Ya, Sure, You Betcha
There we were in the vast bowels of the Fargo Dome. It’s a pretty fucking big place. Big enough to play college football. In fact, that’s what they did there. That’s not what we were doing there, we were having a big rock show. We had the previous day off, a Saturday. Most rock shows don’t have Saturdays off though sometimes it’s unavoidable. Fargo wasn’t such a bad place to have a day off, especially a Saturday night. It had been about four years since I was here last. Then we were at the Civic Center. I mistakenly thought they were the same gigs. Boy was my lame ass wrong. I was so not right I wasn’t even wrong.
We arrived at the hotel the previous day late morning from our overnight bus ride. I was on the lighting bus with the two other PA techs, a dimmer guy and truss monkey dude and three lighting chicks that for some reason really didn’t dig me. I have no idea why the squint wenches (and I mean that in the nicest possible way) didn’t care for me. Usually it takes me living with someone of the “fairer sex” for a year or two to develop this kind of animosity. Not that I try, it just seems to happen. I drag my ass off the bus late morning and head to my room. It’s a Raddison, the best dive in town. The band is opting to stay in the last city, flying the G4 in day of show, leaving right after the gig. It’s good to be the king. Or so I’m told. It seems the big event that day are a couple of weddings in the hotel that night. I head out for some lunch. I’m starvin’.
I end up at Hardee’s after purusing downtown. Downtown is fucked up. Not in such a bad way, but due to construction on the main drag. Streets are torn up, detours, etc. It’s hard to get around. Hardee’s has just changed their menu, mostly burgers, thank god, patterned after new owner Carl’s Jr. The burgers are kick ass, particularly for a chain. On the way back, I happen on the production manager. He and I had a rough start at the beginning of the tour two months prior. At this point, I’d follow him anywhere. He’s that good. I’m an old guy and he’s even older than I. He rarely does the hang with the crew and I can’t say I blame him. He’s been there, done that, got the shirt. Probably a thousand shirts. We chat for a few minutes and I head back to the hotel while he heads on his walk.
I needed to do some wash. It had been a while since I’d done laundry. Rather than send it out or cab to the joint, I decided to walk. I set out again in Downtown in Fargo in search of the coin laundry. After walking nearly an hour, I figured I was on the wrong track. I sure was. I had gone the wrong way. About four miles. Shit. Damn it. I tried to call a cab. “About a half hour” was what I was told. I asked the guy in the video store directions and he sorted me out. Shit, the place was only about a 10 min walk from the hotel, but another 30 mins or so from where I was. All the while carrying a 10 pound bag of roadie laundry with me. FUCK! I set out for the laundry. In about a half hour, I made the laundry. My feet hurt. Like a motherfucker. That’ll teach me. I did the wash in a shitty run down dive and walked the 10 mins to the hotel. I was set for the next three weeks. That’s how I pack. I’m a show business roadie you know.
Early that evening I decide to head out and get some grub. I normally hang with some of the other folk, but sometimes I do the lone wolf thing. I hit a couple of small pub/restaurant joints in the downtown area. In the olden days it would have been all about the strippers, before that, the gack and strippers. These days, it’s all about having a good meal and a good time, strippers or not. Mostly not. In the second place I run into the two other PA company guys. We have a drink or three and end the night closing the bar in one of the local watering holes. They’re out of Jack. WTF? We head back to the hotel.
Others in the party had other memorable experiences. There are about 75 of us in the entourage total. Less than 40 are with us now. The rest are truck drivers (camping in the trucks at the gig) and the band entourage, flying charter the next day. It’s still enough people to be dangerous. Hell, three people are enough to be dangerous. It appears that the lighting crew found the rather well hidden titty bar on the torn up strip, which was above one of the dives I attended earlier that evening. I used to be able to smell that kind of place. Just as well, I didn’t need the temptation. I’m pretty weak about that sort of thing. If I had a dollar for every dancer I’ve fallen in love with, that would barely offset the hundreds of dollars I’ve given every dancer I’ve fallen in love with. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid. Those that think that’s weak excuse, well you just haven’t been a big time rock guy. OK, you’re right, it is a weak excuse. But it’s fun!!
There were table dances for all that night, including the lighting chicks. SHIT! I would have given my right nut to see that. Though if I had seen that the lighting chicks might have cut my right nut off. Meanwhile back at the ranch, err… I mean the hotel, the cops were called to take the bartender into custody. Seems like between the weddings and the big rock crew staying there, he got drunk out of his mind and did some weird shit. Regardless, the bartender was jobless and in the housgow. Not even sure if that’s how to spell it. My OED doesn’t have it, not my Websters, nor Google though dictionary.com terms it “hoosgow”.
Anyway, back at the gig the next day, I’m hung over like a motherfucker. We’re only doing 12,000 seats today. Small by our standards. We’ve got PA for 20,000 plus with coverage for 360 degree seating. Total of 18 sound points. And more than 40 lighting points. The squint chicks didn’t like me, but they had a studly rig. Good thing we’re only hanging four clusters today. We’ve finished, sound checked and have started the show. Pretty much like every night. Tonight though, there is a large drape situated at about half house. Behind that, the trucks are parked. In a row, just like every night. The rigging truck, with the mobile studio built into the front nearest stage left with two snakes and power running into it. Next is the main PA truck, stacks and FOH, distros, etc. Next is backline and mons, after that lighting one and two. On the end, the underwear wagon, which is the real money maker on this gig. It’s a 53 footer they need to restock every three or four gigs by the Goddess of Swag, one of the most awesome women I’ve ever met.
I was tired from being so hung over. About two thirds of the way through the show I decided to lay down for a bit on some cases behind the curtain. I was laying across two “C trunks”, rather large cable trunks next to our workboxes. The backstage area was massive, larger than the seated area. I wondered why they didn’t sell more seats for the sold out show. I bet the promoter did too. There was a rustling on my left side. I figured “Concorde”, the PA tech named after the servant to King Arthur in Monty Python’s Holy Grail, was digging into one of the workboxes.
“What are you after, boy?”, I barked.
No response. Probably some cases just moving.
About a minute later more movement. “Concorde, what the fuck!” I demanded. I stood up to my left and was surprised by what I saw.
Next my workbox a young woman was crouching, hidden from sight. She was using the door of the workbox as a shield. She looked up at me and smiled. I still didn’t know what to think. This had all the makings of one of those “Dear Penthouse” kind of stories. Trust me, I’ve been there. The shit they say happens on tour buses that some deny, got some news, it really happens. Not as much as in the olden days, not for the old roadies, anyway, but that kind of thing did and still does happen. Though these days I’m rarely around to see it, much less participate.
She was about the level of my mid section. She smiled and offered “what can I do to rectify this situation?”. I was shocked, not that there was a woman sneaking backstage, but a woman with a college education that could verbalize more than “like wow, for sure”. I offered the appropriate response. “Huh?”. At that point I wasn’t exactly as articulate as she was.
Her name was “Doesn’t Matter”, which I thought odd. I know this because that was the next question from my mouth, “what’s your name?”. What kind of parents would name a kid that?
“Really” she continued, still kneeling behing my workbox. “What can I do to solve this problem”. I didn’t so much think this was a problem, but it really was. She started rubbing the inside of my right thigh. Oh shit…
She stood up, bringing her hand firmly on my crotch. I was starting to panic. Not because of her aggressive nature, I love that in a partner. I’ve been known to get a little freak on myself, but because I really didn’t want to get fired. And I might have. We had a touring security staff of three, last thing I needed was for one of them to see me with her, or for the tour or production manager to see me. I’ve known the tour manager for more than a decade and while I’m sure he’s been a “rock guy” in his day, this wasn’t the gig for it. Normally, I’m working for the band, this time I was working for the PA company and I didn’t want it to reflect badly on them. At this point I was harder than Chinese alegbra.
I started to look around under the pretense of looking for security to escort this young woman back to the audience. In reality, I was looking for a place to do the deed. She was willing, offered and being a “gentleman” who was I to refuse? The trucks weren’t any good, we’d get caught. It was nearly to the first encore and the break area was being setup behind the trucks. Last thing I needed was for her to bolt from the truck and latch onto a band member. Pro roadies think about this kind of thing. The only viable option was the rigging/recording truck and the head sound guy was in there, that wouldn’t work. (though later he told me it would have been OK, I love him) For about 30 seconds I was considering this, though I was under duress. She was cupping my package. She knew damn well what she was doing. I sat down on the C trunk and she sat on my lap. Shit. Any other gig than this. In the olden days this was considered a normal thing. On this gig it was a ticket home. Before some start in on the degradation of women, this woman, like several others I’ve met were willing particpants, instigators infact. Got a newsflash PC types, women get horny too. No really, I’ve seen it firsthand. In this case I was the one being manipulated and I was doing my damnest to help her out. Chivalry is not dead!
So there I was, on a case in the Fargo Dome during a big rock show with a young woman on my lap doing her best to convince me to let her stay. After she petted me a few more times, talked dirty to me and offered me one of the wildest times I could imagine (I’ve been a professional show business roadie for 23 years, I’ve had some wild times so I know of what I speak) I became even more flustered. I don’t know if it was my so called “professionalism” in my middle age, or the fact that she was only a couple of years older than my daughter. I knew that it probalby wasn’t a good idea, though part of me wanted it to be.
I stood up and and said “let’s go”.
“Where?” she asked smiling thinking her charms had finally worked. In fact they had, but not how she figured. I was going to let her stay for the show, instead of kicking her out, which was the normal procedure for unauthorized access backstage.
“You need to go back to your seat. I’ll have someone take you there. Enjoy the rest of the show. Normally you’d get kicked out but this way you’ll be able to stay for the end of the show”.
“FUCK THAT!” she screamed. “I’ve come to far not to do this.” At that point she bolted toward the upstage left loading ramp, breaking my grasp.
It’s SOP for us to detach all ramps to the stage during the show and secure the landings. It’s so madmen and women like her don’t storm the stage. She jumped on the landing, though no ramps were in place. My career flashed before my eyes. Great, this is just what I needed. My first tour back from retirement and some stalker chick that befriended me gets on stage. I sucessfully stop her and lift her to the floor. She’s fighting like a banshee. For a split second I imagine what she must be like in bed, until she clocks me in the face and heads around the drape toward stage. She’s determined, I’ll give her that.
As she rounds the corner past the drape, the yellow shirted security staff just look at her. I’m about a meter behind her. I’m gettin’ too old for this shit, particularly not getting blown when I had the chance. The stage left platform is usually a couple feet lower than the stage. Pretty standard for arena tours. She bounds up on stage left wing while the yellow shirt just looks. She starts to crawl between two of the singers Ultra stands, full of vintage axes to head onto the stage. She’s going over the top. At that point I’m within reaching distance. I grab her by the back of her pants and come up with a handful of thong, painfully binding between my middle finger and ring finger. She must have felt much worse as I pulled out nearly six inches of panty. They were black with red trim, for those keeping score with one hand. She was basically suspended from her thong in my right hand when the star’s tech gave her a body check that knocked her about five feet off the stage. Not satisified with that, he then checked me in the same manner. When I get this chick tossed from the gig, I was going to open a can of whoop ass on the tech. It turns out, he didn’t know it was me and in the heat of the moment he slammed both of us thinking two were trying to rush the stage. He apologised afterwards. Meanwhile, I had a handful of pissed off chick by the thong and no help. We both landed pretty hard on the concrete. I looked up to see two of the touring security staff above me. What seemed like an hour, really took about 10 seconds or less. Our boys and the yellow shirts escorted her to the door. She should have listened to me. I would have let her see the show from side stage, no sexual favors required, if she’d not been so psycho about it.
I felt it necessary to tell the tour manager and security head about what happened. They laughed. I don’t know if they thought I was lame or what, but they found the story funny. I know what some of you are thinking. This is nothing more than a glorified porn story, some roadie fantasy. It’s the truth, gang. Plenty more shit other than this happens on tour. I’ll try to share some of that in other posts.
‘Til next time…
Dave