READING TIME: 5 MINUTES
It's the last night of tour and I'm standing in the middle of the stage at the end of the show. There's lots of action. Everyone's running around. It looks like chaos. For the past two months we built a routine, a system. But in the next two hours everything and everyone will go in separate directions. Tonight it breaks apart. The band all take their stuff off the bus. Everyone hugs, gushes, says goodbye, half-bottles of tequila and whisky from the green room in one hand, seventy-pound rolling suitcases in the other, into sprinters, to the hotel. Tomorrow, everyone flies home. Some at 5 or 6am.
The gear – lighting, audio, backline – go onto separate trucks. "This case here, that one there. Bring that one over here. That one." Everything gets separated and packed onto new trucks. If a case were to go onto the wrong truck, it would end up a thousand miles from home.
This is a phase transition, like water into steam.
Buses, trucks, freight, sprinters, flights all moving in separate directions within a few hours of each other. It's the orchestration of a dynamic system. It's the instrument I play. It's been planned. Now it's like a TV show. Sit back and watch.
The gear – lighting, audio, backline – go onto separate trucks. "This case here, that one there. Bring that one over here. That one." Everything gets separated and packed onto new trucks. If a case were to go onto the wrong truck, it would end up a thousand miles from home.
This is a phase transition, like water into steam.
Buses, trucks, freight, sprinters, flights all moving in separate directions within a few hours of each other. It's the orchestration of a dynamic system. It's the instrument I play. It's been planned. Now it's like a TV show. Sit back and watch.
It's also Friday night so the sidewalks are teeming with weekend-warriors. The roads glow from red brake and traffic lights. Horns honking, people shouting, college bros in baseball caps and Polo shirts clumsily shoving each other.
This is the edge of chaos, a phase transition where the potential for chaos is high. The combination of planning and people doing specialized jobs is what keeps it in order. Best case scenario, everything will go exactly as planned and there will be no issues at all. Worst case, who knows.
Chaos is "a state of utter confusion". Utterly confused is not how you want people to feel on the last day of a tour. Everyone should know their role and goal. Chaos Theory, a branch of mathematics that focuses on the study of chaos, is defined as:
the inherent unpredictability in the behavior of a complex natural system
A "state of inherent unpredictability" sounds like fun. If one thing goes wrong, it can start a chain-reaction. One thing can always go wrong. What makes the system "unpredictable" is how that one thing will affect everything else.
The opposite of chaos of course is order, which is "the arrangement of people or things in relation to each other according to a particular sequence, pattern, or method". So, on one end of the spectrum is order and the other is chaos. Relating that spectrum to today we get:
The opposite of chaos of course is order, which is "the arrangement of people or things in relation to each other according to a particular sequence, pattern, or method". So, on one end of the spectrum is order and the other is chaos. Relating that spectrum to today we get:
ORDER - Everyone knows where all the cases are, what gear goes in each one, what gear gets stripped and put into another case instead, and what truck each case goes onto. Each tech has dedicated and focused local stagehands. There are no questions. Boring.
CHAOS - Unpredictable every step of the way. Everyone is confused, running around, and shouting. Gear is banging and crashing. No one knows which truck is for what gear. Lots of questions and ruckus. Overwhelming.
Standing there on stage, I have a bird's-eye-view. I planned most of this – where the trucks park, what time they arrive, how many stagehands we have – so I can see the potential for it to tip. We are closer to order, but somewhere between the two. People mostly know what's going on. In other words, the order everyone thinks they see, is the edge they don't. Actual chaos would be bad, but the potential that doesn't play out is the orchestration, the fun part.
How much of our world is on the edge? What do we not see daily that others behind-the-scenes do? The world at any given moment has so many forces interacting that there is potential for huge differences in outcome. Everything is connected with sensitivity. On days like these, where we are transitioning, there is sensitivity to wildly different outcomes. Ideally everything goes exactly as planned. But one thing could trigger a chain-reaction.
How much of our world is on the edge? What do we not see daily that others behind-the-scenes do? The world at any given moment has so many forces interacting that there is potential for huge differences in outcome. Everything is connected with sensitivity. On days like these, where we are transitioning, there is sensitivity to wildly different outcomes. Ideally everything goes exactly as planned. But one thing could trigger a chain-reaction.
One of my guitarists once told me that the transition moments are when he feels the most comfortable – when there is a new plan ready to be executed, and he just gets told where to go. I agree. It's these moments when I'm most relaxed – when there is a nice clean itinerary telling everyone what to do. Everything's been planned and I just sit back in the pocket and watch it unfold. I mean, we don't really live anywhere while on tour. We just transition from one run, one continent, one mode of transportation to the next. Just when we really get going, hit a stride, we transition. We're leaving this run, but will be back out in short order. Tomorrow, we'll be in the airport lounge listlessly longing to head home, but at the same time anticipating when we'll be back out.