They drove into the desert, leaving the Las Vegas area behind and traveled for more than forty miles before coming into Indian Springs. The town itself was very small and they passed through it in less than three minutes, emerging out the other side into even more desert, all of which was owned by the BLM. About five minutes later they began to near the brand-new venue that had been built specifically for occasions such as the TSF. The campgrounds came first. There were several of them and all were filled to capacity with RVs, campers, trailers, and even some tents. Next came the parking areas, which were already filling to their capacity. A line of cars more than half a mile long hugged the right shoulder of the road, creeping slowly along, waiting their turn to enter the parking lot. When they finally passed the main entrance to one of the lots, Jake saw that Music Alive was charging thirty dollars per car to park. Next, they passed the primary gate that admitted concertgoers to the show. The gates would not be opened until 10:00 AM, with the first band scheduled to start at noon, but already there were thousands of people waiting in lines that stretched out in both directions. And all of them had paid a minimum of ninety dollars for their tickets. Many had paid much more.
“I can see how Music Alive is making money on this gig,” Celia said as they took in the crowd.
“It kind of makes me think they should have paid me more,” Jake said.
The limo turned onto a gated road that had two armed security staff guarding it. The limo driver stopped, rolled down his window, and showed an access pass to one of the guards. They were then allowed to proceed. The drove along the smooth, recently laid pavement for another few minutes and then came out in a large areas where dozens of fifth-wheel trailers had been set up. The limo stopped in front of one of them and the driver got out to open the door. Everyone piled out. A gruff looking man with a pass around his neck was waiting for them.
“Welcome to Band Town,” the man said. “I’m Roger Wilson, head of band security and housing.”
“Jake Kingsley,” Jake said, shaking with him.
“We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Kingsley,” Wilson said. “You’ll be here, in trailer 13. You can access it by the keypad on the door. Your code is one four four one.” He handed out slips of paper with that code number written on it to everyone.
“Thanks,” Jake said.
“No problem, sir,” Wilson said. “Your sound check is scheduled for 8:30 on Stage 2. You will have twenty-five minutes to complete it.”
“Twenty-five minutes?” Nerdly and Sharon both cried in unison.
“Twenty-five minutes,” Wilson confirmed. “Matt Tisdale is scheduled for his sound check on Stage 1 at nine o’clock, so you must have yours completed by 8:55 so his crew can run their wiring to the sound board. Is that a problem?”
“Yes, it’s a problem,” Nerdly said indignantly. “There is no way we can complete an adequate sound check at a new venue in only twenty-five minutes. It’s impossible.”
He received no sympathy from Wilson. “You’re gonna have to make it possible,” he said. “We will disconnect your wires from the sound board at 8:55. That is a hard deadline, my friend.”
Nerdly opened his mouth to say something else, but Jake stepped up.
“It’s okay, Nerdly,” he said. “We can make it work. It’s an amphitheater, remember. There are no walls to absorb or reflect the sound. All we need to do is match levels on all the mics and instruments.”
“All we need to do?” Nerdly asked. “That is the most critical part of the process.”
“We’ll get it done,” Jake assured him. “I have confidence in you. You work well under pressure.”
“Well ... I suppose,” Nerdly said.
“Someone will come and get you around 8:15 to escort you to the stage,” Wilson said. “Be ready to go when he gets here.”
“Will do,” Jake said.
And with that, Wilson wandered off, heading for the other side of Band City, probably to get ready for the arrival of Matt and his band. If Jerry Stillson knew his stuff, and it certainly seemed as if he did, Matt would be housed as far away as it was possible to get from Jake.
“Are we going to have time to run through Blur at least once?” Laura asked. She was holding the case that contained her soprano sax, having carried it with her all the way from Poland.
“Sorry, hon, but I don’t think so,” Jake told her.
“Well ... that’s disconcerting,” she said nervously.
“It is, but I have confidence in you too. We’ve all been rehearsing the tune and will play it just like the studio version. And you’ve been rehearsing your part. We’ll pull it off.”
She nodded, unhappy, but determined.
“Come on,” Jake told everyone. “Let’s check out the accommodations.”
The accommodations were nice, but kind of cramped for thirteen people. There was power provided by a 220-volt hookup, air conditioning powered by large propane tanks, and a working refrigerator full of beer, bottled water, Gatorade, and soda. An ice machine was churning out cubes in the freezer in case anyone wanted to make a mixed drink from the supplies in the well-stocked bar. There were a few couches, a bathroom with a shower, and several beds. A television with DirecTV service was mounted on one wall. Everyone found a place to settle in and they began to wait. Ted told them a story about a call he had been on once in which a man in a trailer similar to the one blew the entire thing to pieces when he lit a cigarette while the propane system was leaking.
“Motherfucker looked like Wile E. Coyote after one of his Acme products went bad,” Ted said.
“He wasn’t dead?” asked G.
“Naw,” Ted said, “just singed. If you’re gonna be in an explosion, that’s the way to do it. The force radiates out from the ignition point, which was his cigarette in his mouth. Blew the fuckin’ trailer apart but left him just standing there with flash burns.”
“That’s some shit,” G said respectfully. He, like Jake, had learned during the rehearsal sessions to morbidly appreciate Ted’s stories.
“The funny thing is,” Ted added, “is that he was smoking the cigarette when we got there. The explosion actually lit it for him.”
At precisely 8:15 AM, there was a knock on the door. One of the security team was there and he handed all of them all-access passes to wear around their necks. He then led them on the short walk to the backstage area of Stage 2. The temperature was warming up as they made the walk and they could hear guitar chords and vocalizations chopping through the air from Stage 1. It was Pantera, the band performing before Jake, finishing up their sound check.
“Dimebag Darrel,” Jake said with a shake of his head as a guitar riff sounded out. “He tries so hard to play like Matt and like Kirk Hammett, but he just can’t seem to pull it off.”
“Did you hear about Phil Anselmo?” asked Ted, referring to Pantera’s lead singer.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “He overdosed on heroin a couple months back. They say he was clinically dead for a few minutes.”
“I heard he still made the next gig though,” Obie said.
“You gotta respect that, I guess,” Jake said.
“The fuckin’ show must go on,” G said.
They were led up onto the stage they would be performing on in twelve more hours. Their crew was already there, as were their instruments and equipment. Ted’s drum set was assembled and resting on its wheeled platform, all of the microphones positioned as they were in the rehearsal studio. Jake had three guitars, his Fender acoustic/electric, his black and white Les Paul tuned to standard, and his sunburst Les Paul tuned to drop-D. Lenny had four guitars, two Brogans, a Telecaster, and a Marshall acoustic. Ben had his Brogan bass. Natalie had her performance violin. G had a Marshall synthesizer with a dedicated electric piano keyboard. Pauline and Phil had dedicated microphones just to the left of the drum platform. And G had a microphone mounted at face level on his keyboard.