Rock Opera Trilogy, Pt. II: Gigs, Life on the Road, and "The Dirty Hustle"

Right, so there’s a question that comes to mind. It’s a question that I’ve been asked by family members and friends entirely too often:

“What the hell is your job?”

I guess the only answer is that I’ve worked in events and marketing, specifically promotions and sponsorships at concerts, festivals, and tours. It all began with a very significant reference from an old friend. His generosity confused the hell out of me. I didn’t question it and would soon learn that it would be exactly this type of kindness that would save my ass in this city and define a very significant portion of my life. Pat introduced me to events a grimy and hectic industry where friends are rare and work can be scarce. Gigs were contract-based and usually only for a single weekend. Like everyone else in the biz, I was always on the hunt for my next job.

If this sounds stressful, that’s because it was. I was very green and gigs were hard to come by. After a few months of labor/set-up jobs, an agency called me with a contract so lucrative that I decided then and there, “I’m never working for another company again.” I spent the next 3 years with All Terrain. This period has since been dubbed “The Dirty Hustle,” a lifestyle that was every bit as much rock-and-roll as the real thing if not for a few less guitars, speakers, and groupies.

I still remember my first day with All Terrain. Aside from the sort of spaceship feel of the lobby—with unmarked glass doors, huge walls with video screens, and hallways lit with recessed floor lighting—the place looks exactly like I had imagined advertising and marketing agencies would, except that the agencies in my mind were a little… less conservative than this? What? Ah, but look. There. In the vibrant hallways is a hint of this wild experience that awaits me: young, budding, attractive go-getters and hustlers walking and talking about needing “firm dates, radio ads, hotel and air accommodations, and expenses.” I can’t argue with this: firm dates, radio ads, travel accommodations and expenses are quintessential to a rock and roll—therefore, I say to you: I am at the beginning of an important and exciting job on the front lines of rock and roll. I keep moving inside the belly of this beast, past the front desk and into the conference room. I can’t help but think that this is where the magic must happen, right? Right. Yes. No matter what. So shut up, because I’ve been waiting since the day I turned thirteen—seven years and two months to the day—for something to finally make sense about adults and adulthood, so let me have this. I’ve been sitting at life’s banquet table listening to raffle numbers and staring at my handful of losing tickets for a while now, so throw me the door prize.

I take a seat and look across the conference room table at possibly the most attractive of these go-getters. What can I tell you about my boss? She is an Account Director who never smiles and that makes it even a little more awkward that I basically live in fear that I’ll wind up writing her name over and over on my binder or notepad like a seventh grader with a crush on a teacher a few years before he learns to deaden unexplained feelings with hip-hop, canned beer, and petty crime. She has an all-American guise to belie the permanent pistol-hot, whip-smart Saturday night grin and a glint in brown eyes that are hiding anything from a joke to a body. I introduce myself to her and all I can think is, “Somewhere out there a man unwittingly awaits severe heartbreak and the kind of drinking where one ends up weeping alone for hours and then dialing.” She’s about 10 years older than me and possesses all of the attributes and qualities prized by superficial men and… look, quit freaking out—Jesus! Yes, of course, she’s beautiful; we’re all beautiful, okay? Shut up. Drop it. She’s older than me and she’s my boss. I was just trying to describe her. I’m not saying I have a crush on her. God. Fucking act like an adult.

The Dirty Hustle is every bit as grimy as you’re imagining. I worked a series of freelance gigs at festivals, clubs, and concerts. I was paid handsomely for my work, which included extra pay for travel, lodging, and expenses. Sometimes I stayed in lavish hotels. Other times I stayed at dingy motels. There was even a good stretch where I lived in a van so I could pocket the per diem. Cities and towns became indistinguishable. It felt like we would leave a new surrounding just as quickly as we had arrived. On to the next town, on to the next gig.

I was fortunate enough to run with a pretty wild crew. We’d work 12-hour days then hit the bars, sleep if we were lucky, and head back to “the office” for another shift. In an every-man-for-himself industry, we looked out for each other. We’d pick up the slack if someone was too hungover that day. Collectively, we’d blow our checks on all sorts of dumb shit to the point of financially clutching, literally hanging by a nail, until the next check arrived. Whenever that would happen, the crew would pool whatever remaining funds we had to make sure everyone ate. We became a family. A family of degenerates, maybe, but damnit, this was my family of degenerates. These grungy years are now referred to as “The Dirty Hustle.” It was a time when, along with the homies, I earned vast amounts of money at some of the most fun and exclusive venues in the country.

The Dirty Hustle is basically the same as being a roadie for a rock band. Extended periods of time driving down highways with Tetris-like packed equipment in the back of trucks, following a tour schedule, setting up massive footprints at events featuring live bands. The only thing missing were groupies and drugs.

To solidify this rock-and-roll lifestyle: I’m setting up at a concert event next to the stage and look up to find the lead singer of pretty well-known cover band 7th Heaven doing sound check on his mic. Okay, fine, so maybe he’s not doing sound check so much as he’s standing there in front of me with a fan posing for a photo. Which, yes, if you want to get technical, obviously means that they have their backs turned to me. But I’m standing there thinking that if any of my childhood efforts to play drums in a world-famous band, much like I did in my father’s apartment on an assortment of pots and pans, would’ve come to fruition, and let’s say I would’ve been the drummer for this particular band—this is exactly the view of the singer I would have on a nightly basis for my entire time in the spotlight. So for a minute, in a weird little way, it’s like I’m finally living the dream.