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????)