Nigeria- Part 6

10:30 AM... 11:30AM... 12:30PM... Show... Shower... Bribe... Fly

At 10:30AM, the PM and TM of both Shakira and UB40 cornered the promoter PM to get a status report. “Well, we’re working on it, but if you guys want to pack up and go, I completely understand, what can you do?” It was at about this time that the promoter showed up on site and stepped into the conversation.

“This is like a dagger in my heart,” Started the promoter. He was dressed in his best traditional Nigerian outfit, “What can we do to make this right?” He asked our PM as he pulled him aside into a private conversation. Our TM pulled out his phone and called Shakira’s assistant.

“Hey, it’s me. Tell Shaki this situation is bad. And I mean really bad. Ask her if she wants to play. Tell her, it’s not going to sound right, there will be no lighting. We’ll be lucky if we can get all the band gear up and she’ll have to modify her set list. Ask her. We would prefer if she would say no.”

There were a few moments of silence before he chimed in, “She does. Okay. Well, I’ll call you back in an hour and check again. If the situation here improves we may be in business, if not, we’ll ask her again to say no.” The TM turned to the crew who had gathered, “She really wants to play this show. She wants to make sure we have done everything in our power to make this happen. All of you come back here at 11:30AM. Keep an eye on your department and report back to me then.” He went off in search of our PM.

“Keep an eye on my department,” I thought to myself, “Well, the rig is still not in the air. And I don’t want to climb that ladder again. I’ll go find someone in charge.” I set off to find the programmer I had spoken to last night.

While on my search I again heard, “1…2…3… Go!” Snap Whirr…. The rig motors sprung to life and the lighting rig began again to climb to the ceiling. I look upstage and out came our rigger from where the fountain of sparks emanated earlier. He was sweating and had black dirt streaks across his forehead and cheek. Screwdriver in hand, he had successfully fixed the motor control and off went the rig. It was finally at trim, 10:45AM, morning of the show.

A tap on my shoulder, “Hey Man,” it was the programmer from the night before, “I’ve got some bad news, this morning, when I turned on the console, it kept crashing from your show file. So I had to erase the memory. Can you go reload and repatch your show?” I looked at my watch, I looked at him, I looked at the tent-like roof of the building. Sunlight refracted through and lit the entire room in a white glow.

“Yeah,” I responded, “It’s already 3 hours before we play, the rig just go to trim and I have to start over from scratch. What’s the point? We play at 1:30PM and this place will be full of sun. I think I’ll pass, you do what you gotta do for tonight’s acts.”

“Thanks, because they hung all the lights in the wrong places so I have to crawl up into the rig and figure out what is patched where.”

Organization was not high on the list for this show.

I walked back to our TM to file my report, and he was standing there with the PM and the UB40 guys. “It will take us a minimum, MINUMUM, 2 hours to unload our truck and get all the gear on stage,” spoke our PM, “Which means at 11:30 we either start dumping trucks or we learn how to drive these since we have no drivers.”

“Funny thing,” Chimed in the PM for UB40, “We already dumped our trucks, but we need to start setting up now if we are to play at 12:30PM.” We have our shipping guy here and he has extra trucks and drivers if you guys need to cross load your gear to his extra trucks and leave, we’ll help.”

“Awesome. At 11:30 we’ll find the promoter and tell him, he has to choose, UB40 or Shakira. One of us goes home and doesn’t play, and the other plays at the 1:30PM time slot.”

While this conversation was going on, work continued at a furious pace. Although, most of the work was being done by our own crew. One of the sound guys had run the power to the stage right speakers; the other had rewired all the power so nothing would blow up again, The carpenters and riggers were helping lay down the flooring for the stage and securing the lighting rig.

Other things were getting done, although some of it less than important. The lighting designer for the festival had been absent since I arrived, and now was on stage focusing lights. In a bit of brilliance, he had a guy up in a cherry picker with the cherry picker out in the audience with people sitting in chairs underneath him!

This is something that I think I’ll save for another blog, but something that always bothered me. In this touring business, there are people who do really stupid things to keep their phony baloney jobs. Like focusing with a cherry picker while the audience sits underneath.

Beyond that, people were running around putting up 7’ tall fences to block off the three different sections of the audience. Obviously the cheap seats were in the back, and the fancy pants expensive seats with exclusive bars were in the front. All in all I think the whole room held about 9 or 10 thousand seats, and no bathrooms. Not a one. Outside they had porta-johns. But it didn’t matter because the men where just relieving themselves on the brick wall that surrounded the building. They needed the “Do not urinate. Do not defecate. Keep Nigeria Clean!” signs. And they got the air conditioning to work backstage. Off and on at least.

11:30 rolled around and the big wigs of Shakria and UB40 confronted the promoters PM. “It’s 11:30, by now, we only have time to set up one band or the other. Who will it be Shakira or UB40?” Everyone had their fingers crossed, hoping they’d pick the other so they could pack up and leave.

“We have to go with Shakira,” Said the promoter PM. I could see the UB40 crew mentally high fiving each other and pumping their fists. I could have sworn I heard one of them say, “Yessss!” under his breath.

Across the aisle, faces drooped in the Shakira camp. We knew Shaki wouldn’t give this one up. “Fine, we’ll start dumping our trucks,” Said our PM, “And at 12:30 we need to have the stage ready and noise coming out of the speakers or we put the gear back on the truck and leave.”

“You’re right, you’re right, I know your right. I’ll go tell the promoter of our decision.” The promoter PM walked over to the promoter and started to tell him the situation. The UB40 guys quickly repacked their gear and started pushing it out to the trucks. The promoter, watching all of this happen, made a small hand gesture to one of the armed security guys who came over.

A brief conversation ensued and the armed guard walked away. Moments later, he returned with 4 other men in uniform. It said, “NPF” on the their uniforms which I found out was for “Nigerian Police Force”.

When we think of police force, we think of guys in the same uniforms with all the same side arms. Oh no, not the Nigeria Police Force, the only thing that matched on them was the shirt. They all had khaki button shirts with shoulder boards. The leader having sergeant cheverons on his. But that was it. Two had black pants, one had green, and the other two had tan. And for you gun nuts, none of those were the same either. Rusted AK-47’s were the choice of the day. Although the sergeant had a nice AK-74 and one fellow had a FAL. It felt like, “If you own a gun and nice pants, we’ll give you shirt and you can be a policeman.”

These 5 men proceeded to guard our trucks and block our escape route. It was not a good situation. You could tell the promoter told them, “Do not let anyone leave.” It was at this point I began the email on my cell phone to Nicole, “Honey, I love you. Give my hockey jerseys to Matt, my camouflage to Ray, and all the cycling stuff to Marc. Take care of the cats and dog. Be safe. Don’t marry any one else.” I’ll push ‘send’ when it becomes time.

The TM once again called Shakira’s assistant. “UB40 dropped out. We now have a one hour window for them to get their s**t together. At 12:30 we either load the trucks or put the gear on the stage. They are dumping the trucks now. Are you sure Shakira wants to play? It’s not gonna sound good. She’s not gonna hear herself well. No lighting.” Another long pause, “Okay, well I’ll call you back in an hour with an update.” He turned to us, “She really wants to play. She wants us to do everything we can to make this show happen.”

Suddenly, there was a loud hiss. The speakers had popped to life! Sound was hooked up! A step in the right direction! Then a crackle. Then a pop. Then silence. The promoter PM came running over, “Not to worry! Not to worry! Sound system is fine, we just have to disconnect the power and re-run the cable.” We couldn’t prevent the frown on our faces.

The crew began to dump the trucks, and seeing as I had the day off, I helped in the wardrobe and catering area. Alright, I’ll admit, I was only helping there because they had the air conditioning working. The caterers kept bringing boxes full of stuff. Water, candy, chips, soda. But nothing substantial for the crew to eat. I ran around handing out water and candy to the guys out in the sun. None of us had eaten since leaving the hotel and it looked like work wasn’t going to stop until we boarded the plane home at midnight. So candy and coke will have to do.

By 12:30PM the trucks were dumped. All the gear was side stage and we waited for the word. The TM came over, “She’s getting in the car now, she’s on her way over… GO!”

The PM grabbed some stagehands and the forklift and started putting boxes on stage. Backline sprang into action, grabbing cases and pulling out guitars and drums. The carpenters pushed risers into place. “No sound check today boys! We plug it in, hope it works and start playing songs!” Sound guys ran microphone cables on stage. Plugged in amplifiers. Chaos was happening as we had one hour to set it up, get the band on stage and get Shakira singing, whether she could hear herself or not.

And all this time, I stood there. Usually in this situation, I’d be out in the audience at the lighting console putting together lighting looks. But as I stood on side stage, I looked up to see the programmer crawling around in the lighting rig with paper and pen. Still trying to figure out what lights got hung where.

“Hey Dan, can you help me a sec?” I looked over to see Vish standing there with a coil of cable, “Can I hand this to you and can you run the end out to the keyboards?” I bolted into action! Something to do! I ran onto stage, grabbed the coil and ran it out. I brought the end back to Vish, handing it to him proudly. “Nice job,” he said with a coy smile, “but I need the other end. This end goes to the keyboards.”

And that’s why I don’t do sound.

I began to run around and help other people out. I set up drums, pushed empty cases to the backstage. What ever I could to help. I asked the PM what can I do during the show, seeing as I wasn’t going to be running lights. “Help Steve on stage right with guitar changes.”

I moved into position. The band had just shown up, and like all musicians wanted to start noodling on their instruments. “Nothing is set up yet, just wait,” said the PM.

Then Shakira showed up. I don’t know if any of you have ever seen videos of when people like The Beatles would show up and there would be mobs of fans being held back by police with linked arms. Well when Shakira showed up we had a similar situation. Except the linked arm policemen were holding back the crew and preventing us from loading in.

I looked at my watch as the last microphone was plugged in and the speaker system sprang to life, it was 1:45, we were running late. “Go go go!” I heard the PM yelling as he pushed band members out on stage. Like a squad leader pushing parachute soldiers out of a plane.

They ran out there and started playing the intro to the first song. The audience was already in, they had been since 10:00AM, but they had no idea the show was starting. Even the sound engineer had no idea the show had started. He brought the sound up in the house, then brought it out and then back again. The band kept looking around and pointing at their ears, they too, couldn’t hear sound. As the intro wound down, Shakira, surrounded by her arm-linked security protection bubble, ran onto stage. “Hello, Lagos!” She shouted and everyone stood up and cheered. The entire band gave the thumbs up as did Shakira, and the music blared into the audience. Finally, everyone was on the same page. The show had started.

But no one knew what songs were coming up because Shaki kept changing the set list. She was cutting songs out of the show because we were late. She had to stop at 2:30 in order to catch her charter flight out at 4:30. I stood on stage watching the guitarist and watching his tech. When a song started, the tech would grab a guitar and run on stage to hand it to the guitarist. When there was an awkward three guitar change, I helped out.

The show ended much like it began, no one knew it was over, until Shakira’s private car drove off the lot. The band stopped playing and waved good bye, the crowd stopped cheering and sat back down. And the crew began running around unplugging things and putting away instruments. I helped pull microphones down. I put away bongo drums. And when every case was packed, I ran to the shuttle bus and got back to the hotel.

We had made it. The show went off, I did no work, and you would never have known how bad the situation was. We didn’t care about the next act (John Legend) or if he could get his gear to work. We just wanted out.

I got back to the hotel and went straight to my room. All day in no air conditioning in “Africa hot” can cause you to sweat just a little. I needed a shower. I swiped my card, opened my hotel room door to be met with a blast of stale humid air. I looked down and someone had passed three notes under my door.

The first one read, “Due to the complete sell out of the hotel tonight and tomorrow night, no one will be allowed to extend their stay. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.”

The second note read, “Attention all band and crew. Check out time will be 6 PM, due to the fact that the hotel is completely sold out and we cannot have a later check out. The airport shuttle will not be leaving until 8PM, so please make arrangements. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.”

The third note read, “Due to an upgrade on our generator and power grid, the power will be turned off all day on Sunday. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.”

Great, dripping sweat, hot humid room and no power. I had to be out of the hotel room in a couple of hours, only to sit at in the humid lobby or the humid restaurant. I double checked the light switch in the bathroom. No lights. UUUUUGH, the final insult to the day.

I grabbed my flashlight and pointed at the ceiling in the bathroom. I kicked on the water, and thankfully the hot tap was still working. I told a good shower. Washing away the grime of the day trying to forget the men with guns and the whole day. I finished, got out and toweled off. But it didn’t feel like I got any drier. My skin was so warm, the humidity kept condensing on me. It was like sweating. I gave up. I wasn’t going to feel dry. I pulled on my clothes, locked my bag and went down stairs.

As fate would have it, there were still a few good moments left to happen before I left Nigeria. I didn’t have to pay my hotel bill. As an apology gift for everyone from the promoter, he paid for all the food bills and tabs at the hotel.

I was also some how miraculously able to get through customs at the airport without bribing anyone. The spooky airport didn’t have any X-ray machines for the luggage. Instead each piece was hand inspected by the “NPF”, prior to you checking in. I zipped open my bag, the guy looked around, tossed about some of the sweat drenched clothes and let me zipped the bag back up. But the sound guy was not so lucky. He had a Turkish silver tea set in his bag he had bought in Istanbul. “Where did you get this?” The NPF officer questioned.

“Bought it in Istanbul before we came here.”

“How much did you pay?”

“I dunno, couple hundred Turkish Lira I think?”

“There is a 200 dollar tax to take this out of the country.”

“Excuse me? A tax?”

“Yes, duty tax. 200 dollars.”

“I don’t have 200 dollars. Plus I bought this in Turkey, why do I have to pay a duty?”

“Ok, 100 dollars.”

“Look, I haven’t got any money.”

“20 dollars? Anything you got,” and then NPF officer said something I’ll never forget, “What ever you got that help my family.” Can you say, bribe?

“Look I haven’t got any money, I spent it all in Turkey,” was the clever answer the sound guy gave.

“Very well, you can go.”

Other crew members were shaken down at the immigration desk. You had to fill out a shady immigration form that listed how much cash of each type you were carrying out of the country. It seemed anyone who had listed a substantial amount were asked to pay another “duty tax”.

I just wanted on the plane, I wanted out. 48 hours in Nigeria was enough. We got on the plane in the standard “Euro barge” way. For those who have never experienced it, most European airlines board the same way. They make the announcement, “Okay plane is ready to board,” And everyone stands up and makes for the jet way. There is no board by rows or zones. No, small children and elderly first. It’s one call and every man for themselves.

As we rumbled down the bumpy runway, I almost cried. I thought I would never make it out of Nigeria, at least not on time. As the plane tilted back and the last wheel left the ground, I could finally relax, and fell fast asleep.