by Geoff Berner
A Soundman’s Guide
The job of sound technician is a storied one. There are many grand traditions. Some young people — women, especially — who have recently entered the profession, fail to uphold these longstanding practices, passed down soundguy to soundguy, generation to generation. But without these traditions, we would cease to truly be soundmen, and would soon find ourselves reduced to the role of mere servants of musicians. So that this should never come to pass, the brotherhood has kept the flame of this guide alive, these many years. Keep them secret, but most of all, keep them. Live them. Be a soundguy.
1. “Don’t Hassle Me, I’ve Done This a Million Times!”
Remember that you’ve heard everything there is to hear, and you are too cool to care. Your lack of interest in music and the world around you should confound even the most jaded hipster musician. For instance, in cases when the period that you feel is appropriate for soundcheck has elapsed, and you want to go have dinner, but you find that the band is still not happy with the sound, the following phrase should always be employed: “Don’t worry, the room’ll sound totally different when there’s people here.” Always speak the phrase with the proper, provoking, sense of nonchalance. If delivered properly, it should demoralize musicians by implying that a) the whole forty-five-minute process of soundcheck was a meaningless charade, and b) that your lassitude is just a preview of things to come!
2. Set It, Then Forget It!
There’s only one acceptable, professional way to deal with situations where you’re asked to do sound for something weird that you don’t like: Put the levels at a certain arbitrary setting, and then, you know, go for a smoke in the alley, or to do some blow backstage, or call a friend on the payphone at the back of the bar. Whatever. When you hear the faint echoes of screaming feedback emanating from the stage, don’t rush back — finish your smoke, visit the men’s room for a dump, and then maybe — maybe — have a poke round the board to see what you can see. Or not!
3. Fake Adjustment
This is a neat trick that provides endless amusement, which you can brag about later to your buddies behind the bar after closing time: Let’s say that the singer, or mandolin player, or whoever, asks you to turn him up in the monitor, or lower the reverb effect, or something. Instead of actually changing the setting, you pretend to adjust the knob, but actually do nothing to the sound. If the musician gives up in despair and thanks you for making the adjustment, laugh to yourself about how stupid they are for not noticing that it’s exactly the same!
4. Road Stories
Remember that time you went on the road as a roadie or monitor guy for a semi-famous professional band, for about two weeks, fifteen years ago? Make sure that you drop that band’s name within the first seven minutes of meeting anyone at all, ever. Tell that funny story about the time you did the Fake Adjustment (see above) to the asshole lead singer.
5. Apparel
You got into this business to distinguish yourself from the “suits” and working stiffs who have to get up early in the morning and put on suits, and other work uniforms. So don’t let the Man tell you what to wear. Always, always, always wear faded jeans, preferably acid-washed, and a ratty old rock T-shirt, preferably from that tour fifteen years ago that you did with that semi-famous band. If it gets extremely hot on stage, you may strip down to a stained wife-beater undershirt. Remember that these are your work clothes, so there is no need to wash them more than once a month at the very most. Top it all off with a baseball cap. This baseball cap should be a promotional item from a huge international beverage company that makes beer that tastes like piss. You may be tempted to imitate the bravado of those youngsters who are wearing the ballcap backwards these days, but if you have a ratty pony tail, don’t waste it — make sure that it pops saucily out the back, between the strap and the netting. In this manner you achieve the welcome eye-shading of the hat brim, but also demonstrate to the world that you are wild and cannot be tamed.
6. Fanny Packs
Fanny packs are those little nylon bags that wrap around your waist, and hang on your bum. You can use them to hold useless cables that you tell yourself you’ll one day repair, or weed, or gum. Women find them overpoweringly attractive. Be sure that when you wear the fanny pack hanging over your bum, it doesn’t obscure your ass crack, which should always be evident for all to see whenever you bend over or crouch in the course of your duties. This may seem like a burden, but never forget: you have a responsibility to be a credibility-defying, breathing, walking cliché.
7. Musicians
The biggest drawback to doing sound for bands is of course that bands have musicians in them. Try to remember that musicians are mostly just a bunch of whiny little punks who aren’t even old enough to remember real music, especially the band you toured with fifteen years ago, and they should be treated with as much condescension as possible. If a musician makes a request for help or information, try to feign deafness and walk away. Another good tactic is to look them dead in the eye and say something like “Well, where do you think it would be?” If you must directly answer a question from a musician, always remember that answers should in every instance be preceded by the Long, Exasperated Sigh and then the Incredulous Eye-Roll (see diagrams).
8. Women
Women. Where do they come from? What do they want? This is a difficult subject, which has puzzled some of our greatest philosophers. But like it or not, there will be times when you will have to deal with non-waitress women in your workplace. Always remember that female musicians, in particular, don’t know Nothing about Nothing. And because women don’t even know what they’re talking about, make it a point of principle to ignore any request they make, especially if these requests involve technical elements of sound. If a woman surprises you by playing her instrument well, don’t be caught off guard without the important and time-honoured phrase, “Not bad — for a girl. Haw, haw.” (Try rehearsing that phrase now.) Wives, spouses, partners, and girlfriends should exclusively be referred to as “Old Ladies,” as in, “One way or another, this soundcheck’s gonna be over in fifteen minutes, ’cause I told the Old Lady I’d be home in time fer supper, and I wanna have time to give ’er one. Heh heh.”
HE QUIT DRINKING, CONTINUED (SORRY FOR INTERRUPTION)
SORRY, I JUST HAD TO throw that in there, to let you know how special Keith Krapp is. He’s like the opposite of the above. I have a deep affection for the guy. So there he was at the After-Party, and he had something dark red in a glass, and he was halfway between me and Richard Wren. It’s one of my idiosyncrasies that I try to police people who’ve officially quit alcohol forever, to keep them on the straight and narrow. It’s to counteract my unearned, unfair reputation for corrupting people.
I ambled up and put my large arm around him.
“Keith! What’s that you got there? I thought I heard you quit drinkin’.”
“Campbell Ouiniette. My favourite Big Hairy Monster. How you keeping?”
“I’m on a roll. You’re not back on the sauce, are you?”
“On a roll. So I hear. Your new, ah, ‘finds’ are the talk of the festival. Still stirring up the shit, eh? I think I’ve got one of them, the big-boned kid, at my stage tomorrow.”
“Don’t try to change the subject. So you fallen off the wagon or what?”
“It’s a virgin Caesar, Cam. Taste it.”
“Yech. No, I’ll take your word for it. So you’re a born-again virgin. Good for you.”
We clinked glasses and looked each other directly in the eyes as we drank, in the eastern European manner.
“Yeah. You know, a man has a drink limit of drinks in his life. I drank my limit.”
“I remember I used to be able to pretty much set my watch by you, ’cause you always fell down and passed out, wherever you were, at exactly 4:30 in the a.m. In your trademark green trenchcoat.”
“Loved that trenchcoat. Loved it. That was my protection. It always felt so nice and temperate in the evening in Vancouver.�
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“It felt that way ’cause you were drunk.”
“’Cause I was drunk. Right — but then when I woke up in the morning …”
“And you were freezing and wet.”
“Even on a warm night, even in summer — the damn dew would get me. In the morning, I’d wake up all wet and shivering, covered in condensation, on somebody’s lawn.”
“So that was what the trenchcoat was for.”
“That was what the trenchcoat was for. But one morning, I actually woke up in the gutter, still wet and shivering, even in my trusty trenchcoat. So I was like, this is too much. I have got to do something about this.”
“So that’s when you quit drinking, eh?”
“Naw, I started wearing two trenchcoats, so I wouldn’t get so cold. I quit eight years after that, when I lost my left eye to diabetes. Cheers.”
He looked me hard in the eye, and I could see the glass, now I was looking for it, as we clinked glasses again.
“Well, that reminds me, my beer’s just about empty. I’ll catch you at the Ironwood stage tomorrow?”
“Sure. Your boy need anything special for his balalaika?”
“Kobza, it’s called. Balalaika’s Russian. He hates it when you get those mixed up. No. He just uses a regular 57 instrument mic, I believe. Make sure you have the popsock on the vocal mic washed after he performs. He’s an emotional guy, so he tends to spray bits of his latest meal all over it when he sings.”
“Right. Take care of yourself there, Cam.”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
I headed for the bar.
THE UPSHOT
AFTER A QUICK FORTIFYING tequila shot, I was ready to move in on Wren.
There he was, holding up the wall with some kind of clear drink in his hand. Couldn’t tell if it was booze. I’ll make sure that’s taken care of, my friend, I thought to myself. He was chatting enthusiastically with Mykola, gesticulating with the drink. The boy was clearly terrified, staring at his boots, wishing he was back in his room scarfing perogies, no doubt. This was the moment. Time to go in for the kill.
“Hey, Campbell! Campbell!”
Shit.
Leslie Stark ploughed like a little tank through the crowd, totally heedless of the many people whose drinks she was spilling as she jostled towards me. Why should she care anyway — it was her festival, and it was a success, the numbers were good, so no one was complaining. Except me, on the inside. Outwardly, I was friendly.
“Leslie! Fuck! The numbers looked good today, eh?”
“Yeah. Listen, I need to talk with you up in the office suite.”
“Sure, I’ll be right up there, gotta go check something with Mykola here.” I had been continuing to drift in that direction as we spoke.
“Great to meet you. Good job in the workshop this afternoon. You’ve really got something that’s a bit different. Can I borrow Campbell for a few minutes? He’ll catch up with you later.”
Mykola raised his eyebrows, breathed slowly through his nose and irritated us all as we waited for him to say what of course we all knew he had to say anyway to the A.D. of the festival.
“Ummmm, sure, yeah. Thank you.”
I slipped a quick, firm, friendly handshake in on Wren, “Good to meet you, I’m Campbell Ouiniette. We met earlier. Got some stuff I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Hi! Yeah, great. Nice to see you.” Agh. The non-committal “Yeah, great.” Like getting punched in the lower intestines with a pitchfork. God, if only she would just have left me alone with him and the tequila. I knew I would have him. But there she was, steering me by the elbow toward the door, and then the elevator. What could I do? Fuck all, that’s what. I’d have some work to do when I got back down to the party.
SHE CLOSED THE DOOR OF the hotel suite she was using as an onsite office, and went to sit behind the desk, motioning to the chair in front of it.
“Have a seat.”
She linked her fingers and laid them on the desk in front of me like a closed castle drawbridge.
“So.”
I figured the whiskey could still be good for something. I yanked it out of the robe and plonked it on the desk.
She laughed, “What is this? A kick-back?”
“You got any glasses?”
“In the bathroom.”
I filled up an obscene tumbler-full for each of us, and offered my usual toast.
“Nice driveway.”
“Cheers.”
She put away half of it. The woman can drink, I’ll give her that. Her eyes rolled up a bit in her head for a sec, but then they were back to fixing me with that crocodile stare.
“So where’s my Sunday headliner?”
Time to do my schtick.
“Fuck!” I screamed, waving my robe-clad arms wildly. I always start with that when I’m caught out. It unsettles people. They think they’ve got me in a position where I should be kind of squirming and politely hemming and hawing, and instead I counter with a flaming burst of negative emotion and noise. It puts them off balance, especially Canadians.
“Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! The woman won’t return my calls or emails, I’ve tried her fucking relatives up in the goddamn Arctic Circle, and she’s nowhere to be found. I am really getting fed up with this bullshit.”
Leslie said nothing. Took another drink of Scotch.
I blathered on. “I’m telling you, I’m just about ready to drop this artist. Reliability is a real issue here. Fuck, you know, like they say, 90 percent of success is just showing up.”
“Mmm.”
“I guess the question is, what are we gonna do?” Always make it a “we” problem, is my strategy.
“Right.”
“Look, here’s how I see it. Athena’s never totally fucked off on a show before. It’s true, she smokes a little weed sometimes, and recently, maybe the sudden success has gone to her head, so she’s been going a little prima donna on me lately. But she’s never actually skipped out on the main show before.”
“She’s caused quite a sensation. Lot of people are asking me about her.”
“So my thinking is, she’ll probably come waltzing in here tomorrow, be like, ‘Oh, I didn’t know I had to do workshops at this festival. Anyway, I’ve got this great new costume, my cousin made it for me,’ and be all set to go. Or maybe not. Maybe she’s sick. Who knows. She’s had some health problems. She can’t eat wheat. Adjusting to the southern diet.”
Leslie drank again, but was silent, staring at me. It occurred to me that she looked uncannily like a little kid watching the elephants at the circus.
“Anyway, but what if she doesn’t show? We still have the main stage 9 p.m. slot to fill on Sunday. That is a major thing. So obviously, that’s my responsibility.”
“Uh-unh.”
“So if Athena’s not there, my thinking is, we’ve got two killer singer-songwriters and a DJ, superior artists in their own right. We need to fill that time, Mykola and Jenny have been total sensations this weekend already; everybody’s talking about them.”
“Yeah, I got several audience complaints about both of them.”
“Gezacktly!” I shouted. There was nothing more that needed to be said — between us two fans of challenging music — about how great that was.
“No, yeah, they are quite good. Original stuff. Really charismatic, both of them. She’s got a great voice, and Mykola’s got at least two good songs there.”
That’s Leslie when she likes somebody.
“So it’s agreed, then. I’ll head down and tell ’em they better hit the old fart sack sooner than later so they can really nail it tomorrow on the main stage.”
“Yeah, no, that’s not gonna happen, Campbell. That’s silly.”
No time to waste. Tried to get my wisdom out there. “Leslie —”
She was laughing now as she cut me off. “Campbell, you think I don’t know that Athena’s off with Pixie-fuck-face, the fucking Iceland world popstar on some fucking giant tour? It was in the New York Times
music section, you asshole. It don’t take a brick wall.”
“What the fuck? That bitch! She fucked me over!” Important to feign surprise here, just for propriety’s sake.
Leslie laughed harder.
“Campbell, I fucking love you, man. You’re awesome.”
“Leslie! We’re both awesome. So what about having the band guys do the set? It’ll be a sensation, it’ll be the talk of the circuit. You’ll get the credit for being the most adventurous A.D. in the country.”
“I’ll be the most fired A.D. in the fucking country. No, what’s gonna happen is Don McLean will play an extra twenty minutes, so he can do a third song before ‘Starry, Starry Night’ and ‘American Pie’ and the Australians will do an encore.”
“What? That’s bullshit! A fucking has-been playing a song that never made any sense in the first place, and some fucking Australians, singing about the joy of sunshine and ripping off the Aborigines? That’s what you’re going to replace Athena Amarok with? You’ve got a challenging artist in that slot. People are expecting to be challenged. There’s going to be total outrage out there. It’s nuts!”
“Outrage would be if I put a couple of unknown freaks singing about tit-licking and genocide on the main stage Sunday night. Those pretty Australians pull up to every folk festival with a fucking Hertz Truck full of CDs. You have no notion of what the audience is really looking for, Campbell, and I love you for that. Don’t push your luck. I’m kinda pissed at you for this whole Athena thing, but I’m going to be incredibly generous and let you hold on to the advance I sent you in March, and I’m not gonna sue you or have you charged with fraud, although I should. You’re lucky that I’m an incredibly nice person. I’ll even let you take the Scotch with you, although after what you’ve done to me here, it’s rightfully mine.”
There was nothing to say. I was silently dignified. I stood up. I drained my glass in a gulp.
I looked her square in the eye, and raised my right hand.