I hate New Years Eve. With a passion. And that’s just for a “typical” New Years.

New Years Eve, 2008:

7PM show

Instead of the usual canned opening announcement, John goes live in order to give the crowd the kind of New Years Eve greeting for which they’ve paid. “Peter Gunn” is cued up tight. Not a millisecond of dead air between his last “…Babylon!!” and the downbeat of “Gunn” from the iMac. We’re rockin’ now baby.

The show goes well, the crowd is enthusiastic but not too juiced, despite the cheap champaign. Nary a “toot” is heard from the noise makers, a party favor provided to the New Years revelers that has always been a bane of my existence.

After a relatively short run-through that afternoon of the special New Years Eve tag (after several days previous of programming and rehearsal), it seems as if this might be not too bad a night – as New Years Eves go.

It didn’t feel right.

Still, a nice standing “O” for 7PM and a crowd that generally appears ready to go get stupid drunk somewhere else.

What could possibly go wrong?

10:15 PM Show
Boom!

Nobody’s going to accuse a guy for running too loud on New Years Eve. The crowd for this show comes ready to party. This is where they’ve come, those so inclined, to get stupid drunk – part of the hundred-and-something ticket includes a bottomless glass of sweet champaign. In oneness with the boisterous crowd (that includes former Secretary of State George Schultz), I feel myself leaning into the gas peddle of the sound system – let’s open ‘er up and see what she can do!

This isn’t a blue-haired matinee crowd, these people are loud. I’m louder.

On New Years Eve, this is my job.

At the end of the second show comes the pinnacle of the evening, the cous de gras, the much-anticipated New Years Eve Tag.

This year the tag was “all live” instead of one short live song followed by playback of the current popular and very annoying song edited to go on for eternity (at least 7 minutes) as backdrop for people parading around onstage dressed in the current events of the waning year. Sound for this tag is no backdrop. Hello Mr. Soundman.

Not only is it live, the bit ends with all hands on deck, all mics on stage. By the end of the number, if a mic isn’t turned up to eleven, it means that its turned up to twelve (see “Spinal Tap”).

Pay no attention to the man in the little booth, because he’s got both hands on every mic input and sub-mix possible, at any moment the whole damn thing could go wildly out of control. It just me n’ my baby now.

We’re livin’ on the edge.

The sound of the talented cast and band fill every space and waft toward the heavens with Beach Blanket Babylon’s own special New Years Eve version of Le Miserable’s closing of Act 1. Shivers run up my own spine, dad gummit.

The piece is intended, in its own way, to evoke the spirit of the election of Barack Obama – that being the spirit of hope, of a better day tomorrow – and, perhaps accidently, strives toward true inspiration. It’s a moment in any case. One where everyone is at their best, pushing it just enough to make it something that’s never been seen before on that stage, or anywhere else.

There is a gasp from the crowd, a momentary silence, followed by an uproarious ovation, sending forth an adrenalin rush that courses through my veins in spite of my loathsome disdain for the holiday. The moment allows me full access to my emotional attachment to the sound, the music, the collaboration, and the response. This is why I do this stuff anyway, right?

Gosh, this New Years Eve might be one of the best ever!

After Party (thump-thump)

It’s all downhill from here (foreshadow). The hard part is done.

Happy New Year, I’ve made it! All I need to do now is sit around watching people stumble around while a couple CD’s worth of thump-thump music plays for the amateurs “dancing the night away”.

What could possibly go wrong?

Present for the second show, tag, and after party is my colleague and friend, David Allen. Called to work for no particular reason and for any reason, he is the second for the evening, ready to move at a moment’s notice as the situation may require.

Ten minutes in…

I look at the board clock, 12:15, still a-ways to go, but it’s just a babysitting job from here on in. I’m kicked back in my chair in the booth, anticipating the trip backstage with the mic case, through the blatantly drinking crowd, to collect and store the wireless mics.

I can wait a minute or two longer, the mics aren’t going anywhere, nor are the people.

Seconds later a huge raptor shits on my head. At least that’s what it felt like. With that feeling came a loud SPLOP! directly in front of me.

Things start moving in slow motion. For what seems like several seconds (a few milliseconds?) I sit, stunned. What the….??

I look up, no huge raptor. Nobody. Nothing.

I look down. The entire right side of my Yamaha M7CL-32 digital mixing console – my baby – is covered in liquid.

I feebly lurch for some paper towels and cocktail napkins, the panic brings me clumsily to my feet.

I look over to David, screeching “G.., Get a towel!!!”

David overcomes his own momentary disbelief at the cruel fate life can hand down from on high, with not even a whisper of a moment’s notice, nor any clue of the cause. Just because. As he finishes processing this, he looks up at me and asks, “A, A towel”?

Darkness and panic close in. “I need a towel!”

David is gone in a flash to retrieve a towel, I do what I can with the paper towels, cocktail napkins, and now an old rag.

“I’ve got to shut down. This is bad. Nobody gets to dance now.” I turn down the music. It doesn’t really matter if I turn it down. With a digital board, if it still passes audio, turning it down isn’t going to save it, turning it up isn’t going to hurt it any more. Still - “Nobody gets to dance and I’ve got to shut down NOW!!!”

But it isn’t my decision to make. There are orders of authority, people in charge. I’m not in charge.

David comes back with two bar towels and I tell him to get John. “Let him know I have a… problem”.

John and Linc, the general manager arrive at the sound booth. John is ready to allow me to shut down, but this night it is Linc who makes the call to remain up.

Linc, of course, has a different picture of the situation than I do. The M7 is a tool and an asset. Something insurable and replaceable.

But it is my baby. Blood, sweat and tears – all three have been shed for this board to be here.

During the commotion, attracted by the lowered music, a drunken stranger with a foolish grin on his face takes his place at the row of people now gathered around me, not two feet away, while I stand hopeless and trapped in my little sound booth, watching my baby lay wounded and hurting. “Saaayyy!!!,says the drunken stranger,”Not bhad, but howsa ‘bouught twiice ahs muuch? You gahdda tuurbo button (hic)?”

The man is well beyond getting a hint or a clue, and everybody else is tolerating him. In frustration I bark “Get this guy away from me!”

I’ve been in this 4X6 sound booth at least six hours now. I’m wondering where the firggin’ Red Cross is for guys like me that have to endure this kind of torture. People are crowded around. They are sucking my oxygen. I can’t breath. Some wander over and ask for the music to go louder. I’m trapped.

I’m oughta here, this is bullshit, I think. “I’ve got to get out of here”

“Yes, Tom, I think that’s a good idea.”

Leaving, I add to the holiday spirit, saying, “I am completely disgusted”.

For I was.

I made my way through the party-goers to the green room. Scared away the three people already there, and sat alone in the green room.

I think to myself, “Did I just put in all this effort, do the best I could, give one more year of my life to the sound system for this funky little show… for this? To have my primary tool, my ax – my baby – completely abused by some nameless, faceless, and graceless drunk? HUH?

Yes. The answer is yes.

So I sit alone while the party bumps along downstairs, trying to decompress and get over myself. A daunting task.

After about 40 minutes Jayne comes up and gives me a hug. Instead of being mad because nobody knew where I had gone, she is just glad that I am safe and with her.

And she got it about baby.

I, of course, realize what a great New Years Eve it really is just for that…

What, are you crazy?

This New Years Eve sucked. Big time.

But I am still a very lucky guy.

Not so much for a certain sound board.

To the man or woman that deluged myself and every piece of equipment in my sound booth with your foul liquid; that made ground zero my baby; who must have known what they had done and chose to be a coward about, I say: A pox on all your electronics. May you wither in tech support hell.

Good day, and Happy New Year.

Until next New Years Eve…