered applause. She had them—with two lines of unaccompanied song, she’d opened a door. Now she had to blow the house down.
She belted out the chorus, letting her voice fill the stadium, bounce against chair backs and shear off railings, set a bunch of pigeons into flight, and cancel any doubts the crew had that Rielle Mainline could sing live.
When she got to the second verse, Rand was there with an acoustic guitar and joined her, providing a sound track and a second voice. The crew gathered, holding hammers and bits of scaffold, gaffer tape and paint brushes. There was no pretence of work now, just open admiration. Despite Sydney, this was going to be a good tour.
“That’ll do us,” said Bodge in approval when the song ended and a round of applause and whistles rang out.
“She must have hollow legs,” said Teflon. “Where does that big voice come from?”
“She’s got good legs,” said Lizard. “I wouldn’t mind them wrapped around me.”
“You might want to shower first, you don’t want to give her a disease,” said Teflon.
“Okay, break it up,” said Glen with a grunt, waving the group back to work.
“Where did you go?” Rielle said to Rand. She watched the crew scatter, copping the broad grin on Bodge’s face.
“Nowhere special, just out.”
“All night?”
He shrugged. “It’s not that small a town.”
“Where’s Jonas?” she asked, almost dreading the response.
“He’s here. He’s with the sound and vision guys. He’ll be fine.”
Rielle shook her head. “He’s using, and he’s no good to us messed up.”
Rand sighed. “I know, but what can we do?”
She nodded. They needed Jonas. They needed to get the show design and every on-stage moment perfected and locked down. That was one of the reasons she’d wanted to start in Adelaide, and why they’d allocated extra time to get this first show produced. A small city that often missed out on big name acts was more likely to be forgiving than a place like Sydney. Sydney was experienced. Sydney was sophisticated. She knew her stuff. She’d sniff out a poorly planned set list, or a flat spot in the show as soon as she looked at them. That’s why Sydney was last. Sydney was brutal. Sydney didn’t forgive. And Rielle couldn’t forgive Sydney.
If only.
“What do you think of Jake?” she asked. If Jonas was going to be unreliable, they needed a strong tour manager. If they didn’t think Jake had the goods they’d have him replaced immediately. She knew he looked good with his broad chest and well-worked muscles, his handsome face and short cropped hair that’d stood up in sweaty spikes in the gym, but no one knew better than she did how deceiving looks could be.
“He’s a good guy; he’s got a great rep, crew like him, and that tells you something.”
“I think he’s wet.” He was entirely too ‘boy next door’ and the tattoo, a star maybe, done with red and blue ink on his bicep didn’t make it any less so.
“You think everyone is wet.”
Rielle scuffed her boot heel on a piece of stage riser. “No seriously, he’s a nice guy and that’s the problem. We need a tour manager who’s a goddamn Godzilla, you know, rips into people, has them all afraid to put a foot wrong.” They didn’t need some cute guy she’d almost considered messing around with because he’d looked so deliciously normal, so easy going. Thank fuck she’d remembered messing around with cute boys was never uncomplicated and never worked in her favour.
“Nope, we don’t. We need a guy the crew respect. Respect is better than fear.”
“Tell that to the oppressed masses. I don’t like him.”
Rand flapped his arms in exasperation. “What’s not to like?”
“Someone whose main recommendation is that other people like him. I’m not other people.”
“Oh, don’t we know that.” Rand eye-rolled. “Get over it. Unless he fouls something up, we’re keeping him.” He gave her a shove. “Come on, let’s go see the view from the cheap seats.”
From the control booth, Jake heard Rielle’s impromptu performance and noted the approval of the crew. It was a good start. Not only had the two stars shown up earlier than most talent did and were interested in the set build, they appeared to appreciate the need to win the crew over. That was smart. Many of the big names scraped in on time for a rehearsal, issued a truckload of demands and then showed up just in time for the main event, barely conscious of the effort it took to get them on stage in the first place.
He watched brother and sister climb the stadium staircase, headed for the seats at the top, the ones with the worst view and the least atmosphere, but sold out like every other seat in the venue. That was smart too. It showed they cared about the punters.
He knew he should join them. The more time he spent with them early on, the easie
r it would be to interpret their wishes for the whole tour, but he hated those seats. He hated everything about them: the restricted view, the poor sight lines, the long climb, and most of all the long way down.
But it had been a while, so maybe it would be all right this time. He gritted his teeth and started out after them. At first it was fine, and if he kept his head down on the steps, didn’t look left or right and God forbid up, he’d be okay.
Half way up, he knew it was anything but fine. It was a horror story. He’d broken out in a heavy sweat that had nothing to do with the effort and everything to do with his racing heart. He figured Rand and Rielle had hit the top by now, so he knew he couldn’t take his time. Ideally he’d be up those steps two at a time, but the reality was, all he could do was focus on his feet, take one faltering step at a time and try to steady his breathing. It could be worse, much worse; the ground was solid; it wasn’t like he could see a steep drop, but he knew this was high and that’s all it took—just knowing.
He’d had this thing about heights since he was a kid. First it was just dopey stuff like wanting to jump off fences and rooftops pretending to be Superman and then it became this fear he might fall and hurt himself. No, not just hurt himself. Worse. He thought he might stop breathing, fall down and die.
Acrophobia—fear of heights. It was insane. It didn’t make any logical sense, but there it was. His heart raced; his breath got short; his head spun; he sweated buckets, and he could barely think straight when anything to do with heights was involved.
It was the reason he didn’t fly, unless there was really no way around it, and then he drugged up to get through it. It was the reason he quit being a spark fairy himself. There were just too many times when you needed to go up a ladder, or scaffold, or on top of a roof.
He hadn’t had this happen for some time and a part of him had hoped he’d grown out of it, but now, feeling the hammer of his heart and the sweat running down his face and stinging his eyes, he knew all he’d managed to do was avoid situations like this. Why else would you drive for fifteen hours from Sydney to Adelaide unless you had to?
Getting Real Page 3
