The Unwritten Rules (Every Production Worker Knows These. Now You Do Too.)

Every profession has them — the things that are never in any manual, never covered in any orientation, never explained by anyone directly, that you are nonetheless expected to know and follow. Law firms have them. Restaurant kitchens have them in abundance. Live event production has approximately ten thousand of them, accumulated over decades of collective experience, enforced by nothing except the social consequences of being the person who didn't know.

I'm going to give you some of them. Not all of them — that would take a book, and I'm not writing the book yet — but enough to get you through your first several calls without becoming a story someone tells at load-out about the new person.

**You are always early or you are late. There is no on time.**

Call time is not the time you walk through the door. Call time is the time you are in position, tools in hand, ready to work. Walking through the door at call time means you are already behind, because you still need to find the production office, sign in, get your credentials, find your department, get your assignment, and actually get to the place where work happens. In the time it takes you to do all of that, the people who showed up fifteen minutes early are already working. Add fifteen minutes to every call time you are given, treat that as your actual call time, and you will never be the person the department head is looking for when the day starts.

**You eat when you can, not when you want.**

On a long call, the opportunity to eat will present itself at unpredictable moments and disappear just as unpredictably. When there is food and you have a moment, you eat. You do not wait for a better moment. You do not decide you'll eat later. You eat now, because later the production will need something and the meal break will slide and you will discover at 9pm that the last time you ate was at 10am and you still have three hours of load-out ahead of you. Eat when you can. It is not a complicated rule but it takes new people a while to genuinely internalize.

**The truck is Tetris and Tetris is serious.**

The way gear gets packed into a truck is not random and it is not casual. It is a specific arrangement based on load order — the last thing you need comes off the truck first, which means it goes in the truck last. The weight distribution matters for the drive. The way cases are stacked matters for whether they arrive intact. The person packing the truck has a system and that system exists for reasons that are not always immediately obvious but are always real. Do not rearrange someone else's truck pack unless you are certain you understand the logic of what you're disrupting. When in doubt, ask before you touch.

**The show does not know it is behind schedule.**

The show goes up when it goes up. The audience does not experience the load-in. They experience the show, and the show either happens or it doesn't, and everything between the start of load-in and the moment doors open is in service of making it happen. When the schedule slips — and the schedule always slips — the response is not panic and it is not complaint. The response is recalibration. What can we cut? What can we compress? What needs to happen in what order to still get to a show? The people who are useful in a behind-schedule situation are asking those questions. The people who are not useful are explaining why it isn't their fault that things are behind.

**Cable has a right way and a wrong way.**

Coiling cable is a skill. Over-under coiling — the technique that keeps cable from developing memory and tangling — takes about five minutes to learn and is immediately obvious whether someone knows it or not. If you are new and you don't know how to over-under coil cable, learn before your first call. Watch a video. Practice on your own headphone cord. Then on a call, when you are asked to wrap cable, do it correctly. The alternative is that you become known as the person who returns tangled cable, and in a world where people's gear is their livelihood, that reputation takes a while to recover from.

**Everything goes back where it came from.**

At the end of a call, every piece of gear returns to its case. Every case goes back on the truck. Every tool goes back in the toolbox. Every piece of spike tape comes up off the floor. The venue gets left the way you found it or better. This discipline is not just politeness — it is the operational foundation of the next call, wherever that is, whenever that is. When something is not where it's supposed to be, it costs time to find it, and time on a call costs money, and that money comes out of someone's hide, and it is usually not the hide of the person who left the thing in the wrong place.

**Read the room. Then read it again.**

Production environments have emotional weather and the weather changes fast. A call that started relaxed can tighten in twenty minutes when a problem surfaces. The experienced production worker is always reading the room — is the department head's jaw set in a particular way? Is the PM making a lot of phone calls? Is the stage manager's voice doing the thing where it's very calm in a way that means she is managing something that is not very calm? These are signals. They tell you to pick up the pace, or to ask if there's something you can help with, or to stay out of the way and let the people with the information handle the situation.

Nobody will explain this to you. You learn to read it or you don't, and the people who do become indispensable and the people who don't always seem slightly out of sync with what the day actually needs.

**Take care of the crew around you.**

This is the one I care about most and the one that gets talked about least. Long calls are hard on bodies. They are hard on morale. The people around you are dealing with the same twelve-hour day you are, plus whatever they brought to it from their personal lives and their previous calls and everything else. A person who brings water to their department without being asked, who notices when someone is flagging and picks up their slack without comment, who makes the quiet human gestures that make a long day survivable — that person is worth more to me than someone with twice the technical skills and none of the situational awareness.

The technical skills are learnable. The awareness of the humans around you — that one you choose. Choose it. It makes this whole strange, beautiful industry better.

— Dots

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*That wraps up "What Even Is This Job?" month. Starting next week we go deep on specifics — the festival circuit, what it means to actually work it, and what Do Lab's operation at Lightning in a Bottle taught me about how good festival production runs. See you Monday.*

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*THE GRUNT is written by Dottie M. Soldati (they/them). Find them at soldati.rocks.*

What's Actually In Those Road Cases (And Why It Costs What It Costs)

At some point in your experience of live events you have probably watched a crew roll a large black case through a venue and wondered, if only briefly, what was in it. Maybe you've looked at a production budget and seen a line item for equipment rental that seemed aggressively large and thought, for what exactly. Maybe you've just wondered why everything in this industry is so heavy and so expensive and why it seems to take so many people to move it from one place to another.

These are fair questions. Here are some answers.

**The cases themselves.**

Road cases — sometimes called flight cases, touring cases, ATA cases — are the black hard-shell containers that live event production gear travels in. They are built to take a serious beating, because the gear they protect takes a serious beating. A road case for a professional console might travel by truck, then by hand truck through a loading dock, then by dolly across a concrete floor, then get stacked in a truck again, then do it all in reverse at load-out, then travel to the next city and do it again, for months or years. The case is an investment that protects a larger investment. A good road case for a significant piece of gear might cost several hundred dollars. This seems like a lot until the alternative — gear that doesn't survive the road — costs several thousand to repair or replace.

Inside the cases is the actual production infrastructure. Let me walk you through the major categories.

**Audio.**

The audio department's cases contain the consoles, the amplifiers, the signal processing, the cable — miles, sometimes literally miles, of cable in various formats for various purposes. The console at front of house — the FOH position where the audio engineer mixes the show for the audience — is often the most expensive single piece of audio equipment on a production. Professional digital consoles used on touring productions and major live events can run anywhere from twenty thousand to over a hundred thousand dollars. This is before you add the speakers, the amplifiers, the monitoring systems for the stage, the wireless microphone systems, the intercom systems, the recording infrastructure if the show is being captured.

The speaker systems for large productions — line arrays hung from truss, subwoofers ground-stacked or flown, delay towers positioned through a festival field to get coverage to the back of a crowd — are themselves a significant logistical and financial undertaking. Professional touring line array elements cost several thousand dollars each, and a full production hang might use twenty, thirty, forty of them. The rigging hardware required to fly them safely adds more. The labor to hang them adds more. By the time you have audio in a room at festival or arena scale, you are looking at a system that represents a genuinely remarkable amount of money and engineering.

**Lighting.**

Lighting's road cases contain the fixtures — moving lights, LED washes, spotlights, strobes, hazers — along with the cabling, the dimmer racks or power distribution, and the console. Professional moving lights, the kind that pan and tilt and change color and beam pattern and gobo automatically in response to console commands, can cost anywhere from a few hundred dollars for a budget fixture to several thousand for a professional touring unit. A full lighting rig for a significant touring show might involve hundreds of fixtures. The truss to hang them from, the motors to fly the truss, the chain hoists and the motor controllers and the rigging hardware — all of that is separate from the fixtures themselves.

The lighting console is its own specialized piece of software-driven hardware that takes years to learn deeply. The major professional consoles cost tens of thousands of dollars and are operated by people whose specific expertise with those systems is a significant part of what makes them hireable.

**Rigging Hardware.**

This is my world so I will spend a moment on it. Rigging hardware includes the shackles, the slings, the motors, the chain hoists, the truss, the span sets, the load cells, the beam clamps — everything that goes between the structure of a building and the thing being hung from it. Professional rigging hardware is rated and certified. The working load limit of a shackle is stamped on the shackle. The capacity of a motor is tested and certified. The truss is engineered to specific load ratings. All of this exists because the consequence of a rigging failure is not a broken piece of gear — it is a thing falling on a person, which is a category of outcome that we in the rigging community take with a seriousness that is, if anything, not taken seriously enough by the rest of the industry.

The hardware itself is expensive because it is manufactured to tight tolerances from quality materials and because the liability chain around it is significant. The labor to rig a show is expensive because it requires people who are trained, experienced, and trusted to make life-safety decisions in real time. When a producer asks why rigging costs what it costs, the answer is: because the alternative is considerably worse.

**Video.**

LED walls — the large pixel arrays that serve as backdrops and stage elements in modern production — are among the most capital-intensive pieces of production infrastructure in current use. Professional LED panels cost hundreds of dollars each, and a significant LED wall installation might use hundreds of panels. The processing infrastructure that drives the wall — the media servers, the signal routers, the control systems — is itself a significant investment. The labor to install and operate it is specialized and valued accordingly.

**Why It All Costs What It Costs.**

The production budget line item for equipment rental is large because the equipment is expensive to purchase, expensive to maintain, expensive to transport, and expensive to insure. The rental rate on a piece of gear reflects not just the cost of that piece of gear but the amortized cost of the cases it travels in, the truck it travels on, the warehouse it lives in between shows, the technicians who maintain it, the insurance that covers it, and the overhead of the company that owns and manages all of it.

The labor costs are large because experienced production professionals are genuinely skilled and genuinely in demand, because the hours are long and the physical demands are significant and the margin for error in many departments is zero or close to it.

When you look at a production budget and it seems like a lot of money for a relatively brief event, what you are seeing is the cost of making something appear effortless. The effortlessness is the product. The infrastructure behind it — the cases and the cable and the consoles and the rigging hardware and the people who know how to use all of it — is what makes the effortlessness possible.

Nothing about this is cheap. If it were cheap, it would look it. And you'd notice.

— Dots

One Industry, Five Different Jobs: TV vs. Theater vs. Festivals vs. Circus vs. Live Events

People ask me sometimes what I do for work and I tell them I work in live event production and they nod in a way that suggests they have formed a picture in their head, and the picture is usually one of two things: either a concert with a very large lighting rig, or a wedding with a very large floral arrangement. Both of those exist within this industry and I have worked adjacent to both of them and neither of them fully captures what I'm talking about, which is part of why I started this blog.

The broader truth is that "live event production" is not one job. It is a family of jobs that share DNA and vocabulary and a certain baseline tolerance for chaos, but which are culturally and operationally distinct in ways that matter enormously when you're actually doing the work. I have worked in most of these worlds — television, theater, festival, circus, live events — and moving between them requires a kind of code-switching that took me years to get comfortable with.

Let me map them for you.

**Television Production.**

Television has the most codified structure of any production environment I've worked in, and I mean that as a compliment. The union jurisdictions are clear. The call sheet is dense with information. The hierarchy is explicit and mostly respected. Everyone knows their lane and the lanes are enforced, sometimes aggressively — on a union television set, there are specific things that specific crafts do and you do not do those things if you are not in that craft, full stop, regardless of whether you technically know how. This is not bureaucracy for its own sake. It is the accumulated wisdom of an industry that learned through painful experience what happens when everyone tries to do everything.

The pace is different from live events in a way that surprises people when they cross over for the first time. Television moves slowly by live event standards — hours of setup for minutes of camera time, meticulous attention to details that a live audience would never notice, a kind of precision that is genuinely impressive and also, if you are used to festival pace, occasionally maddening. I have worked on CSI, SWAT, the Golden Globes, the Oscars Red Carpet. These are different animals from each other but they share the DNA of the union television set: structured, precise, slow by some standards, and absolutely unforgiving of the person who doesn't know the rules.

The money is usually better. The craft services are usually better. The porta-potties are usually better. These things matter on a long call.

**Regional Theater.**

Theater was where I started and it will always feel like home in the specific way that the place you learned a thing feels like home — slightly complicated, deeply familiar, full of memories of doing it wrong. Regional theater runs on a combination of union stagecraft and genuine love for the work, because nobody goes into regional theater because the money is extraordinary. You go because you care about the craft.

The technical demands of theater are their own world. Repertory houses running multiple shows in rotation are a particular kind of operational puzzle — you are storing multiple shows' worth of scenery and props and flying hardware and you are switching between them on an aggressive schedule, and you know this building, this fly system, this loading dock, this quirky counterweight arbor that always sticks on the third leg, with an intimacy that you never develop with a venue you're visiting once for a load-in. Theater is the discipline that taught me to read a ground plan, to understand sightlines, to think about the audience's experience from every seat in the house. That's knowledge I carry into every other context I work in.

The pace is deliberate. Tech rehearsals are long and slow and occasionally theological in their intensity. The relationship between the technical departments and the artistic team is closer and more collaborative than in most other production contexts — in theater the director is in the room with you, often for weeks, and the show changes around you as it gets made. You are not executing a finished vision. You are part of making the vision.

**Festival Production.**

Festival production is where most of my recent life has lived and it is, genuinely, its own entire civilization. The scale ranges from intimate regional gatherings with a few hundred attendees to Burning Man, which is a temporary city of eighty thousand people built in a desert and struck in two weeks, and which has its own infrastructure, its own culture, its own operational logic that has almost nothing in common with a theater call and only passing resemblance to a television set.

Festival production moves fast and improvises constantly. You are often building in environments that are actively hostile — desert heat, rain, wind, mud, dust that gets into everything including gear that was not designed to have dust get into it. The union rules that govern a Hollywood set often do not apply, which means everyone can do more things, which is both liberating and occasionally chaotic. The hierarchy is looser. The communication is more lateral. The vibe — and I use that word deliberately — is a factor in a way that it simply isn't on a television set.

I have done transportation with Do Lab at Lightning in a Bottle, which involves moving an extraordinary amount of infrastructure across a festival site with the specific logic of an operation that has done this many times and knows exactly how. I have lead-rigged for Lucent Dossier's full aerial opera installation at Burning Man, which is building a sophisticated performance rig in the middle of a desert during a windstorm while also being part of a community and a culture and an event that is unlike anything else on earth. These are the same job title and they are completely different experiences.

The money is more variable than television. The experience is, for certain kinds of people — and I am clearly one of them — irreplaceable.

**Circus and Aerial.**

Circus production is a niche within a niche and I love it with my whole chest. The technical demands of rigging for aerial performance are specific and serious — you are building systems that human bodies will fly through, and the margin for error is not a margin at all, it is zero, because physics does not negotiate. I apprenticed with Icarus Rigging in LA and have been doing aerial rigging in various contexts since. I perform aerial myself. Being on both sides of the rope — the rigger who builds the system and the performer who flies it — gives me a perspective on aerial safety culture that is, I would argue, fairly rare.

Circus production also tends to happen in unusual spaces. A big top tent in a parking lot. A theater that wasn't designed for aerial and requires creative solutions to put a point where you need one. A festival stage with a truss system that was specified for lighting and is now being asked to do something more interesting. The problem-solving that circus demands is some of the most satisfying technical work I do.

**The World of "Live Events."**

This is the catch-all: corporate events, galas, product launches, award shows, conferences, immersive experiences, pop-ups, brand activations. It is the largest sector of the industry by volume and it is the one that gets the least romantic treatment, which is fine, because it is not always romantic. It is, however, consistently interesting in a problem-solving sense, because corporate and brand clients often want things that have never been built before — not for artistic reasons but because the brief says "create an unforgettable experience" and someone has to figure out what that means in a ballroom in four hours.

I've worked the Oscars Red Carpet, which is the live events world colliding with the television world in a very particular way. I've worked WWE RAW, which is its own genre entirely — live event production meets television production meets professional wrestling meets an audience that is very much part of the show. Every context has its own rules and its own culture and its own version of what "professional" means.

The skill that all of it requires, underneath everything else, is adaptability. The ability to walk into a new context, read it quickly, understand which rules apply and which don't, and do good work within whatever structure you find. That's the job. In all five worlds and all the spaces between them.

That's always the job.

— Dots

The Org Chart Nobody Gives You (But You Need to Understand Immediately)

On your first day at a corporate job they probably gave you an organizational chart. It had boxes and lines and everyone's name and title and you could see exactly who reported to whom and how information was supposed to flow through the organization. I've never had a job that came with an org chart. I've never even heard of anyone in this industry who got an org chart. What you get instead is a call sheet, which as we discussed Wednesday tells you some of this if you know how to read it, and the rest of it you have to figure out in real time, in a building, while other things are happening.

Since nobody handed me a chart when I started, let me hand you one now.

**The Producer.**

The producer is the person or entity responsible for the show existing at all — they hold the money and the vision and the relationships with the venue and the artist, and they are ultimately responsible for all of it. On a large festival this is a whole organization. On a smaller show it might be one person who is also doing their own advance work, driving their own rental truck, and texting the artist's manager from the parking lot at load-in. Producers range, in my experience, from people who are genuinely brilliant at the big picture and smart enough to hire people who handle everything else, to people who are in slightly over their heads and compensating with enthusiasm. Both types can produce a good show. The first type produces it with considerably less drama.

**The Production Manager.**

The PM is the person I care about most on any given call, and if you're coming up in this industry, they should be the person you care about most too. The production manager translates the producer's vision into logistics — they do the advance, they build the schedule, they manage the budget, they coordinate between departments, they are the single point of contact for everything that needs to be coordinated. A great PM is like a very calm person doing a great deal of math in public. A bad PM is like watching someone try to juggle with one hand while putting out a fire with the other, which is entertaining to observe and terrible to work under.

The PM is not the person you go to with every problem. The PM is the person you go to when the problem cannot be solved at any other level. Before you go to the PM, you talk to your department head.

**The Department Heads.**

Every department on a production has a head: a Lighting Director or Head Electrician, an Audio Engineer or FOH Engineer, a Head Carpenter or Technical Director, a Head Rigger, a Video Director, a Stage Manager. These are the people responsible for their respective domains — for the work their crews do, for the gear their departments use, for the execution of their part of the production. Department heads report to the PM and manage their crews. They are where most of the real decision-making lives on a day-to-day load-in call.

When something goes wrong in a department, the department head knows about it first and handles it first. If they can't handle it, it goes to the PM. This chain exists for a reason. Short-circuiting it — going directly to the PM about something your department head should handle, or going to the producer about something the PM should handle — is how you mark yourself as someone who doesn't understand the chain, which is not the impression you want to make in the first hour of a call.

**The Keys.**

One level below department heads are the "keys" — the key positions within a department. The A2 in audio (the person who handles stage monitors and mic coordination while the A1 runs FOH). The Best Boy in lighting (the second-in-command to the Gaffer or Head Electrician, handling crew and equipment coordination). The Key Grip. The spot callers and follow spot operators. These are the people who make departments run — experienced workers who don't need to be told what to do next and who often effectively supervise the other crew without having the title of department head.

If you are coming up and you are trying to get better, make friends with the keys. Watch them. Ask them questions between calls when they have a minute and are clearly not in the middle of something. The keys know where all the knowledge lives.

**The Crew.**

Everyone else. The stagehands, the loaders, the run-of-show crew, the day players who got called for a specific skill on a specific call. The crew is where the physical work gets done — things get moved, hung, plugged in, taped, built, struck. Good crew shows up on time, does the work, asks questions when they don't know something, and stays in their lane while also being ready to do whatever needs doing when something unexpected comes up. Good crew is worth more than good equipment, and if that sounds like an exaggeration, you haven't been on a call where someone sent you great gear and terrible people to run it.

**The Artist and Their Team.**

The artist — the performer, the act, the band, whoever is actually doing the thing the audience came to see — exists somewhat adjacent to this structure. They usually have a tour manager who interfaces with the production manager, a technical director or production coordinator who interfaces with the department heads, and depending on the scale of the operation, various rider requirements and preferences that need to be accommodated within the production's logistical reality. The relationship between the touring team and the production team is its own whole thing that I will give a full post to eventually, because it deserves one.

**The Stage Manager.**

I've saved this one for last because the stage manager's position on the org chart depends enormously on the type of production, and because I have strong opinions about the stage manager's value that I want to express without accidentally burying them. In theater, the SM is the production's operational nerve center during the show itself — they call every cue, they are in communication with every department, they run the world. In live events and festivals, the role is more variable. Sometimes the PM also serves as the running SM. Sometimes there's a dedicated stage manager who runs the show from the wings while the PM handles logistics. Sometimes the structure is so loose that nobody has the title and the job gets distributed.

Wherever you find them, the stage manager or the person doing that job is the person who knows where everything is supposed to happen and when. In a crisis, they are the calmest person in the building. If they are not the calmest person in the building, that is important information about how the rest of the show is going to go.

Nobody will give you this chart. Now you have it. Get in there.

— Dots

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*Next week we zoom in on rigging — what it actually is, why it matters, and why the person holding the rope has more in common with a structural engineer than you might think.*

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*THE GRUNT is written by Dottie M. Soldati (they/them). Find them at soldati.rocks.*

How to Read a Call Sheet (And What It's Really Telling You)

How to Read a Call Sheet (And What It's Really Telling You)"

The call sheet is a piece of paper — or a PDF, we live in the future — that tells everyone on a production when they are expected to be where, doing what, with whom. On its surface it is a scheduling document. Below the surface it is a personality test, an org chart, a threat assessment, and a direct window into the mind of whoever built the production. I have been reading call sheets for two decades and I can tell you more about a production from its call sheet than from any conversation with its producer.

Let me show you what I mean.

**The basic anatomy.**

A call sheet has, at minimum: the date, the venue or location, the general call time (when the overall operation begins), the specific call times for each department or position, and some version of the day's schedule — what's happening when, in what order. On a television production you'll also have a scene breakdown, a cast schedule, weather, and a frankly alarming amount of fine print. In live events, the format is more variable but the bones are the same. Who. When. Where. What.

The first thing I look at is the spread between the earliest call and the latest call. If the riggers are called at 6am and the doors open at 8pm, that's a fourteen-hour spread and someone has built a reasonable cushion into the day. If the riggers are called at 8am and the doors open at 7pm, that's an eleven-hour spread for the same show, which means whoever scheduled this is optimistic in a way that I find professionally alarming. Not impossible — I've made eleven-hour spreads work — but you're driving the whole day with no margin, and margin is the difference between a show that goes up on time and a show that goes up with everyone running.

**What the department order tells you.**

Departments are listed in the order they arrive, which should be the order they're needed, which should reflect a thoughtful understanding of how the load-in sequences. Riggers first, then electrics and audio, then video and scenic, then the departments that need the other departments to be done before they can do their thing. If you see audio called before rigging, either the audio is all ground-stacked and there's no hang, or whoever built this call sheet is working from a template they didn't think too carefully about.

Either way, now you know something.

**The notes section.**

Every call sheet has notes. The notes are where the production manager puts everything that doesn't fit in a box. "Please use the back entrance, main entrance is in use for a separate event." "Load-in crew must wear hi-vis at all times, venue requirement." "Catering is in the green room, which is on the second floor, which does not have an elevator, please plan accordingly." The notes are the shadow show behind the show — the logistics and complications and special circumstances that don't fit in the schedule but will absolutely affect your day if you don't know about them.

Read the notes. Read them again. There is always a person on every call who did not read the notes and this person has a very long day.

**What the meal breaks tell you.**

Union calls have contractually mandated meal breaks at specific intervals. Non-union calls should still have meal breaks at sensible intervals because human beings need to eat and they become significantly worse at their jobs when they don't, which is a thing that some producers understand deeply and some producers understand only in theory. A call sheet with no meal break scheduled is either a short call (fine) or a very long call where someone has decided to handle the food question by leaving it vague (not fine). Vague is not a meal plan. Vague is how you end up with a crew that had a granola bar at 7am and it is now 3pm and the load-out hasn't started yet.

On a well-run call, the meal break is on the call sheet with a location and a duration. On a poorly-run call, the meal break is "TBD" and the TBD gets resolved by someone eventually going on a food run while everyone else keeps working, which is technically a solution and also genuinely bad production.

**The contact sheet.**

Attached to or incorporated into most call sheets is a contact list — who the department heads are, how to reach them, sometimes who the venue contacts are and what the production office number is. This is where I look to understand who I'm working with. If I recognize names — good ones, people I've worked with before, people whose reputations I've heard about — I know something about what to expect from the day. If I don't recognize anyone, I'm in information-gathering mode from the moment I walk in the door.

And if the contact sheet is missing entirely? If the call sheet doesn't tell me who the production manager is or how to reach them or who to call if something goes wrong? That tells me something too. It tells me that this is a production that doesn't yet know what it doesn't know, and I will proceed accordingly, which means I will be very pleasant and I will ask a lot of questions and I will build my own mental map of who runs what because the paperwork isn't going to do it for me.

**The version number.**

Good call sheets have a version number and a timestamp. Call Sheet v1 goes out the night before. Call Sheet v2 goes out at 6am when something has changed. Call Sheet v3 goes out at 9am when the thing that changed in v2 has changed again. If you're on Call Sheet v5 by noon, the show is either very complex or very chaotic or both, and you should pace yourself accordingly.

If the call sheet has no version number, it was built by someone who has never had to send a correction and doesn't yet know that they will. They'll know soon. We all learn eventually.

The call sheet is just paper. But paper made by humans reveals the humans who made it, every time, without fail. Learn to read it right and you'll know what kind of day you're walking into before you walk through the door.

— Dots

The Anatomy of a Load-In (Or: How an Empty Room Becomes a Show)

Picture an empty room. Could be a theater, could be a festival stage, could be a convention center ballroom that smells aggressively of the previous convention. Doesn't matter. It's empty, it's yours for a finite window of time, and somewhere in the near future, people are going to walk into this room expecting to experience something. Your job — our job — is to build that experience from nothing, in that window, with the crew and equipment and budget you have been given, which is never quite the crew or equipment or budget you would have asked for in an ideal world because the ideal world does not book shows.

This is the load-in. This is the fundamental unit of live event production. Everything else — the rider, the call sheet, the advance work, the production meetings — is in service of this moment: the window in which a room gets transformed. I have been doing load-ins for twenty years, across venues ranging from a converted warehouse in East LA where the loading dock was a ramp that gave every road case its own opinion about physics, to the Oscars Red Carpet, which has its own particular brand of controlled chaos that I will absolutely tell you about at some point. The anatomy is more or less the same every time. Let me walk you through it.

**Before anyone touches a case: the advance.**

The load-in starts before the load-in. It starts in the production meetings and the phone calls and the site visits, sometimes weeks out, in which the production team figures out what they're walking into before they walk into it. Ceiling height. Power availability. Load-bearing capacity of the floor and the fly system if there is one. Where the loading dock is and whether a 53-foot trailer can actually back into it or whether the venue's optimistic self-description of "truck accessible" means something more creative is required. What the union jurisdiction is and what that means for who can touch what.

The production manager advances the show. The department heads advance their departments. By the time the crew shows up on load-in day, the people running the call should already know exactly what they're walking into, which is to say they have done everything possible to eliminate surprises, knowing full well that there will still be surprises. The advance is how you make sure the surprises are merely annoying and not catastrophic.

**The order of operations.**

Load-in has a sequence, and the sequence matters, and deviating from it without understanding why the sequence exists is how you end up with lighting hung before the audio snake is run, which means you have to move some of the lighting to run the audio snake, which means you're doing things twice, which means you're now behind, which means someone is making a phone call they don't want to make about whether the show goes up on time. Here is the basic sequence, understanding that every show deviates from it in some way and the entire skill of production is in knowing when you can deviate and when you cannot:

*Structure first.* Stage, deck, risers, platforms — anything architectural goes in before anything else, because everything else sits on top of it or hangs from it. You cannot hang a lighting rig from a truss that hasn't been flown yet. You cannot run cable across a stage that hasn't been built. Structure is the skeleton and everything else is meat, which is a slightly grim way to think about it but accurate.

*Rigging second.* If anything is going above the deck — truss, motors, chain hoists, audio hangs, scenic elements — rigging happens early, because once the stage is full of people and equipment, access to the roof gets complicated and slow. This is my world and I will have a great deal more to say about it in a future post, but for now: everything that flies gets figured out before anything that rolls gets rolled into position.

*Power third.* Distro runs, feeder cable, generator connections if the venue power isn't sufficient, which it often isn't. Power goes in before the stuff that needs power, which seems obvious but is the source of a remarkable number of delays when the sequencing breaks down. You need to know where the power lives before you know where the gear lives.

*Audio and lighting.* Roughly parallel, often with some creative negotiation about whose cable needs to be where, because audio and lighting both have a lot of cable and cable has opinions about space. Good departments communicate. Less good departments discover each other's opinions at the exact worst moment.

*Video, if applicable.* LED walls, projection, screens — these tend to go in later because they're sensitive to other things happening around them and because the picture of what the show looks like visually often sharpens late in the process. This varies enormously by show.

*Scenic.* Set pieces, props, dressing — the stuff that makes the space look like the thing it's supposed to look like. Scenic often happens in layers, with big structural elements early and dressing late.

*Tech.* Once everything is physically in place, you tech the show. You test everything. You find the things that don't work and you fix them. You adjust. You compromise. You make the version of the vision that is achievable in the time and space and budget available. This is where the production manager earns every dollar they have been paid and then some.

*Doors.* At some point, doors open and the audience comes in and the whole complicated machine becomes invisible and the only thing that exists is the show. That's the goal. That's always the goal. You build something complex enough to disappear.

**The thing about time.**

Every load-in is a negotiation with time, and time is always winning. The window is always shorter than you want and the scope is always slightly larger than what fits comfortably in the window, and the entire practice of production is learning to do more with less of both. The people who are good at this — really good — have an internal clock that is always running, that is always doing the math between what's done and what's left and how much time remains, and that math is always running in the background behind every other decision they make during a call.

When you see an experienced production worker look at a space and say "yeah, we can do this" or "we're going to need to cut something" — that's the clock talking. It's calibrated by years of load-ins, by every time they were right and every time they were wrong and what they learned each time. You can't teach it out of a book. You can only get it by doing the load-ins, over and over, until your body knows what your brain is still trying to calculate.

That's the anatomy. Come back Wednesday and we'll talk about the document that holds the whole thing together.

— Dots

"A Civilian's Guide to Not Driving Your Production Crew Insane"

I want to be very clear before we begin that I love the people who hire us. Clients, venue managers, artists, coordinators, festival directors — by and large, these are creative, passionate humans who are trying to make something happen and are genuinely grateful that someone with a tool belt showed up to make it possible. I love them. They are the reason any of this exists.

And they will also, without meaning to, absolutely lose their minds if we do not give them some basic vocabulary and operating procedures. What follows is a public service.

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**Learn the word "call."**

The call is when you are expected to be in the building and functional. Not in the parking lot. Not in the lobby texting that you're almost there. In the building and functional. When someone asks what your call time is, they are asking for this information. When you are not there at your call time, you have made a choice, and that choice has consequences that ripple outward from you through the entire schedule like a pebble in a very stressed-out pond.

**"Spike it" is not a football term.**

When someone asks you to spike something, they want you to mark its position on the floor with tape. This is important. The spike tape is how we know where the thing goes. Without the spike tape we are all just guessing, and guessing on a dark stage with a two-hour load-in window is an experience I would not recommend to anyone.

**The rider is not a suggestion.**

The rider is the technical and hospitality document that specifies exactly what an artist or production requires to perform. It has been written by people who have done this many times and learned the hard way what happens when specific things are not in place. When the rider says the stage monitors need to be a particular brand, that is not the artist being difficult. That is the artist having had a previous experience with a different brand that went badly in a way that affected a performance in front of thousands of people. Read the rider. Honor the rider. If you cannot honor the rider, have that conversation in advance with enough time to actually solve it, and not at sound check.

**The production manager is not the enemy.**

I know they seem like they're telling you no about everything. They are telling you no about some things because those things will break the show, the budget, the timeline, or a federal regulation. The production manager's entire job is to hold about four hundred variables in tension simultaneously and make sure none of them drops. When they tell you they can't add a follow spot at 6pm for an 8pm show, they are not being arbitrary. They are doing math that involves things you are not currently aware of. Trust the math.

**"Practical" means it actually works.**

In scenic and lighting design, a practical element is one that actually does the thing it appears to do — a lamp that is a lamp and not a lamp-shaped prop, a door that opens and not a door-shaped flat. This distinction matters deeply and in specific ways that become apparent at the worst possible moment if you haven't confirmed it in advance.

**Load-in and load-out are different animals.**

Load-in is exciting. You're building something. There's coffee, there's momentum, the vision is becoming real. Load-out is the thing that happens after the show, when the vision has been real for several hours and everyone is exhausted and the venue wants you out in ninety minutes and it's midnight and somebody can't find the road case that the expensive piece of gear lives in. Be kind to the crew at load-out. Be patient. This is the job too.

**"It's giving" is not a technical note.**

I'm just saying. If you want more of something, say more of what. If you want less, say less of what. We are not mind readers. We are riggers and carpenters and electricians and we are very good at solving specific problems with specific tools, but we cannot solve the problem of vibes. Tell us what you want the thing to do and we will make it do that. This is the deal.

**House is not your house.**

"The house" refers to the audience area of a venue, and "house lights" are the lights that illuminate it. When someone says "take it to house," they mean bring the lights up in the audience area. They do not mean illuminate the building in which they personally reside. I have never had to explain this to someone twice, but I have had to explain it once, and once was memorable.

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There are more of these — there are always more — but this is enough for one week. The point is not that civilians are bad. The point is that every industry has a language, and the faster you learn the language, the faster you become someone that the crew is glad to see, instead of someone that the crew is politely managing. We want to be glad to see you. We really do. Come talk to us. Bring us coffee. And for the love of everything, read the rider.

— Dots