I’ve been putting PA systems up since I was 11 years old; it’s a hobby and a cultural duty now. Back in 1975, carrying old WEM 2×12’s up the stairs of Pelaw Club whilst the band laughed and handed over 50p was big money, it allowed independence, mars bars, pop and crisps.
Darco
From the age of 14 I worked for the legendary Dave Corkin aka “Darco” (RIP) who used to put PA into Newcastle Mayfair Rock Night and nurture every desperate soul whose amplifier broke down between Chester le Street to Red Row (Reed Raa). Dave was a Renaissance Man, who was as knowledgeable about the sculpture of Rodin and Rimbaud (I thought he was talking about Rambo; that’s how culturally clueless I was) as he was about music and building amps. A man who wrote into technical investment magazines and got replies, a man who left a soundcheck with a 1500 audience waiting to get in to go and feed his dog, a man who preferred Battenburg cake to anything else and refused to eat spaghetti Bolognese on the grounds that it was slimy.
He starred as Osborne Road’s angry DJ who insulted his audience sincerely – but they thought he was joking and loved it, and a man who wore his intellect very lightly. Not a man to be underrated or patronised by authority of any sort; he didn’t recognise Mark Knopfler doing a secret gig at The Cooperage and only told me about Brian Johnson returning triumphant from ACDC to sing for Geordie at Heaton Buffs because he liked me.
Ents at university and beyond
Then I did time with the “Ents” lot at University but hated the hierarchy of fools and ignored them after the last gig at the Octagon Centre where I’d told Michael Hutchence off for being rude to a woman. On returning home to Tyneside, I had one minute in the house and then ended up lumping a PA system to a Civil Service ceili/barbecue. It rained, I ate their burgers and chicken and got a tenner pocket money. I’m still there volunteering. Teaching TC how to work a double CD player was my worse mistake. He’s a DJ now as well as the best fiddler in The North.
Backdoors and backstage
Many things have changed in the 40 odd years, but the stairs haven’t and the old broken down decayed sights and smells of back-alleys, backdoors and backstage. We work in the places they don’t want you, the audience to see.
In that time I’ve learned a few things that might be helpful for amateurs who want to put on a fundraiser at the local club, institute or village green. Also, just because you’re a “professional” at one thing doesn’t mean anything onstage. You’re under the lights, you can transmit but not receive and everything is amplified, especially your faults. And we roadies don’t care how you look if you haven’t done the basic courtesies. If someone asks how the gig went later, the answer is “it’s over.” Time for a cup of tea and onto the next one. So, some basics might help:-
1) “Help is a four letter word”. It’s simple; unless there’s a medical emergency or you have been specifically asked, your kind offer of help (which will be appreciated as a token of human decency) will be politely rejected. PA equipment is heavy, jagged, expensive, fragile and goes in and out of the vehicle onto the stage in an order which takes years to establish, but can change in a second at the whim of a musician with a new pedal. Don’t touch it. I once gave my “helpfully insistent” sister a mic stand to hold and, after 15 minutes standing still, she said “you just wanted me out of the way didn’t you?” “Yup” said I.
2) Communication is rapid, and curt. On stage during a gig, it’s loud, dark and you’re being observed. The band will not start talking to each other about what to play next unless they’re amateurs, folkies or major international stars doing a farewell tour and utterly relaxed. For that reason, if you want to do something, or say something or request something be prepared to wait a bit. Better to mention it as early as possible, better before the gig.
3) Preparation is finite. Things will go wrong, timings will slip at weddings, (usually because of photographs), most people do this once or twice in their whole lives; we do it every week. The 9.30pm buffet means the 7.30pm start usually means 8.30. Roadies are excellent at situational flexibility. We’re dealing with musicians, audiences, organisers, drunks, brides, grooms, angry or indulgent in-laws, concert secretaries (Big respects to Eddie from Heaton Buffs), administrators, caretakers, cultural officers and the kind of people who get the job of sorting “events” out. The kind of people who bring games to the office Christmas do are often unsuitable for this. As Paully in “Goodfellas” said “What do I know about the restaurant business; all I know is how to eat.”
4) Some preparation is expected though. Electricity, a floor, a roof, a stage and some chairs are all handy. At a pinch we can do without all of those things except chairs. The weirdest gig ever, on a bandstand in a Sunderland park in the winter of 2010 necessitated clearing the stage of ice and snow, and the band playing to 3 passers-by, a cultural officer, five square miles of windswept tundra and an ice-sculptor who’d made penguins. The attempt to replicate a German Christmas Market atmosphere was queried by the roadie who asked whether Berlin put acoustic musicians in the middle of the icy Tiergarten in December or maybe we should reflect that Gendarmenmarkt offered some protection from the weather. Not even council Cultural Officers like a smartarse, but hey, we don’t want that gig again….
5) Spontaneity is our job. You, by contrast should do a soundcheck if you want to say anything. If the “business leader” wants to make a speech it would be “best practice” to work out if he or she knows how to use a microphone. As with anything that relies upon the clarity and volume of sound the “input” is vital. That means you get close (1/4 of an inch) on the mic and point it at your gob. Microphones are typically unidirectional ie they pick up sound at whatever they’re pointed at. If you wave it about it’ll feedback, if you hold it two feet away from you the audience won’t hear you and if you’re the regional manager from an Irish Bank who asks the roadie to play the theme from “Test Match Special” the day after Ireland beat Pakistan in the World Cup, don’t be surprised if your accountant clients from that country walk out. Now that bank has closed its accounts and left the city. Pity, they used to do a good drunken St. Patrick’s party.
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6) Live mics are trouble. Remember that Gordon Brown bloke. We did a gig for him at the Lindisfarne Club in Wallsend, he was good with bus-passes and all that economic stuff. He forgot a microphone was on in 2010, spoke his mind, got sold out and lost the election. Two businessmen put their radio-mics into their pockets at the Civic Centre and disparaged their colleague’s appearances and abilities; 200 people heard every word. Dinner jackets and white shirts contrast well with a gammon blush. If you are trusted with a radio-mic find the off and mute switches and use them. You don’t even have to say anything bad; a loud fart will end your career. There are terrible and scurrilous tales of radio-mics at the BBC toilets. Remember what the intelligence professionals say, “All wireless is treason.”
7) Audiences are trouble. It’s different now, with Eventbrite and other such innovations, you can predict better but it’s not good unless you actually have a proper ticket if it’s full. Back in the day, you used to sit on the door, take the money, let them in and hand the band the dosh, the “DJ Cash-Money beer fund”. I was on the door for The Toy Dolls at the Manor Park in 1980 and they were surprised by the amount of money collected. It turned out that I was the first one honest enough to actually hand over all the cash, and there was no debit card/show your phone virtual tickets back then. Jimmy Nail paid, everyone paid, mind he did through his money at me. Anyway, even the nicest audience wants to come in early, sit down where they want, move tables, reserve seats, ask questions and behave like fans. After all they’re paying for all of this and occasionally, they get the crazy idea that they’re entitled to something. We can be indulgent; the two old ladies who sat next to me at the mixer in the Tyneside Irish Centre were a delight once I’d asked them to keep their drinks off the desk. The lady, who was a member of the Chinese Ladies Healthy Living Choir, (who sang “Danny Boy” beautifully in Mandarin, had terrified me by plugging in an electric kettle three inches from the drum kit on the stage. I lost all cool as I speechlessly asked her to remove it.
8) Things go wrong but you shouldn’t notice. Sometimes it’s obvious though. The worst sound at a gig I ever heard was Megadeth at Newcastle Academy. Totally inaudible lead guitar and vocals destroyed the band’s famed connection with the audience when nobody could hear anything but drums and bass; but the band could hear themselves fine in their monitors. That’s another thing – Monitors or foldback speakers are the PA system for the band. If someone had invented them in 1963, The Beatles would still be touring. Anyway, things go wrong; don’t panic, they get fixed. People can get thrown out, PA can be sorted, and the show will go on. Most of the time the audience won’t notice. People who run gigs can look a bit ragged or dodgy, they may have clothes mended with gaffer tape, but they are usually the most competent people in the room. Unfazable and sober. We’ve never not finished a gig in 47 years; it’ll get done. Don’t worry and don’t ask questions, we won’t answer you anyway.
9) Can I play my own music? It happens sometimes that a favourite uncle also plays the guitar; we can cope with that. Aunty Ethel singing a song? No bother. Cousin Jimmy has made a CD? That’s a problem…in the distant past when this was a thing; back in the day when CDs could be “burned” by enthusiasts, they’d specify that such and such would be played before the band, then the next one during the buffet, then finally for the dancing…and no-one would dance. Recording volumes, gauging the audience and simple competence are all variable things best left to professionals. Now it’s all on your phone – if there’s a proper lead and no one calls you it might work. It was better with ipods, but then Apple stopped making them. I complain about having to lump a double CD player but I used to carry record decks and a hugely heavy box of records. The good old days eh? At least we’ll always have something to moan about.
10) Experience lies to you. People will say “We’ve been putting gigs on for 20 years and never had any problems at all”. That is until something different happens from the same old same old. Maybe there’s two drum kits, or people want to dance, or join in or jump on the stage or they strike it lucky and they’re full and there’s no room. All of a sudden those terrible things like bouncers, stage doors, ticket lines, health and safety, timetables, contracts, and media become essential. But, by then, it’s too late. Honesty is not something that is much valued by people chasing fame, but for roadies it’s revered. Be honest about your ignorance and someone will teach you or tell you or drop you right in it. Darco did this when he put me age 17 behind a 24 channel mixing desk at The Mayfair with 2000 rock fans in the audience (I forget the band); “Right”, he said after we’d been setting up and soundchecking for 3 hours, “I’ve got to go and do a disco in Jesmond, I’ll be back in 2 hours. If it feeds back do that.” (he indicated dropping the level (what we call volume) and bringing it back quick). I stood rooted and didn’t take my hands off the control until he returned. The sound was perfect. I got home at 4am after getting the bass bins, mids, tweeters, horns, monitors, racks, stands and leads off the stage, into the lightless, creaking lift; then into his van then into his shop (now the garage opposite Morrison’s) then walked home. My mam asked me how that gig was the next day. “Over” I said. I was learning.
11) If you want an ego don’t lump PA. Roadies go on stage a lot, but (unless something goes wrong) not when people are watching. We speak into microphones but we say “One two”. (Warning we have a dickhead detector for people who reply “Three four”), we don’t recite soliloquys, sing in tune or play like an angel for anyone’s amusement but our own. We don’t have an ego that is vulnerable to the general public but we can be easily irritated. The stage is our workplace; so don’t walk on it or put your musical instruments on it unless invited. If we’re on it, we’re doing something important, time sensitive and reasonably complex and we’re not hanging around waiting to discuss the weather, we’re trying to fit 23 channels into a desk for a 5pm soundcheck with a band we’ve never met before, and we’re not getting our tea.
My conclusion is that roadies or people who set gigs up tend towards the competent, irreverent, sober and functionally introverted. They appreciate the basic courtesies but won’t panic if approached by an angry mob. We’ve seen it all from duchesses to dustmen; give them five pints and they’re all the same. Music is the communication of the spirit and the wisdom of the ages can free your consciousness, but not if you can’t hear it at the back. Meanwhile, we can just turn you down. So if you’re a politician, a priest, a piper, policeperson or a poet, make friends with the roadie. It might work, no guarantees like….
