Roadies: The Secret History of Australian Rock'n'Roll

by Stuart Coupe

The mantra of the organisation is that a roadie should call another roadie each week and check in on them, and this – along with financial assistance, in conjunction with the Support Act organisation – has dramatically reduced the suicide rate.

This was the early days for Australian roadies: Freeman estimates that there were maybe 20 in the country. In fact, everything about the Australian music industry was rudimentary – the equipment, the management, the booking agencies. Everyone was making it up as they went along. It was a world of attitude-strong cowboys blazing a trail.

‘They get a certificate saying they’re qualified in “Event Management” and all they end up doing is fucking Carols By Candlelight at a local football oval or some other event in the middle of nowhere.

‘So, embrace and enthuse – that’s the point. And contain people. It doesn’t matter how many event courses you do and how many universities and colleges you go to, unless they teach you how to interact with humanity and how to treat people and what to watch for, and seeing who’s whingeing and who’s not whingeing and working out why, and getting that balance right, you’ll never be able to do this. That’s what you do. You use people and you get the best out of people.’

‘You look at guys like Pat Pickett, who worked for AC/DC. He was one of the prime sources of humanity in this business, and then he dies in a pub, in a room above the hotel where he lived and wired up the PA there twice a week to pay his fucking rent. All he had was some jeans and a book of poetry. No one embraced him and said, “How you doing?” That’s the disappointing thing … people who worked on the road not having enough money to live on or survive.’

‘You live the Peter Pan lifestyle, and you work with young people and it keeps you mentally fresh, your attitude stays fresh. You can’t be bitter. If you’re bitter and twisted and grumpy, then stay the fuck at home. When you go to work every day, make sure you smile.’

‘But this was great. If you got back from your band what you put in, you didn’t give a shit what you were paid. You were helping them put on a great show. Of course we wanted more money, but they couldn’t give it to you if they didn’t have it. And they had a lot of expenses – PA hire, lighting hire, truck hire, booking and management commissions and everything else.

‘House lights down before the show starts – that’s the biggest buzz for the lighting guy. And the call from backstage saying the band are ready. Then they ask if you’re ready, and then, as the lighting guy, you get to call house lights down and the crowd goes wild and the hairs on your arms rise up. Then the lights come up and away you go. It’s that amazing buzz. Anticipation and excitement. Everyone is there to see their favourite band. You get to pick up on all that, being out front as the lighting guy. You pick up on all that energy.

‘I’m not saying it was like climbing Everest, but it was enjoyable, satisfying, challenging and addictive. It’s an adrenaline thing. House lights down, the band walks on … it’s a drug. You can’t get away from that.

“Where’s Dad?” “He’s on tour with some famous band.” If you don’t know the lifestyle, then that seems exciting, but people who don’t live in that world have no understanding of what road crews do for a living and how unglamorous it really is.

unless we bring people into the industry, and train them and give them an apprenticeship and a career path, then when this generation of road crew disappears, what are we going to do?’

‘Creatively, we were all enjoying the bands we were seeing and the work we were doing. Everywhere we went, we set up to the best of our ability, made it look and sound the best it could. The stage guys made the band feel comfortable and they had good gigs. All the time you could go anywhere and see great gigs. A lot of bands became famous because of what crews did at gigs. People saw the live shows and went and bought the records.

‘There was a camaraderie that happened between crew and bands. It was family. You were always looking out for each other. One way to describe it is that we all built the industry with our bare hands.’

Whilst not the same - I feel similarity between gbis and music photographers.

He was big. He was strong. He had a van.

Andy Kent took three steps backwards, as he’d seen the look on my face and knew what was coming next. I just turned to the crew guy and very calmly looked at him and said – very evenly – “You need to shut the fuck up right now. I do not tell you how to do your fucking job, and do not tell me how to do mine.”

They see us walking into the office and working on stuff that’s not related to what’s going on then. That’s because it’s all done, and it’s their job to do what they need to do and yours to work on what’s coming up.’

Sounds like development management - or well, any management.