2003 Remembrance of Opryland Productions

Originally shared in 2003, this is about the job I loved most in my life- working as a producer at Opryland Productions, aka Opryland Talent, aka OTI, etc. etc. Please remember that in 2003 $750 was a lot of money….  If you were there then, this will make sense and maybe make you laugh. If you weren't, well, I don't know… see what you think.

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Here's my remembrance of being the producer for even a very simple event just after the park closed.

The sales person comes to me and explains what they want and I try to invent it for the sad amount of money they say they have. I do this primarily by calling musicians and begging them to work for millions of dollars less than they want. I promise them future work, Christmas shows, anything they want... I am compelled to listen to an endless speech about how they are treated poorly, unappreciated, not allowed to eat and have to go in through the back door. They don't like the parking, don't like the breaks, don't like the chairs, don't like the room, the acoustics, the stage, the room captain, the agent on duty, the sound tech, the lighting, the equipment or the requested attire. They hate the hotel and hate Gaylord and hate my ten best friends. They hate Opryland in general and why are we so stupid as to close the park and didn't we know it was a bad idea. I sympathize and explain that it wasn't my decision to sell the park. They check their book and ask their wife and finally they say they'll do it because they have nothing else to do that night and we've been such friends for so many years now.

I call the client to confirm details and it turns out that what they actually want is nothing like what the sales person said they wanted. For instance, the sales person might have asked me to find an outstanding classical ensemble but the client actually wants bluegrass. Fortunately, this is Nashville and all the musicians play everything so I call the classical musician back and ask him to change. He complains again that he has to change musicians and attire and instruments and that we need to get our act together out here and does bluegrass pay the same as classical.... I tell him how deeply and truly sorry I am and he finally says okay, at least he can use the same bass player.

So I tell the client I have just the band she needs, guaranteed to make her look good to her boss and all the attendees. I make up a name because they all have the same one: The [Musician's Name Here] Band. "Yes ma'am, Southern Thunder's the best. Music City Magic will give it up! No band comes close to the Soggy Bottom Boys." That's right, I used it long before the movie came out.

Then I tell the sales agent that they need to change the act description in the paperwork. They get mad because they already turned it in and why did I have to go and switch it when it was fine just like it was and the client is not going to like Bluegrass. Nobody likes bluegrass. They sing through their noses. And it doesn't

cost as much as classical.

So I call the venue and talk to the catering manager, who only tolerates me because now and then I get her into a concert she likes. She listens patiently to my request for a 12 x 16 x 24" riser and some water for the band. She wants me to reiterate to the band not to park on the ramp or they'll get towed and that they can't eat the food and they can't drink the drinks and they need to take breaks in the chat and chew, which is roughly two miles away. I agree & hang up.

I call the tech director and ask for an appropriate p.a. & some basic illumination. He says he knows what the band needs and to just send him the itinerary and he hangs up on me so he can get back on line and look at things he's not supposed to.

So I write the itinerary. I send it to the venue, the tech director, the musician, & the musician's wife who actually keeps his books and tells him where to go and what to wear. I make six copies, knowing that everybody will lose theirs before the event. The day before the gig I call everybody to make sure they remember the event and don't need any more information.

On the day of the event, I go to the hotel early to make sure everything is set up. Nothing is set up. So I call Banquet Set Up and they assure me that the catering manager did not order a riser for the band & she has to approve it if I want one. It's not on the plot, they say. I call the catering manager. She says she must have lost the itinerary and asks to talk to Banquet Set Up on my phone. She tells them to bring a riser. They cuss in another few languages and leave. I notice the guy spit all over my phone.

I wait. And wait. And wait. I call. They say they're coming. I wait and wait and wait. At 45 minutes before doors open, the technician arrives. He's wearing Zebra leggings, yellow rubber shoes and a torn shirt that says "F*%$ EVERYTHING!!" He's sweating and cussing the the hotel people who wouldn't let him up the ramp, cussing the truck that broke down, and cussing the equipment he's got with him. He says it'll be no problem to have it all set up in fifteen minutes so we can do a quick sound check before doors open. Then he leaves to go to the bathroom.

That's when the client comes in and has a corporate tantrum because there is no band and no p.a. and she wants to open the doors early, like now. The room captain shows up to help her yell at me, "Yeah, didn't you order a riser?" Then the tech comes back and he smells like dope. He introduces himself to the client and tells her all about his own band that is better than the one he's late setting up for and about how the equipment we gave him is crap so it may not sound so good. She is relieved when he excuses himself to answer his phone. She whispers nervously to me, "Will he be here during the event?" I tell her he will but promise he'll change clothes.

The bass player shows up about then and says in front of the client that he'll do his best but he doesn't usually play bluegrass, he's more of a jazz guy. And whoever decided bluegrass was the right choice for this event had to be crazy. It's clearly a jazz room. On his heels comes the banjo player who says that he parked on the ramp and hopes that's okay. Oh, and is there someplace he can get a drink before they start.

The guys roll the riser in at that point and barely miss mowing us down. They set up the 6 x 8 x 8" riser and leave quickly, with more foreign cuss words still hanging in the air.

The guitarist/leader arrives and tells me he can't believe we're not set up yet, that he isn't about to show up for call time when the p.a. is never ready anyway. The technician is setting up equipment while talking on the phone to his girlfriend and smoking a cigarette. He assures me he'll be up and running by doors open, no problem.

About then the doors open. So I beg the guitarist, whose toupee is shedding all over his western shirt, to just play something through the one mic that's up. So he plays Old Time Rock n Roll with a "bluegrass feel" and thinks his musical joke is very funny AND sophisticated. The client is crying and telling me that she'll need a new job soon. And she asks if the technician can stop bending over and showing his quarter slot. So I ask the bartender for a double jack & coke, & he gives it to me because I sound like I need it and I'm carrying a clipboard. You can get anything, except a riser, by carrying a clipboard. I give the drink to the client.

The tech finally has audio up and going, & as the first 500 people rush into the room, the guitarist and bass player are complaining over the mic that they can't hear anything in the monitors. The audio guy asks if they are freakin' deaf and they say, "huh?" The banjo player comes back from moving his car just as the fiddle player gets there. He's sorry he's late. He thought it was in the Magnolia ballroom. And he's still dressed like Tom Jones from his earlier Italian Restaurant Gig. He is wearing boots, alligator ones, as a concession to looking "bluegrassy" but you can hardly see them when blinded by his vintage gold medallion reading "The Streak."

At last the whole band is onstage and playing and I ask the technician where the lights are. "What lights?" So we look at the itinerary together, and he says, "Oh yeah, I guess there are lights on there. Oh well, too late now!" And he sits down on one of the road cases he didn't have time to move to the hallway. I ask him if he would mind not holding up hiPENTHOUSE magazine so he puts it away and gets out GUNS & AMMO.

I look around and figure that there are a few track lights close enough to slightly illuminate the band. I turn them on. Two weeks later, I'll get a bill from AV for $750 which includes four lights, a supervisory technician, power, a paperwork fee, a late fee, a penalty fee for not ordering ahead of time and a fee for set up and strike.

The night goes on. The client gets drunk. Her boss gets drunk. Everybody there gets drunk. The band plays Rocky Top with underwhelming enthusiasm, and everybody sings, except the bass player who doesn't know the words. Then they go on break so I take one, too.

When I return in fifteen minutes, the techie has changed into a blue shirt two sizes two small, an oxford shirt, and slacks that crawl right up his butt. He still has on the yellow shoes. He has a blazer and tie with him, but he uses them to mask the milk crates he used to prop up the monitors. His eyes are nearly shut and he smells even more like dope.

The band is standing at the buffet table, heaping as much as possible onto tiny little plates because it has to last them through the next two hours. The guitarist has two. One exception: the banjo player has a martini in one hand and his other around the client's waist. He is telling her that she is the most beautiful redhead he's ever seen, that most of them have way too many freckles. And has she heard the one about the Pollock and the Jew and the woman on a plane with the pope? And he prefers women like her, with a little extra weight on 'em.

I lose it, tell them all to dump the food, get onstage & play something they know. They are highly offended and say things like "Yes Master, Hile Agent, Wait Til Next Time You Want Us We May Not Be so Easy to Get." And they play things like Girl from Ipanema and Feelings in a bluegrass style.

I decide to cut my losses and go to the house. I'm thinking a career in fast food sounds stunningly uncomplicated. I tell the client good-bye and she tells me that Southern Thunder is the best classical band she's ever heard. Her boss loves them. The crowd is dancing. It's all good. The room captain tells me it's a great band, way better than the one I had last week. Have 'em back sometime, she tells me, but don't let them eat the food. And she pops a shrimp into her mouth.

The technician hugs me bye and cracks a rib. His roach clip falls out of his pocket. He picks it up and says, "It's not mine. I'm keeping it for a friend."

I walk out the door into the muzak, playing the music from CATS in a bluegrass style. I walk outside onto the ramp and see the room captain's car. Her bumper sticker says, "HELL YEAH! 100% WHOOPASS!"

I go home & dream that I died and went to heaven and the orchestra was all banjos and we had to go in through the kitchen. My job was making sure nobody ate from the heavenly buffet.

The next day, the leader calls me up & says, "Great gig last night. Got any work for me?"

Ever Yours,

(Written with love, for all those who wonder, Was that about ME????)

There is O-Nay Anta-Say Aus-Clay!

Seeing that it's about halfway around the calendar to Christmas, it's time to consider the age old question of how one generation shares with the next the real fact of life that there is o-nay anta-say aus-clay!

WARNING: Do not allow your young children to see this unless you want to finance their PTSD therapy for the next fifty years. Not that I would know. Really. I'm fine. 

When I was twelve, my mother heard from other neighborhood mothers that the boy next door was about to blow their cover. He'd been telling all the kids he knew that he could prove there was No Santa Claus. There was no naughty and nice list. Santa was a fake; nothing more than a crafty hoax parents availed themselves of to manipulate and intimidate children into behaving. 

At my age, it was old news but I thought back to a memorable night three years before. I'd been harboring suspicions. Why did my mom and Santa use the same red wrapping paper? How could Santa squish up enough to fit down a real chimney? Why didn't he catch on fire? Why did Santa and my mom both like Danish Wedding Cookies? And why didn't everybody get the same amount of presents? I was about to crack the case. 

That Christmas Eve when mom peeked in to see if I was asleep, I faked it good. I was marvelous; could have won an academy award. When I heard the front door creak open, I hopped up and balanced wobbling on the foot of my bed where I could peek out the high window, the only one facing the street. My heart was pounding, thinking if there really was a Santa and I got caught spying, there might be coal in my stocking. Relief and disappointment overcame me when I saw dad walk to the car, pop open the trunk, and carry big, stuffed trash bags into the house. The elves did not pack gifts in Hefty bags. It was true. My parents were Santa. 

So mom decided to tell us, or more accurately, to have our father tell us. Mom's not inclined to talk about anything potentially upsetting. We still haven't had that mother/daughter talk about becoming a woman. Really.

One evening in the kitchen after dinner, the bomb was deployed. My brother David, 6, and sister, Sandy, 9, had moved into other rooms but since our house was the size of a refrigerator box we were still in close proximity.  Mom commanded my dad to tell us. "Ralph, tell the kids there's no Santa Claus," then she added with emphasis, "but be gentle." 

Dad was the kind of guy who'd smile and say, "Yes Ma'am," then do whatever he pleased. He didn't bat an eye or miss a beat. Meandering toward the bathroom he shouted, "Hey kids, guess what? There ain't no Santy Claus!" 

And the wailing began. My poor siblings were devastated. They cried loudly with mouths open wide, like they'd fallen off their bicycles and skinned both knees.  Mom, frustrated and angry at Dad shouted, "I told you to be gentle!!" We tried to console the inconsolable.

I thought my parents should have told us each at a designated age, and that's how I planned to do it when I had children. It was a happy surprise that my children are both the same age. I cheerfully figured I'd tell them together and only have to do it once. In the spirit of my mom, however, I secretly hoped they would hear it through the grapevine thus erasing my obligation. 

Fast forward about thirty-five years. My kids were eight or nine years old when the Tooth Fairy neglected to leave money under Marisa's pillow. As the kids were getting in the car for school, she starting talking. The Tooth Fairy was a bad, bad lady. The Tooth Fairy forgot about her. My little daughter was offended and infuriated. Her guilty dad, who was supposed to have left the money, made the split-second decision to tell her the truth.  Bad idea. Not as bad as my dad yelling, "There ain't no Santy Claus," but bad all the same. 

He told her plainly that there was no Tooth Fairy; that he had forgotten to put money under her pillow.. The Tooth Fairy was a mythical creature, made up, not real. Only Marisa wasn't buying it. Her pretty little button of a face twisted into a mask of rage. She shouted at her dad, "There's is too a Tooth Fairy. You're just trying to cover for her!" 

The Tooth Fairy was a loser and her own dad was taking up for the her. How could he! 

Marisa's brother Julian had quietly absorbed the episode and now waxed logical. The gears were clicking away in his Spock-like mind. "If there's no Tooth Fairy...." he began. 

I tried to changed the subject. Redirect. Anything. "Hey, you want to eat at the Aquarium tonight? I hear the tilapia is great!" 

"Then there's no Easter Bunny," Julian said.

It was no use. I'd more easily stop a runaway train. I coughed the syllable, "Hush!" then resorted to the language oft spoken by Barney Fife, Pig Latin. 

"Ix-nay Anta-Say! Ix-nay Anta-Say!" I begged.

"And if there's no Easter Bunny...............there's no Santa?" ''

The question hung in the air. We all knew the answer. It was loud and clear in spite of my frantic efforts to end the line of reasoning. My little scientist kept right on talking. He was proud of himself. He had solved the equation. 

Julian had been suspicious since he removed half of Santa's beard at the mall on picture day and got thrown out of the fake North Pole by overgrown elves. At last he knew for sure.   

Marisa, on the other hand, didn't weigh in on Santa's existence because she was far too angry at the Tooth Fairy to think about anything else. That was nine years ago she's still on poor terms with the T.F. only now she has learned from school much worse names to call her. She knows what mythical means, understands the term, "mythical creatures," and has adapted to life without Santa or the Easter Bunny. But the Tooth Fairy... if that creature ever dares to show herself around here, she'd better watch her back so Marisa doesn't pull her wings off. 

So that's our story. Your turn now. How did it go for your family? 

Unemployment, day 8, but who's counting? Aside from a trace of guilt over the fact that my kids will now have to support me when they're still in high school, this is a pretty good gig. I got turned down for another job in paradise today so perhaps I should start to look elsewhere.

In order to be proactive, I've made a list of jobs I know I would love; my dream jobs. I'm not sure if any of them exist but if they do and I land one of these choice positions, I will no doubt be a dedicated employee, willing to put in overtime and work at home. If you or anybody you know can hook me up with one these jobs, there'll be a little something extra in your Christmas card this year.

1. Chocolate Taste Tester  -  If there's one thing I know, it's God's most delectable gift to mankind and the bottom of my food pyramid - Chocolate! With a single taste, sometimes even a whiff, I can discern the brand, the country of origin, identify the subtle characteristics, the undertones, the legs... oh wait, that's wine. Know this: If I say chocolate is good, it's good. If I say it's great, it's great. If I say it's incredible or am rendered speechless except for "mmmmmm" sounds, get you some even if you have to steal or sell pawn your TV.
2. Universal Namer  -  I would be great at naming things! Fingernail polish, kids, household cleaning products, sports teams, cars, comets and pets... How's this for an orange fingernail polish: Orange Blaze? I toyed with Sweet & Sour Chicken, which is very orange around here, but ultimately concluded it wasn't enticing enough. And if you polished with it, an hour later you'd need to polish again.
3. Mattress Nap-worthy Evaluator- I could sleep on different mattresses to determine whether they are good for napping or not. And I could do it twice if needed, three times even. 
4. Coffee Taste Tester -  See Chocolate Taste Tester but replace Chocolate with Coffee.
5. Baby Hugger - As long as somebody whisks them to a smell-proof room when the little lovelies drop lethal diaper bombs or demonstrate the pressure principal through projectile diarrhea, bring on the babies! 
6. Talker  -  I could talk to a wall, for hours, even when the wall doesn't answer. Okay, the wall never answers, but it could, theoretically, in a parallel universe or a Harry Potter novel. 
7. Abstract (Accidental) Artist - I'm really gifted at"abstract art" presuming it is loosely defined. I once spilled paint all over the driveway and if you looked at it from a certain angle, it looked just like Winston Churchill in a baby buggy. Very nice but impractical to dig up the driveway and sell it. 

That does it for now. I'll go sit by the phone and wait for my future employer to call and offer me one of these gigs, a generous salary, an office with windows and a hot tub, my own jet plane and all the free coffee I can drink. Good coffee, that is, the kind from job number 4.

Unemployment Experiments!

July 2, 2013

My first day of unemployment and I need a nap already.  I slept until 10, spent a few hours sunning at the pool then made the kids’ soup and sandwiches. Peanut butter and clam chowder from a can is high cuisine around here. They heartily devoured it like only teenagers can.

Now, it’s time for the work portion of the day, where I make calls and network and apply for every position I’m even remotely qualified for in Hawaii, US Samoa and the US Virgin Islands. I was saving my rejection notices but decided they took up too much memory.  I offered to relocate myself, even, and still nobody thinks I’m qualified to be a Bank President or IT Specialist. Hey, I go to the bank and I use a computer. What’s to know?

So I sit by the phone waiting to hear if I’m the new Director of Engineering. I learned from the best. My dad could fix anything with a fork and a roll of electrical tape. I can alternatively engineer just about anything. If I’m turned down I may apply for the Pediatrician position. Doctor Granny at your service with special medicine you can only get in the mountains.

In the meanwhile, which would you prefer to read about in future blogs?

Project One – Economic Experiment

I’ve heard from those more financially successful than I, that one can make a profit by buying items then selling them for more than one bought them for. I propose in a very small way, to begin with something inexpensive and see if I can resell it for more, then use to money to buy something better and repeat the process until I fail or have to pay taxes, whichever comes first.

Project Two – Audition Tips

Over the years working entertainment for a variety of companies, I have some sensible advice for those who wish to audition for things like them parks and cruise ships or even community theater. It seems that people miss the obvious sometimes- things like Sing Something You Know and Take A Shower Before Your Audition. If we can smell you, we can’t sell you. 

So, if you don’t mind, leave a response if you have an opinion and sometime tomorrow between my many (zero at this point but I’m optimistic) important interviews, I shall respond.

Many thanks, and off to Pound The Pavement (okay I’m taking a nap for real)

Dad and Women

Lately my 79 year old dad’s been having health concerns that require multiple doctor visits and tests. Since he can’t (or chooses not to) keep up with anything other than the football schedule, and his driving presents a danger to all on or near the road, I’ve been taking him to his appointments.

In the very first waiting room, an attractive and well-dressed woman somewhere near Pop’s age sat across from us and made conversation, clearly interested in him, almost flirting. She had a lovely smile and I liked her right away. Dad didn’t even notice the woman, barely replied and I doubt if he made eye contact. I did, smiling and chatting with her, but he was in his own world probably wishing he was anyplace but there.

Dad is no slave to fashion or convention. He was wearing a wrinkled dress shirt with paint on the sleeve, even though he owns a whole wardrobe of very nice clothes purchased by my stylish sister, because, he simply explained, he liked the shirt. His pants were three sizes too big, held up by a belt barely doing its job, cuffs dragging the floor. He carried a nice woolen sport coat, his proudest purchase from the nearby Goodwill store. His short white hair looked like he combed it sometime earlier in the week. He had taken a shower but there was little evidence of it. He has dentures but won’t wear them so you can picture that. And he’s about 125 pounds soaking wet, not tall and much too thin, probably from refusing to wear his teeth. He looks like a scrappy tramp, kind of like Red Skelton’s character minus the hat.

So why, I had to wonder, did this well-appointed woman pay so much attention to my dad? I wouldn’t think he’d be much of a good catch. I love my dad. He has many admirable qualities but none of them would have been apparent in the waiting room. Who wants to be Mrs. Skinny Hobo?

My mom did, I suppose, over fifty years ago.  She said he was a better looking fellow back then, very handsome and clean and always brushed his teeth. Hmm… makes me wonder what the other men were like. Anyway, Mom and Dad are still married but live life apart. She’s away in a nursing facility because she requires medical care around the clock. He lives alone in a small house not too far from us. But neither of them is looking for a replacement spouse. Dad says he loves mom and always will but the ring on his married finger looks nothing like a wedding band. Maybe that’s why he’s taken for an eccentric bachelor who might improve with extensive TLC.

On the way home, I asked Dad why he didn’t talk to the nice lady who was flirting with him. I told him he could have at least been polite. He looked at me like I was speaking Chinese. “Huh?” he said, surprised, “She was?” I pointed out the obvious and he looked out the window and said he hadn’t noticed.

I complained about the shirt with paint on it so Dad looked better at the next appointment. He still wouldn’t wear his teeth and hadn’t shaved but his clothes fit a little better and there were no paint spills down the sleeve. Sure enough, we hadn’t been in the waiting room two minutes before an elderly lady tottered in, sat down nearby and said hello. I gave Dad the elbow. “Seeee!” I whispered.

He looked up, gave a polite smile, and nodded off in his chair. I grabbed the back of his hoodie and held him upright until his name was called. I enjoyed talking with the sweet lady who was even prettier than the first one.

I’ll spare you the next account but the same thing happened, more or less. I doubt the lady noticed Dad’s pink, red and white socks above his sneakers and below the bottom of his pants that actually fit. Why he’s wearing ladies wicked-witch-of-the-east socks is no mystery. He said they felt good, just like going without teeth and wearing a painted shirt. I guess that explains a family picture from my childhood in which we only noticed as adults that Pop was wearing nice slacks, a fashionable men’s sweater, and mom’s flat pointy-toed shoes. They felt good.

The next appointment was just as entertaining. Pop wore an attention-grabbing Gators ball cap somebody gave him. It had a little alligator with big teeth embroidered on top that said, “Bite Me!” It went nicely with his sweat pants and dress shirt. And another lady paid attention to him.

So what’s the deal? Is being yourself attractive? Is it being aloof that appeals to women? It works for guys in high school. Their silence allows girls to imagine they are mysterious and brimming with romantic ideas. Deep thoughts are attributed to silent men, when they’re really thinking things like, “Where’s the remote?” and “I need to scratch.” 

I don’t believe that loneliness alone would drive a woman to pay special attention to a man who sleeps when spoken to so I asked some people who know my dad what would possess a nice woman to pay him special attention. “He’s little, he looks loveable,” said one person. “Your father’s still a handsome man,” said another.  I’ll let you know how the next appointment goes.