That ought to be worth something - in addition to the $25,000 to $60,000 a year I’d earn at this job to start. Maybe I’ll even dine with them backstage. Well, at least I’ll get to pal around with rock stars later. "There are Rush groupies," Itchy finally cracks, "but they’re mainly guys." (Rush is a "musician’s band," which is what rock acts call themselves when chicks don’t care about meeting them.) But what’s wrong with wanting to hear it? I’m engaged to be married now, so I couldn’t accept Kate’s offer anyway. The highlights, all of which involve groupies, are not printable in a family newspaper. Diamond’s high-school business law - and hope that the roadie in front of me is headed to wherever that destination may be.ĭid I mention that I hoped to meet groupies? The mating habits of the species roadie (homo-erect-us-a-stage) were glamorized in tell-all rock books such as "No One Here Gets Out Alive" by late Doors roadie/manager Danny Sugerman and "Hammer of the Gods" by former Led Zeppelin road manager Richard Cole. I nod as though I understand what he has said - a skill I perfected in Mr. "Downstage of the dimmer rack area!" Itchy announces as I spin my wounded purple box toward him. How exactly can this guy earn a living as a schlepper? And I have the physique of a 12-year-old boy with anemia.
In addition to being almost as annoying as me, Itchy is even punier. ("I talk a lot," he explained earlier, "and the production manager used to say, ‘You’re the equivalent of itching powder.’ ") Something about Itchy strikes me as funny - and it’s not just his nickname, which was conferred on a long-ago tour with the Grateful Dead. Itchy, who hails from Brunswick, Mo., and lives in Nashville, Tenn., began his career in the ’80s at a concert lighting manufacturer called Vari-Lite. Roadies land their jobs either by befriending a band or gaining experience with a production company. I’m surprised we ever got those pyramids finished.) "Always stand in front of it when you’re going downhill!" (Schlepping is not a task at which my people excel. "No!" another roadie berates me for pushing it from behind. Roadies have different words for everything. They call it "rigging," but that’s just so it sounds more cerebral. Roadies do copious amounts of schlepping. The 200 pound purple box I’m being ordered to wheel down a truck ramp is cryptically labeled "FEEDER." It has a stuck wheel that makes it want to turn in circles - like the cart I always seem to pick at Albertsons. (Rush is not only this band’s name, but the state its employees always seem to be in.) Their specialty is transforming unadorned aluminum slabs into laser-shooting, drum-spinning, video-projecting concert stages. Roadies, short for road-crew members, are sound and lighting technicians who travel with the hundreds of concert tours that play Las Vegas each year. I’m one of 50 roadies unloading seven tractor-trailers that arrived late last night from Phoenix, site of the veteran Canadian power trio’s last gig. "That’s movies, this is real life," says my boss for the day, lighting crew chief Rich "Itchy" Vinyard, 44. on the day of a rock concert by Rush, and Kate Hudson’s "Almost Famous" groupie character is not at the loading dock offering meaningless gratification in exchange for a backstage pass. What isn’t waiting for me at the MGM Grand Garden arena is the first of many strong contenders for the title of today’s greatest disappointment.
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