A Barking Dog

Exploring the depths of the Moscow Metro and gettin’ all touristy had tuckered me out. We had plans for dinner at the restuarant across the street from the hotel at 6 pm that evening. Other band had a 7 pm call, we had a 9 pm call. With a budget of 1500 rubles for dinner, we would be able to eat well prior to the gig. This was instead of our normal catered fare. The rules had come down for the wedding. No going into the audience, keep a low profile until you hit the stage. Hence feeding us prior to getting to the gig. It would be good to get a slice of Russian life before we gigged. We met in the lobby where a couple of the musos talked Jose and other end of snake dude out of eating there. Said it looked crowded and smokey. I wasn’t up for more room service or restaurant fare so backliner and I headed for the restaurant. Guess it wasn’t too smokey because the guys that talked the other guys out of free grub made it over just after we did. So much for listening to suggestions. We dined on some small steak cuts, some local entrees that we didn’t recognized except for the potatoes and Pepsi. We had to order from the pics on the menu and as we tipped and were leaving, we were flagged down saying we had left money on the table. Outside of the swanky westerns style hotels, it was a non tipping culture. Kind of like Alabama.

Just prior to our 9 pm call I headed down to the lobby. To my surprise the band was waiting as well. They had decided to leave a half hour early so they could get settled in at the gig. Unlike the rehearsal day, we had hospitality. We were some snappy looking motherfuckers. Except for backliner of mishandled luggage fame who had been washing the same pair of skivies and socks for a few days now. He looked fine, but it was hardly the sort of dress that talent producer guy. And speaking talent producer guy, he looked absolutely knackered. Well dressed, but knackered. Everyone except the crew seemed to be sporting event passes and I wrote it off as a pose-a-thon. Backliner and Tatiana, one of our delightful translators, were chatting when the subject of passports and ID came up. We mentioned we normally didn’t carry passports and many times in the states didn’t even carry ID. She looked stunned. “You must always have your passport” she responded curtly. The backliner said he didn’t carry his the whole time we were here except to get into the gig. She looked shocked and explained to him that he was likely to be stopped at anytime and asked for his papers. She was stunned that we would trek about town with no papers. I can’t help but wonder how long it will be until we are compelled to produce papers when stopped in the US with no probable cause. We boarded the mini bus and headed for the venue.

(more…)

I was able to sleep a bit longer than the night before. I joined the others down in the dining room at the appointed time and tried to draft a tour of Red Square and the Kremlin. This was the rest of the party’s second or third time and I couldn’t convince anybody to go with me. Backliner did however want to hit out and get some Russky vodka to take back to the states with him. We decided to do that and got some recommendations on a nearby market where we could not only get vodka but other provisions so for the final days or our jaunt we didn’t have to pay mini bar prices for our water and snacks. Normally we would pillage those from the dressing room after the gig, or if it was really good just stash it in the room before the band gets there. Most of the time they don’t use it anyway.

Trudging a few blocks through the 25 degree late winter/ early spring chill we happened what could be considered the CompUSA/Apple store of Moscow. They had at least six locations in town. It looked like a computer store anywhere else in the world. There was even a small Mac dept that while didn’t have the latest Macs and iPods, still had a pretty good selection. It’s been about 10 years since the Russian economy tanked but over the last few years there has been some pretty good growth and in many places it shows. Though not every place. There are still some that aren’t enjoying the quality of life others have. It’s pretty apparent after you get out of the swanky area of Moscow and head toward the airport. Sure, there’s an IKEA and plenty of relatively new Russian shopping malls with multiplex movie houses. I couldn’t really get a definitive answer on how much the locals were making, primarily because I didn’t want to be so rude as to ask. I was afraid that my per diem for the day would be more than they made the entire week. I did ask talent buyer dude and he indicated it was only a few hundred to five or six hundred a month. I couldn’t believe that so I did some checking and indeed those numbers were supported by other studies and reports but it still doesn’t make any sense, numbers wise. That might be what they are reporting, but they have to be making more than that. Another interesting stat I got (which I checked on) more billionaries live in Moscow than any other single city in the world. Well, yeah. We’re working for one. It was explained to us that as foreigners, in that part of town we were basically being charged tourist prices. No shit. We left the computer store and hit the market. It took us about 15 mins to pick what we were going to bring back and stocked up on some other things as well. We then trudged back to the hotel. I was going to go to Red Square and Kremlin but backliner didn’t so I bid him farewell, put my stuff in my room and headed out on the town.

When I’m on tour I take public transport quite a bit. In other parts of the world and even in a few in the US, public transport doesn’t have the stigma attached to it that it does in suburban America. I could have walked, or taken a cab but I like to get out among the people. Check things out. It’s bad enough much of the time we only see airports, tour buses, hotels and venues so I like to get out and see what things are like where ever I might be that day. I headed to the Metro station a couple blocks away and headed down underground. I went to the map and looked where I needed to go. Everything on the map was in Cyrillic and English. That was handy. I went off to get a ticket. There were no automated machines, only a row women sitting at ticket windows that looked like they’d had the gigs for years. I get to the ticket window, no English signage. I look around. While the maps had English, none of the signage anywhere in the station did. I moved up to an open window anyway. “Hello, All day, please” I said, hoping they would speak English. I used to say “do you speak English?” but since most people we are dealing with did, I’ve stopped. I occasionally got some eye rolls or a “of course” and once in the Canaries some wound up ex-pat Brit bartender that replied “better than you do, laddie.” I figured before I got a “I speak four languages, asshole. How many do you speak?” I should just say hello, and take if from there. For the record, I did take a year of French, but I couldn’t concentrate because of Madame Catani’s skirts back in seventh grade. I can stumble through enough German and Spanish to get by and when I’m in Britain I also speak that langage.

“Da?” the woman asks. “Yes, one day.” I reply. She looks quizically at me. Another woman, apparently a supervisor speaks broken English, explains to the agent what I want, clips me for 15 roubles (about half a buck), prints the ticket and I’m on my way. I enter the gate and head down the escalator to the platforms. This is no normal escalator. It’s as steep as the ones in the Tube in London and at least two or three time faster. It’s quite the ride and I’d reckon it’s almost as old as me, or certainly older than my last couple of dates. The real people of Moscow are down here. The front line workers. The people we don’t see, spending a Saturday afternoon shopping, being with family or otherwise running errands. At the end of the world’s fastest escalator (Guiness book you know…) I reach the platform and realize one thing. I have not a clue which train to board. It was dimly lit, dirty, loud and crowded and smelled like buring rubber, dirt and putrid sweat. I was in a transfer station which meant I had four lines (8 different trains) to chose from. Where I was going was on the blue line and I was on the blue line platform. That was easy. Now, which direction to take. Normally easy, but here not. I do have the Metro map from the hotel with the English translations. It’s cool to discretely look at a map, and in some places be pretty touristy but down in the subway you want to watch what you do. Don’t want to appear lost or otherwise become a target. There are no larger maps or info kiosks. The light is so dim and the print so small I can’t read my map. That and my eyes aren’t as good as they were years ago. Even being touristy I can’t read it. There is a dim lamp right about the bench that if I stand on the bench and put the map next to the light, I can read it. So much for low key. It’s obvious I’m a westerner, perhaps German, English or American. I’m getting a few strange looks but in a minute or so figure out which train to board and not only that, memorized the next two stop names prior to mine so that as I was heading that way, if I didn’t recognize the names I could get off and head back. The train stopped, I boarded and off we went. This train car was old and hammered. It had seen better days. There were a few different cars that passed as I was figuring out where to go. Some looked new and modern. This wasn’t one of them. We stopped. I exited the train car.

I was pretty far underground now, hundred perhaps closer to two hundred feet. As I exited the platform the only exit I saw was leading down. That didn’t seem right but it was the only exit so I followed it. As I went down through the twisting maze of a tunnel, I noticed a large, thick door, like a bank vault. It hadn’t been moved in years. This was a Cold War fallout shelter. And they were having a “pardon our dust” sale in the station. Construction everywhere in the station and adjoining tunnels. And dangerous as hell too. Hardly any warning signs, you could walk right into a hole or jackhammer. It was Saturday and they were working. Eventually I found one of the world’s fastest escalators and started be hurled toward the surface. If you went up this fast diving you’d get the bends. I found my way out of the station, the main station enterance and floor a disater from the construction and made it out to street level. I got a quick bearing and headed for Red Sqaure.

I’m not going to describe it too much other than there were a lot of people enjoying the day, plenty to see. I shot 20 or 30 mins of tape. The usual stuff. Several wedding parties and couples there getting photographed. Must be some sort of tradition. I hung out and explored the square and surrounding area for a couple of hours. The sense of history was astounding. The GUM Department Store, formerly the state run store now basically a mall. Lenin’s Masoleum and St. Basil’s Catherdral. Spasskaya Tower. The May Day parades of military might, once right here. “We will crush you”, next door. Now, tourists taking pictures, enjoying a Coke and Lay’s chips and newlyweds starting their new lives together with the square flanked buy what was once . A lot changes in 30 or 40 years. After a couple of hours I decided to head back. I made it to the Metro station and set to board a train back. When I swiped my card, a buzzer went off and the normally open gates of the turnstyle slammed shut. I didn’t have an all day. I went to the window, slid 15 roubles through the slot and without a word she produced a ticket and sent me on my way. She did a double take as I took the ticket and said “thank you very much.” I decided to ride the train one stop past where I got on and walk back to the hotel. Past the block long Tag Heuer billboard with Brad Pitt, Uma Therman and a few others I didn’t know, but I think one was Anna Kournikova. As the train pulled into the station, I was pleasantly surprised. It was a brand new, modern station. Complete with fast but not dangerous escalators, good lighting and ventalation and no smell.

One of the great things about touring overseas is that much of the time, well most of the time, breakfast is included with the room. Not some lame ass Days Inn continental or Holiday Inn barebones buffet, but a real honest to god roadie hot breakfast. Just like catering. I had a good sleep, though I was still on Vegas time. It was 8 am local time, 7 pm the previous night before Vegas time. I felt good, for now. Only slept about 6 of about the 12 hours on the plane. Then the hassle of customs, the other bands, the production meeting. We’d made plans to meet at 10 am but I knew I wasn’t going to make it that long. I headed down to breakfast without the others. Good thing it was included because the menu rate was US$42.00. Ouch. Them there is Tokyo prices. But it was good (the waffles and omlettes rocked) and the Red Menace was covering my tab. At least for breakfast and room, but not for the six dollar Dutch Bud I didn’t drink the night before. Our band dudes were down in the dining room. Cover band didn’t know that breakfast was included. I grabbed some grub, and went back up to hammer away on the expensive WiFi. A couple hours later, to be social I returned to the dining room and sat with our backliner, DJ Ghetto Einstien, Jose our tour manager and dude at other end of snake. DJ and other end dude were to go at 2 pm because they were doing double duty, aka double dipping by working for guitar player that sits. Jose and I would join them a 7 pm for our setup and check. The breakfast offically ended at 11 am but they started striking it at about quarter til and by 20 past 11 they wanted to throw our asses out. In fact, they did. We were drinking coffee, long since finished with breakfast and they suggested that we could sit in the lobby and they would bring us coffee. In other words, get the hell out of the dining room so we can do the lunch change over.

I was willing to hit out, but the other dudes had to be at work or didn’t want to venture out. Wussies… I decided I would troll Tverskaya, basically Rodeo Drive of where we were. Think Rodeo as in Beverly Hills, swimmin’ pools, movie stars. Not rodeo like Brokeback Mountain. Just after check in last night, I signed up for WiFi at a whopping US$39.00, not quite the record of 30 euros we paid for each of three days last summer in Austria, but enough so that I knew that with our work schedule, I wouldn’t need or want to spend anymore. But she gave me four extra hours. I went back up to my room and got dressed for the 26 degree F temp and hit out on the main drag. I went to a great Nokia store and poked around for a while, a department store, a couple of parks and a Mickey D’s (aka Thee Embassy) where I didn’t know what the hell to order. It was all in Cyrillic and even in Japan and Hong Kong it’s also in english. Not here. They did understand “Big Mac” and with the help of the young assistant manager, I was able to get a super sized Big Mac meal with a Coke. I’ve been in McDonalds all over the planet and haven’t had this much trouble. Even in Leipzig (former east, 1998) when the burger they served me made me sick as the dog they killed to make it. My overpriced, english speaking room service staff didn’t seem so bad. I’ve been in a lot of places where it was expensive, like Tokyo, but at least there was a picture menu, roman characters or an english speaking wait staff to take my order. I paid a bit less for my Moscow Big Mac Set than I did at O’Hare a week before coming back from our Chicago gig. And I don’t know that the staff at O Hare understood english any better than the Moscow staff did. But at least I had a familiar character set to point at. Just like Japan.

After a couple of hours, I made it back to the hotel. I’d wanted to do Red Square but was tired. Jet lag was catching up. It was 3 pm local time, 2 am Vegas time. I went to my room, flipped on the TV, tuned it to BBC World (which was interesting because they had about 15 channels of english langage TV, mostly US) and awoke just prior to my needing to be at the 7 pm lobby call from my RAZR alarm clock. I didn’t have dinner but they told us there would be some sort of catering, though dressing rooms would not be available and there would be no hospitality. Welcome to Moscow! We’d left instructions with our guys and other band that if the shit hit the fan, call and we’d boogie down and help. Didn’t hear from them or the promoter and we were jet lagged, so we didn’t worry about it. Jose and I met in the lobby and boarded the mini bus for the gig. When we arrived, they were almost two hours late. “Why didn’t you call us?” we asked our guys. The reply, “it was so screwed we didn’t think you could help and we knew you would be here by 7 pm anyway”. The transportation coordinators and schedulers weren’t going to delay the band departure sched, even though we knew they weren’t going to be ready for a couple of hours. We’d rather have the band cooling heals elsewhere than with us. And they’d rather not be at the gig if we weren’t ready. We were able to contact jazz singer to tell him we weren’t ready and he wasn’t gonna come until we were. Take that beotch.

The gig was a clusterfuck. The main floor was dangerous as all hell. Installing the lighted dance floor, huge holes worthy of breaking a leg, fixing the stairs to the mezzinine could result in broken ankles and dodging the personel lifts made it a Workman’s Comp Uber Claim. When we got there looking out at a disaster area someone in the party remarked “they must not have personal injury lawyers here.” Rehearsal was running about two hours behind and other band was just getting set. They quickly ushered us through the disaster zone that was the venue towards the inhouse restaurant that served as catering. We went through the lobby, which at this point was made up on one side with a half dozen pics of the groom from infant to current, set dressed in blue with the other side being the bride from infant to current, set dressed in pink. They’d done the lobby up nicely but we were headed toward to cafe. We boarded an elevator that was almost as old as I was to go a floor up to the cafe. Looking at the controls, I had to wonder if we were going to survive this elevator ride. We did make it to the cafe level. The grub wasn’t bad. Chicken wings, salmon, hamburgers, salad bar, frites, assorted veggies and breads. We also had cola or Fanta. I like Fanta. We were informed that they had made up almost 45 mins and they were almost ready for the crew. There is a god…

At 11 pm which was two hours after we were supposed to start the check and three hours after we were supposed to start setting, we got the stage. The room was coming along nicely. They had most of the decorations done. It was still dangerous as fuck though. The stairs from the mezzine level had been removed. The front of the stage had been modified for two Chapmans and two camera tracks. One wrong step and it’s Russkie hell in some hospital. The one thing though, that stood out was the buzz. It was hellacious. We noticed it when we came in at first but were quickly sheparded to the food. Measured in the middle of the room, about 20 meters it was 101 dBA spl. In other words, loud as shit. It’s the loudest buzz I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard and been responsible for some loud ass buzzes over the last quarter century. For the other band checking, much of the time it’s louder than the program. They did get the DVDosc in the config we discussed, but it was one buzzing motherfucker. And they couldn’t fix it. The mons were buzzing too, though not that loud. With a bit of troubleshooting, we found the Spirit 8 to be a culprit and that dropped it to about 95 dBA spl @ 20 meters. Enough to do a check but not enough to do a gig. The band kept asking about the buzz. Prior to that, they couldn’t make the side fills happen. They were way down in level. Almost one legged. Additionally, there was an issue with my cue. The cue issue turned out to be a broken LED on the talkback switch that attenuated the cue 10dB. On an SM20 the TB dims the cue function. They didn’t know that, even though we had four onsite. Stage boy Pav came over, couldn’t understand what was happening and got an ass chewing. Except for Yuri, the crew didn’t realize the importance of being able to listen post eq on the mixes. Pav asked what he could do, my two fill mixes weren’t working and two of my eight wedge mixes weren’t working. Great, 40 percent of my shit doesn’t work. Within five mins or so, Yuri and Pav fixed it, though Pav was starting to give me attitude. Don’t make me school your former commie ass, ’cause you won’t like it. Actually Pav was lucky to be 10 when the empire collapsed, but I didn’t need the ‘tude. We are 34 inputs and 10 mixes. It ain’t that hard, comrade. On my side of the stage there was still no getaway, or stairs. Producer dude wanted us to wear suits. Got no problem wth that, I dig suits, cause I look good.. For the last two days I’d been crawling up the scaff on cases to get to the stage. That’s fine if I’m in Levis or Dickies in tee shirts but if I ‘m wearing a thousand dollar Hugo Boss suit, fuck y’all, give me some stairs. I love suits, I have a couple of Cardans, a couple of Bosses and an Armani, though the Armani is made for tweaky little Euro bastards and never quite fit, the the contour was excellent. I’m in a thousand dollar suit, hundred dollar shirt (no tie, please) and two hundred dollar shoes. No fuckin’ way I was going to scale the stage like some steel monkey. Boy would I be surprised the next night.

We schlepped through that check, with the musos asking what the hell that buzz was. We didn’t know and Russkie sound dudes didn’t know. At this point for a 9 pm check we were at almost 1 am. With the transport situation fubar, jazz singer had a town car dedicated to him and band and crew had to wait for mini bus availability. The venue was nearing completion but the production logistics were shitting the bed. We finally cleared the venue prior to 2 am, hoping to make a last call for Guiness at the hotel bar. Jose sent me with the band in hopes that I could hit the bar, order beers for me and my mates and have them arrive shortly thereafter. As luck has it, at twenty til two the bar was shut. but they were supposed to be open until 2 am. Well, yeah, but they weren’t. Whatever. I retired to 314, my humble abode for the week. About 10 mins later Jose called, they were able to get a bus right after me. “I guess we’re screwed for a Guiness” he said. “Yeah, we don’t have very good roadie karma” I replied. I retired without even cracking the mini bar. I was tired and even though we didn’t have a call until 9 pm the next night, I wanted to get some sight seeing. I thought the next night might be fraught with peril, though our Russian pals weren’t going to ask for help, might as well grab a kip and at least get up early enough to grab some of that good breakfast grub.

I should have listened to Walter and not Donny. As it turns out, Lennon isn’t buried in Lenin’s tomb, but Lenin is. That’s all right, I can’t tell the difference between Terry Jones and Trotsky anyway. We all turned up for our trip to the production meeting at the Russia Theater, formerly State Central Theater . We were told to bring our passports in order to clear security but the hotel hadn’t finished processing them. Our landing cards are again stamped with the hotels stamp and likely they checked to make sure we are where we are supposed to be. We shuttled off to the theater anyway as the setup had been well underway for a few days. I was going to make another ABD tour short but on arrival we were told there would be no photography allowed and anyone taking photos would have the gear confiscated. We were escorted through two security points, showing ID then having our persons and belongings searched at the second. The security was pretty serious looking. Like old school KGB guys that had seen some serious shit. It wouldn’t have surprised me to find out that they’d killed a guy or two.

Once inside we made it into the theater. It was obvious the crew had been living there for a couple of days, working through the day and night and sleeping when they could. The room was like a 60s sort of community center. The theater was in a complex that during the peak of the Cold War was (and still is) the largest hotel in the Soviet Union (and Europe) and according to one of our translators, “is largest hotel in world. Guiness Book you see.” I nodded politely knowing that many of the resorts in Vegas are much larger and he’d never been out of Russia much less to Vegas to see them. Unfortunatly at 2700 or so rooms it doesn’t even make the top 10 of largest hotels in the world. It’s largely vacant, run down and slated for demolition. Closed at the first of the year, though some people remain, they are going to preserve and renovate the theater and replace the hotel with a shopping, office and hotel complex. According to the translator the theater and hotel were used for government functions for nearly the last 40 years. The complex was commissioned by Khrushchev and housed many visiting dignitaries, including US diplomats and presidents. There was a ton of history in that building and one of the things that still excites me about touring. Things like that, crossing Checkpoint Charlie into Berlin before the wall came down and going into the former eastern bloc just as the Soviet empire was collapsing or visting Temple Mount and the Old City before it was too dangerous or visiting the West Bank and Bethlehem before it was blown to bits is something that for most people are once in a life time things. If they even get to do it at all. Gigging in the State Central Theater, a small delay stack away from the Kremlin and Red Square was one of those things.

There was a massive room transformation in place. There were 80 to 100 working onsite and it was just after 11 pm. They would work into the night, sleeping when they could just to get it all up. The guest list included 650 very high profile people, mostly from Russia and Europe. The groom was there, hands on directing various aspects and approving changes and fighting last minute fires. We were introduced to him. Nice chap, impecable english (and russian, german and french) and a very generous host. I liked the guy right off the bat. We then met the audio head, Roman and the various other department heads, all of whom spoke pretty good english. The stage had been extended by portable wings about 5 meters high on each side of the stage. Like really big, tall wings. Stage right was to house the “jazz band” which was really a 30 or so piece orchestra. The stage left wing would have the cover band with the main stage reserved for the three touring acts and several russian acts playing in the set change. There were hosts and hostesses and it was starting to look more like an awards show than any wedding I’d seen, but they still had a lot of work to do.

The stage wasn’t powered yet and the crew was busy getting the mon rig and FOH set. Roman introduced us to Yuri, head mons and Pav, stage guy. Roman has explained they had elected to use the house system, a 32 box EAW KF/SB 850 system. The placement was a bit suspect, there was no control available, only a bank of DN3600s out front, that happened to be behind a sheet metal facade out of direct sound from the PA. We’d made it up to the improvised second level, sort of a mezzinne between the main floor and the unused balcony built from scaff and grandstand material. Most of the balcony was obstructed by a temporary facade around the room. The art design and set were nice, though not taking into account the needs of the audio dept. As we toured FOH it looked more like Cash Landy’s basement than a traditional gig. There was an H3k for guitar player that sits, a PM4k for jazz singer, an XL3 that handled the master routing and production audio duties, MCs, playback, AV, etc. An SM20 for the house orchestra/ jazz band. A PM5D with ear mons at FOH for the high priced cover band that also handled a couple of local acts at the top of the show and a brand new M7CL for other local and regional bands. To round it out, there was a Spirit 8 that took matrix outs of all the desks into a Mackie DAW rig for recording. Why they didn’t use the XL3 for that, I’ll never know nor did I want to. FOH was a Siberian clusterfuck, we ran away faster than King Arthur getting a cow catapulted at him. Right into another hell.

Back down at mon beach we found guitar player that sits mon guy (who works for a big time tour company in the states, I’ll call him other mon) getting a bit excited about the config on stage left. On that side there is a 72 ch H2k that he says we’ll split, but he needs the H3k because he’s ears and wedges. He needs 18 outputs, it has 12. I’m OK with it. I tell prod guy what’s up. They don’t want us to split a desk though in the stretched config that looked like the big frame with a 16 ch extender and 3 psus could be possible. It’s next to a 40 ch SM20. We got Yuri over and started to sort it. Other mon wanted the H3k from out front as that is what he had advanced. My pal at the other end of the snake is mixing both bands so it doesn’t matter to him. It’s sure going to be a bitch getting those swapped out around that facade out front. I get the SM20. Oh boy… But it works, it’s acceptable for the gig. We’ll share a bank of DN3600s though the overall config is a little wacky. It goes out of the now H3k well, it will be an H3k as soon as 12 pissed off, tired Russian guys move it, by hand, upstairs, around an immovable metal facade just prior to 1 am after working for the last few days non stop. From the H3k into the mix sub ins on my desk, then across stage looped through another pair of SM20s into the final SM20 that drives the amp racks, Amcron 24×6 with Omnidrive 318 and L’coustics wedges. There is a pair of VDosc subs and a pair of Arcs a side for fills. Looks like me and other mon are sorted, Yuri is cool and on the ball and I don’t know about Pav yet.

We sit mid stage and watch as my pal at other end of snake, now with the groom, the US producer guy, a couple of big guys in suits (probably KGB) and Roman stand in the middle of the room, arms gesturing, nearly flailing as if they were syncronized swimmers, (that weren’t syncronized). Or perhaps they were mearly discussing how shitty the coverage in the room would be. Meanwhile on stage we were joined by a couple of house types, riggers I think. Either that or some wacky Russian B&D enthusists that liked harnesses, fall protection equipment, carabiners and expensive rope. We quizzed them on what kind of vodka to take back to the US with us. One drank Absolut, the other Stoli. You gotta be shittin me. We come half way around the world and these dudes are drinking stuff we can get locally? We pump them for information on what to take back that is specific to Russia and get some great leads on small batch blends. We are then joined by the swimming party where we pump the groom for information about vodka. The discussion turns into a debate between the house guys and the groom, part in russian part in english. There seems to be some disagreement as if one of the small batches is vodka or paint thinner. With the important stuff out of the way, as all heads turn toward me other dude says, “Soooo, why don’t you come out on the floor and give us your input on something”.

We head for the middle of the room, other dude bringing me up to date with the groom listening. Turns out, groom is a muso, pretty respected but more of a tycoon now and bride is a huge Russian pop star. Production is a big thing for him and he wants to be hands on. There are 8 KF 850s a side hanging, though there was no way there was any coherency between the top and bottom rows, 4 ground stacked and 4 SB 850s. The ground stacks are pre loaded on angle iron stacking skids that are blocked in place by the stage and wing extensions. Other dude and I walk the room, wave our arms some more in sort of a dance interpretation of EASE and come to the same conclusion he did about a half hour ago. That this sucked. The PA in the air is pointed at nothing but hard reflective surfaces, what is able to be used on the ground is pointed so most of coverage is missed with the rest being pointed basically nowhere. Nothing would be powered up until morning so we couldn’t hear it yet. We suggested retriming the hang by dropping it 5 meters, and restacking the bottom to more effectively cover the area. Roman and his guys seemed pretty saavy, but the coverage was really questionable. They’d already done a difficult console move, now the Americans want to rehang and restack the PA. They had to call upstairs. We were told that under no circumstances would the hang move or the ground stacks be altered. The house PA was set for the normal room config and no one was able or willing to change it, regardless of if it worked for this event or not. And it was obvious it wasn’t going to work for this gig.

We quizzed Roman on what else was available. At nearly 2 am on what is now a Friday morning for a 10 am rehearsal start. My pal at the other end of the snake remarked that his last time in the room, there was a VDosc rig. Coincidently, that was the same company. Around us Roman was agreeable, understood the situation. When he was around the clients or higher ups, he was much more guarded and we basically had to take the lead. The groom and one of the suits had left for a moment to review the room makeover, one suit remained checking out the action. I asked Roman who the guys in the suits were. The guy that hung with the groom was Sergey. “Russian elite, like Rambo. Can break horse in two”. I didn’t know what visual was more disturbing, Rambo or a Russian special forces guy breaking a horse in two. The other guy was the guy that watched the groom when he was in that room, or more precisely, he watched everyone else while the groom was in the room. We were in a locked down theater that appeared to be fairly well armed. We spent the next several minutes discussing where we could even put more PA. We decided that just offstage, under the stage extension was really the only place. The choices were 3 Arcs a side on a pair of VDosc subs or a pair of VDosc subs under a pair of VDosc using the KFs for augment. We didn’t think we could get the Arcs high enough on the VDosc subs and due to the construction of the extensions, we couldn’t knock out diagonals or transomes or build a sub floor. Same with the VDosc but we also couldn’t get enough VDosc modules to really form an array without using the KF to augment. That was going to be ugly. Prison sex ugly.

We grilled Roman some more. He did have a dozen DVDosc at the shop, with a couple pair of subs but would have to scramble to get the amps. It also meant that the sidefills would have to be JBL Concert series. We broke out the tape measures and determined that we had just enought room to do 2 VDosc subs; under 2 DV subs, side by each with 6 DVs inverted on the onstage DV sub in ground stack mode. Roman made a few calls, got it all sorted and we were ready to head out. Not quite 3 am. We were again searched on the way out, getting into our mini bus and heading back to the hotel. We wanted a nightcap but had to settle for a ten buck Russky Standard shot and six buck Heinken from the mini bar. I switched on BBC World, downed the tasty shot and opened the Dutch Budweiser. When I woke later than morning there was a full, opened beer and some Brit chick talking finance on TV. Unlike our pals at the gig, at least I got some sleep.

The culture of waiting in lines, or queing or “on line” as it’s called by some, is vastly different in each part of the world. In the US it’s mostly docile with a sort of unspoken social contract. In some other parts of the world, Western Europe for example how one waits in a line is even more of an indicator of how behaves or is adjusted on a general level. In the former eastern bloc, it’s a whole different story. I disembarked from a fairly lengthy flight feeling beat to hell. Sore back, sinus issues and dog tired. We were met by a gate agent and interpreter and were told we were to be “Elvised” through immigration and customs. Elvising is the term used by some roadie types for getting preferential treatment in getting through without having to wait with everyone else. As our entire flight exited past us, it was determined that only the “VIPs” as they were called, were going to get Elvised. The guy doing the Elvising was quite an asshole, barking orders, pushy. I don’t think that anyone was in the mood to deal with him. The guy had become a buttplug in the asshole of progress. After his change of direction on who to take through, it meant we all had to stand in the line from hell to clear immigration. Not only that, but it was a Russian line.

Waiting in line in Russia, be it the metro, airport, whatever is largely a form of human sized chess. Nearly aggressive in most cases, clearly aggresive in some cases. It works like this, if you are waiting in line and don’t fit right exactly behind the next person, someone will fill that space. It’s a lot like driving in rush hour traffic where is you leave a gap, someone will fill it. It’s a weird sort of comparision, as over here we respect the personal space while waiting in line and not when driving and over there it’s mostly a free for all. Except for the very well to do, these people have spent the better part of their lives waiting in line for one thing or another. During the Soviet era waiting for everyday goods was common, today it’s for the metro or just getting from place to place.

Normally when one is entering a country to gig, you need a work permit. In the afformentioned email from talent producer dude he stated that we were traveling on tourist visas because “it was easier that way”. The gov knew why were were there, where we were going to be but thought it easier to enter as tourists. The staff of guitar player that sits didn’t exactly like that. In most countries where you come in to work they won’t let you in without proper work authorization. Here we were told to indicate on the landing card that we were entering as tourists, we had tourist visas and those meeting us at the airport were government employees and the gig was in a state operated venue that was basically the venue the Kremlin uses, the Russia Theater. In some other countries, I might have been concerned. In Russia though, they know why were are here and likely might not have admitted us otherwise. Other than the line, clearing passport control was easy.

I cleared immigration well ahead of the rest of the party by working the line like the locals were, a few times passing the same guy who finally resigned to giving up the spot, but not before his wife snaked in about five ahead of both of us. I suppose it’s like auto racing in that regard, if the leaders are fighting it out for position they might be passed by someone from behind them in the field. Total wait to clear immigration, about 80 mins. I headed to recover my luggage and start on the 10 pieces of gear we carry. Another 20 mins or so and I was joined by the rest of the party, recovered the luggage and gear and had met one of our interpreters, Tatiana. One in our party, our backliner, was delayed leaving The Emerald City for LAX and barely made the flight. Had I not moved to Bright Light City last year, that would have been me too. The amount of paperwork and redtape was astounding. Brownie would have been proud. The gal behind the desk, well, I think it was a gal, she was wearing a dress was a stereotypical old school Soviet era bureaucrat. Complete with the hairdo and attitude to match. At one point he made a mistake in the paperwork. She looked him in the eye, ripped the form to shreds saying “this no good for me, you make mistake”. What’s interesting is that the baggage claim process is dated about 20 years but the software running the facial recognition and passport control entry process is state of the art. All about priorities, I guess.

We were hoping to make it into the city to catch a bit of nightlife. I knew that the Bolshoi was doing a special presentation of Don Quiote that night. No way in hell would we make it now. Between getting the carnet stamped and backliner losing his luggage, we were delayed about three hours total. They only had one bus coming for nearly 30 of us. How the hell did the party get so big? Well, we had us, six pieces of muso plus four crew, myself, backliner, my longtime pal at the other end of the snake, and Jose, our tour manager. Jose (spanish for his real name) is one of the best tour managers I’ve worked with. He started as a lighting guy (and I don’t hold that against him) but he’s the kind of guy you want in charge when the shit hits the fan.

As we all made it out to the bus, there were several others we did not recognise. And they were pretty surley. Not that I cared. It turns out that the surley musos were part of the 14 piece high priced cover band that we were sharing the bill with. A few of them were just plain assholes. The leader of the cover band the key members were pretty cool, but there were a couple of shitheads in the group. As we made our way to the bus loading area, a particular dickhead started to be particularly loud. He clearly was out of his element. As well gathered in the bus boarding area, he and his companion started loudly “questioning” what we were doing there. There was a coach parked where we gathered, but it wasn’t ours. He and his companion started in on the driver. Jose, myself and our backliner corrected him that it wasn’t our bus and I stated he really wasn’t in a position to know what was happening. I said this because, well, he was sans clue. The handler wrangled our bus to the boarding zone and we got on. Loud cover band guy was holding up our boarding by trying to get his three bags together in one bay. We had to break the news to him that we had about 20 bags and when we hit the Grand Hotel in Moscow, the porters would separate his bags anyway. Again, another buttplug in the asshole of progress. The ride to the hotel was interesting. We could tell they were a club band. Just prior to our landing, Jose quietly gathered our passports and those of guitar player that sits band and planned to exit quickly, first off the bus to check us in. We would wrangle our luggage while Jose checked us into the hotel. It worked like gang busters. We had our key packets while cover band was floundering in check in hell. That’s karma, babe.

We discussed getting some dinner, but it was 2130 and we had a production meeting on site at 2300. We thought that we might delay it until the next morning, but we were informed that the crew would be living at the gig for the next three days. That has to suck. But they seemed to be OK with it. We decided not to have meal together and I had a 20 euro cheese burger from room service . With frites and a Coke. In about an hour we’d see exactly what kind of gig we had.

Well, we made it. All except the backliner’s luggage and the luggage of on of the support band’s significant others. It was brutal at times, nearly prison sex brutal. Except for myself, backliners and jazz singer’s assistant all our party had “First Class” seats, which looked more like ’80s versions offirst class. The aircraft, dubbed Red October by me was a fairly new 767 and not one of those Soviet era Iluyushin or Tupolev that you see over on the Euro side of the pond. In fact, I don’t think they allow those old bone shakers in the US and probably for good reason. I’ve been to the former Soviet Union before, but not Moscow. I’m getting ready to hit the sites before a load in/sound check later this evening. I’m hoping to at least see Lennon’s tomb. I was pretty young when the Beattles first appeared and find it odd that he’s buried in Russia. I am the Walrus…

It’s an interesting gig. A few months ago a Hollywood power player type inked a deal to provide the entertainment for the wedding of a Russian oil billionare to a young pop star princess. I wonder if he is an “oilman” in the same way Johnny Sack is in waste management. The details of the gig were sketchy at first, we’d go over, do 40 mins with another jazz/blues/R&B act we’ve worked with before several times. Other band is pretty good, Grammies, platnum records, well respected, good crew and staff, just like with jazz singer. I think they only call us jazz so we can get into the really swanky high dollar Eurotrash gigs and weddings and aniverseries of the well to do. This isn’t the first of this sort of gig we’ve done with jazz singer. Other band does those as well.

As we worked through the details of the gig, there were to be jazz singer, other band I’ll call guitar player that sits (no, not that one, the younger one…) a Russian jazz orchestra for the wedding, a high dollar corp cover act to play from just after midnight until 0500 or when ever the drunken guests leave and another lesser known R&B group that I won’t even try to call jazz. Only jazz singer and guitar player that sits have crews and tour managers. At check in in LAX we wrangle a couple of band types and guitar tech for guitar player that sits and bring them into our party. The guitar player that sits and the rest of the party leave from NYC so we get the left coast folks. A few days prior to departure, an email is circulated from the event producer that wanders between informative document and condescending blather. At one point where it got to dress code, it read like New Guy to High End Gigs 101. A lot of attitude about how to dress and what not to bring. My first high end gig was at night, but it wasn’t last night. Usually we’re told the parameters of dress and we respond accordingly. That’s one of the reasons we are show biz professionals. Such as it is. Little did I know that as I met some of the other members that weren’t with jazz singer or guitar player that sits, the wording of that email would suddenly start to make sense.

We were to meet at LAX and Aeroflot to Moscow. When I’m out I like to try to learn a few of the local words. For example, “da” means yes, “wodka” means vodka and Aeroflot means “I sure as shit hope we make it over without plunging into the Atlantic”. The amenitites are, well, spartan. As I first boarded the plane I look at what was to be “First Class” (where I wasn’t) thinking it was some sort of low budget business class. As I turned forward to see what real First Class looked like, I only saw the cockpit. We make our way back to economy, or Siberian Class as it is known. Fortunately I’m next to jazz singer’s assistant and not some Ukrainian yak herder. Not that I have any thing against Ukrainians or those in the agriculture or livestock biz. It’s yaks that I don’t like. Never have. Or Ralph The Wonder Llama or Reg Llama from Brixton. As the boarding progressed, I was pleased as we had either no llamas or yaks. What we did have were a lot of people that even in their own language don’t know what “take your seat and fasten your seat belt” means. They were to serve us a couple of tubs of gruel, a few drinks but no movie or audio system. I usually only do plane movies on overseas flights only because they are so damn long. I also bring a couple litres of water, Starbursts, Altoids and assorted two handed reading material suitable for public consumption in the plane. It was a long twelve hours, with only three or four things being spilled on my seatmate as things were being passed to me.

After what seemed to be the longest twelve hours in my life, we prepared to land. Just prior to touchdown, several of the locals decided that they needed to get up to retrieve hand baggage and head down the aisle to wait to get off the plane. They were rounded up and seated. Once we landed, barely slowing most of the same people got up again and went to do the same thing. After a couple of near misses with dropped hand luggage from the overheads and a couple of people tossled into the seats of others, we made it to the gate, only to be a half hour early and having to wait until another flight cleared the ramp so we could disembark. We finally made it to the gate but I don’t know that we were fully prepared for the next couple of days.