It’s A Privilege

Show production is a great job, and not everybody gets to do it.

Please Remember:

The opinions expressed are mine only. These opinions do not necessarily reflect anybody else’s opinions. I do not own, operate, manage, or represent any band, venue, or company that I talk about, unless explicitly noted.

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We were wrapping up after a “roarin” Stonefed show – one of the best in the last few go-arounds – when Jasper called me over. (Jasper is Stonefed’s guitarist. He’s also Stonefed’s other guitarist. Jon is also Stonefed’s guitarist and other guitarist. They jam. It’s killer. Are you getting the picture? Anyway…)

“Life’s too short not to tell people how you feel about ’em,” says Jasper, and he proceeds to thank me for my work on the show. The timing was strangely appropriate, as just hours before I had received the news of a sudden and, quite frankly, tragic death in the family. It’s the kind of thing that “yanks the reins” and brings you to a jarring stop. It makes you look around in a metaphorical and literal sense, taking stock of what’s happening and what it all actually means.

It’s tough to do that in this business. It’s ironic, because production is a gig that works best when your situational awareness is high. Running a good show means knowing what’s going on around you in the crowd, having a feel for what the performers are experiencing, and maintaining a grasp on where the music is going. (Those aspects may not prioritize in that order, but they’re all in the mix.) What happens, though, is that you get so wrapped up in “doing the shows” that the wider context gets lost. The actual significance of the job is drowned in the noisefloor of doing the work. A craftsperson goes through the motions, even motions that are complex and require conscious attention, and is surprisingly numb to the experience.

In a certain sense, this is understandable. For the audience, it’s been two months since Stonefed was in the room. The band is tickling their ears, playing killer tune after killer tune, punctuating the songs with epic guitar solos, and funky bass runs, and dancing-with-wild-abandon drum interludes. It’s Saturday night, and this is THE party to be at.

…and for you, it’s “Tuesday.” You’re at work. All this has happened before, and it will all happen again.

That ought to set you back on your heels a bit, if you think about it.

Production humans, as a matter of routine, help to craft experiences that stand front and center in people’s memories. As a matter of ROUTINE. As in, “just doing my duty, Ma’am.” Imagine if our lives were presented in a sitcom setting:

“How was work?”

“It was okay. A bunch of us got together and created an experience that, while transitory, engaged a whole crowds’ senses and emotions such that they didn’t want it all to end. We painted with light and sound. We piloted a number of humans on a journey together through a series of emotional surges that some of them will talk about for months or years. Anyway – spaghetti for dinner again?”

*Audience Laughter*

Seriously.

This job is a privilege.

It doesn’t always feel like a privilege, and it’s okay that it doesn’t. Anything can become routine, because that’s how human experience works. Also, it’s entirely possible for one person’s party of the millenium to be your giant ball of drama and poor planning.

But this job is a privilege.

There are people who get up every day and do work that’s meaningless at best. A lot of them don’t have a choice. Some of them are basically okay with it all, and some of them would sell every possession just to get a shot at doing what we do.

We’re lucky. Stupidly lucky. Luckier than we have any business at all to be.

Our gig is to build experiences that flash and thunder before an audience, causing whole masses of neurons in their brains to fire and flare with every kind of excitement that can be cataloged. Then, like fireworks, the whole thing dissolves into the ether.

And then we do it again. It’s magic, pure and simple.

It’s a privilege.

Hauling gear is a privilege. It doesn’t feel like it when it’s 2:00 in the morning, and there are stairs, and there’s a cold rain pouring from the sky – but it’s a privilege. That gear helps the magic happen, and let’s be honest, moving a ton of music equipment on terms that you’ve had a hand in setting beats the pants out of sitting at a desk that operates entirely on someone else’s terms.

Changing over a bunch of bands is a privilege. It doesn’t feel like it when you’re behind schedule, and you’re off balance, and you have just seconds to get things working well enough to barely limp through the next set – but it’s a privilege. It’s an intense experience that keeps you sharp, builds up your ability to function under pressure, and is never boring. Come on, now. You wouldn’t really rather be scrolling through your social media feeds again, just waiting for the clock to run out so you can go home, would you?

Being personally invested in your craft, both emotionally and financially, is a privilege. It doesn’t feel like it when a piece of gear “lets out the magic smoke” and ends up costing you money at a bad time. It doesn’t feel like it when the crowds aren’t there, or the band fails to spark, or you just plain can’t get a show done as well as you would have wanted. It doesn’t feel like it when people don’t get that you’re doing the best with what you’ve got. But it’s a privilege. When it’s all over, you can point at a show and say “I helped build that.” You can pick up your tools and go look for an opportunity to create more magic, magic that YOU control because YOU own the stuff that makes it.

Production is not an easy gig. I think it’s perfectly fine to moan and groan and when the craft is steadfastly refusing to feel like a decent time. I enjoy a good grumble as much as anyone, especially when I’m tired and REALLY FREAKIN’ CRANKY. Not every moment in this business is sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows. (Especially when the politics of it all get involved. Dear heavens, the politics of this industry…) Sometimes you want to quit. Sometimes you wonder why you still do any of it, coming back for show after show after show.

It’s a privilege.