Rock Dreams
Sarah El Ebiary
December 2005
December 2005
"Hey Randy, can I get more of a mix in my wedge?" You look out to him leaning over his board. Adjustments are made, switches toggled, and toggles switched.
"Try again," he says. You nod your head to the side as you strum a few more times. You look down at your electronic tuner and change the tuning to drop D. Did you ever think your life would turn out like this? After countless hours and random garage bands, keeping that dream alive has led you here - to Des Moines, Iowa at the Grand Theater, famous for those ugly, yellow stairs.
"Alright, sounds good," you call out to Randy. He takes off his classic sound engineer earphones and heads for the door. Soon you are alone in the giant auditorium. A couple thousand empty wooden seats stare back at you while you unplug the cable from the guitar. You’re always the last one to leave sound check while the other guys have already taken off. Some of them head to the bus to play video games. The rest of them are with their "girlfriends" or groupies, rather -anything to pass the time.
You take off the guitar, which is now warm, stiff, and heavy like your favorite jean jacket. You walk over to the six foot Marshall stack, stage-right, and lay the guitar gently in its stand beside the amp. It will need to be tuned again prior to the show, but for now you’re caffeine deprivation is getting unbearable. You walk off the stage and head down those annoying yellow stairs. The hallway to the right of the stairs leads to the catering room. On a mission for that coffee, you don’t even acknowledge Nigel patting you on the back as you pass in the hallway. "Probably his way of saying, ‘sorry for being an asshole earlier,’" you mutter to yourself. His key ring continues to jingle as you walk oppositely down the hall.
You finally arrive to the catering room and there’s a long table of deli meats and other sandwich fixings laid out in an organized spread. It’s not a demanding rider, unlike The Monks’, which requests that the promoters order Singha, this crazy imported beer from Thailand. You’re happy you’re not that pretentious. You just want coffee. You reach for the coffee pot. There’s just enough left for half a cup, but you don’t feel like complaining. Perhaps there’ll be more made later? You drink it down and it tastes stale and lukewarm. It should at least hold you over until you get to the bus.
You walk back down the hallway and head for the side exit where the buses are parked. Standing outside, you notice that there’s already a group of female fans lingering around the bus. They start to make their way toward you, but you don’t feel like talking. They act as if they know you, but you know that they just want to get backstage. You slowly bang three times and two short on the glass door, which is the secret code that will signal Nigel to let you inside the bus. While you stand there waiting, you ignore the girls by looking rushed, continually glancing at your watch. It’s 4:59. The door finally swings open and you drag yourself inside.
You feel more exhausted than most days. As you make your way down the bus to take a seat on the bench along side the windows, you think about the three hours you’ll spend between sound check and doors. Some day, those few hours will be filled with interviews, meet and greets, and any spare moments to fit in a drink and a bite to eat. By that time, it wont matter if you’re a few minutes late for sound check because every day will be spent playing music. There aren’t many people out there lucky enough to get paid for doing what they love. Even though the money is not that great, you were never one for an 8 to 5 job. On tour, the hours are long, but routine, and there’s a lot of down time. Nevertheless, with this kind of schedule, it’s vital that you relax for just a few minutes; otherwise the lifestyle will get to you. Fortunately, you’ve managed to stay clean from speed for the past fourteen months. Yet in every city, demons disguised as celebrities and beautiful women continue offering to get you back to normal.
"We miss the old Nate," they’d say to you, but you shrug them off now. You remind yourself that the music’s more important anyway.
A loud knock on the bus window startles you awake. You wonder how long you’ve been asleep. Is it time for doors yet? You lift your arm until your wrist is at eye level. You look at your watch, and it’s only 5:45. There’s still plenty of time before you have to get up. You look out the window expecting to see some one familiar knocking on the glass, but it’s just a bunch of fans. You notice all the short skirts and wonder if they’re wearing anything underneath them.
You remember that crazed fan in Cleveland last year (the restaurant on the ground floor of the club had the best meatloaf sandwich). You think her name was Jenny, or Jaime, or some thing with a J. She would do anything, literally anything, for a backstage pass. She arrived at the venue wearing only a brown fur coat and had a handful of sharpie markers. Her goal was to get every member of the band to autograph her barely legal body; some bragging rights that would have gotten her. It never ceases to amaze you what some of these fans are willing to do to be cool, but at least it’s entertaining. You double-check your back pocket for extra passes, perhaps they’ll be used later tonight?
On the other hand, not all of these girls are looking for a sleazy, good time. In the back of your mind, you have a feeling that the perfect girl will be waiting for you at some random show, perhaps on the west coast. She would share the same love for music that you do, and you both would stay up late debating over the phone which Stooges album is better (you would argue "Fun House," and she would disagree in favor of "Raw Power). Maybe after awhile, she would be willing to move to Maryland. After a long tour, it would be nice to have some one to come home to, other than Sam. You eventually decide that it would be too much work to maintain a girlfriend while touring for months out of the year. How do some guys do it? The road can be lonely, but relationships are trouble. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to leave her waiting for you back home.
"See you later, Nate." Nigel says as he leaves the bus. The crew wants to have a meeting with the band after the show. You wonder how that’s going to go. Last time you all gathered was a few months ago in Denver (the stage was only a foot off of the ground, and it felt so intimate to be that close to the crowd). Larry had called a meeting with the band about getting his salary raised. It was obvious that he was planning to continue taking more money anyway, so it was time for him to go. You’ve heard recently that he was touring with another band now.
You shake your head then gently rest your head against the window. Not too long after, another loud knock startles you awake yet again. This time you wonder how two hours went by so fast as you look down at your beat up leather watch. It’s 7:57. Doors should be opening any minute now. Pretty soon hundreds of dedicated fans will be pouring into the venue, scratching each other’s eyes out for a spot along the front stage fence. That crammed little space is the best seat in the house, in your opinion. It was where you and Sam would always stand when you would go to concerts. It’s right in the middle of all of the action. You’re in full view of the performing band while you battle all of the elbows and arms that poke into you. When you’re down there, some one invading your personal space is an understatement. Throughout the excitement of the show, sweaty bodies become pressed up and stuck together. All of the tension and competition to be the most dedicated fan disappears when that one song starts playing and a family of audience members brand together to sing every word in unison. The feeling is incredible to see that from the stage every night. It’s a reassuring thought that makes this whole lifestyle worth it to you.
The final mic check will need to be done soon. You dread having to venture back outside, but all of the girls who have proved themselves worthy should already be backstage by now. You walk back up those hideous yellow stairs that lead to the stage, and make your way across the floor. On the other side of the curtain, you can feel the anticipation of the audience waiting for it to lift. The mics are set up and waiting for you, while the crowd has no idea who is actually back there saying: "Check…one…one-two…Check one…two." You’re satisfied with how blaring the vocals are in the wedge.
Suddenly in the corner of your eye, you see Nigel approaching with the band following behind him. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Rio Fields. It’s the first time you’ve seen them all day. They even walk like rock stars, with wide steps leading their shiny silver belt buckles. Their "girlfriends" stand off to the side of the stage, and in the brief glance you take to check them out, you immediately figure out the difference between the real girlfriends visiting from home and the ones from the road. In general, the girlfriends from home stand with their arms crossed; enthusiastically inept for the forthcoming set they’ve seen dozens of times. They still mouth all of the lyrics to the songs, but compared to the other girls, well. The girlfriends from the road are waving their arms in the air, like it’s the best moment of their lives. They are singing, nearly screaming, the lyrics as if the microphones could reach their signal from their positions at the side of the stage.
Frankie, the lead singer/rhythm guitarist, approaches you and holds his hand out for the mic. He grabs it out of your hand without even a thank you. Every night, never a thank you. You sigh to yourself and head over to the side of the stage. You assume the position as you do every night and kneel down in front of the girlfriends. Your job includes waiting for some one to break a guitar string.
Soon the house lights fade to a dim, and the curtain slowly lifts open. The noise in the auditorium gets increasingly louder as the crowd welcomes Rio Fields. The band takes their places and eventually starts playing the first song on their set list, "Lady Love." You pull out your flashlight to look down at the itinerary on the back of your pass. Tomorrow night you’ll be in Chicago at the Westside Ballroom. You wonder if that great coffee shop next door to the venue is still in business.
Right before the second chorus of "Lady Love," Frankie breaks a string on the Gibson. It happens every night at about this time, 9pm. As you run out to switch guitars with him, you wonder if there’s any more coffee brewing backstage.
Sarah El Ebiary has been busy preparing for law school in which she hopes to one day become an entertainment/media lawyer, a career that will allow her to stay involved with the music industry without having to carry sound equipment up a flight of stairs.
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