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

"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