Some days I’d wake up and not even be sure what city I was in. That’s not so unusual when you tour with a rock and roll band, but as tour manager it was my job to know. It was my job to know lots of things, the hotels, the arenas, the caterers, the VIP list, the police department, and the security staff and, on unpleasant occasions, the people who could do us special favors. I usually knew what time the sound checks were at every place we played. But, as I learned, sometimes an occasional fuckup can be just what you needed.

I was buried in shit that morning. The hotel in Cleveland had cancelled our reservations because our lead guitarist had trashed his room the last time he stayed there. The Chicago caterer was having trouble finding the exotic fish our prima donna lead singer insisted she had to eat each Friday on her weird diet. To top it all off, I’d just found out that our drummer was getting hit with a paternity suit from some kid who allegedly fucked him last time we were in Buffalo. It was only a little after noon and my head was spinning. Maybe that’s why I thought we had a noon sound check today. I’d already decided to blow it off, if they needed me they’d call. They always did, day or night.

When we’d check into a hotel, I’d always get a key for each room. In this biz, you got to be able to raise the dead, the comatose, and the brain-fried. I won’t even go into the room trashings and other horror shows that keep me running all hours of the night. Let’s just say, I need a key to each tour member’s room so that I can get things fixed before they get out of hand.