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 The
Corral (excerpt from Jack Eadon's Got To Make It!) It was Saturday April 19, 1968. As we walked into the Corral in LaGrange, Illinois, you could still smell the sawdust and paint from the remodeling. The place echoed as we rumbled our equipment across the floor; one huge light maple surface: two hundred feet long, one hundred wide. The ceiling was at least twenty feet high. The stage, twenty feet wide and fifteen feet deep, was built onto the long dimension of the room. It would easily accomodate all eight of us. We passed the amps up from floor to stage. A wall at the back of the stage ran its length, and extended all the way to the ceiling. Toward the left side of the wall was a door. "What's back here?" Bill said. He opened it and disappeared down a small flight of stairs. "What's down there, Bill?" I yelled. "Another door!" I heard him open it. "A huge dressing room!" he called. "Far out," I said. "Hey, guys!" he called. "We can stash our wardrobes down here." Some of the other guys clunked across the stage and went down the stairs. "Cool." You could hear their voices echo down there. You see, we had just started changing clothes between sets at performances. It was great showmanship-all those changing colors and fabrics-and it gave us fresh clothes each set, since we normally sweated our butts off. We had also brought along three or four regular roadies to help us set-up and strike our equipment, and handle the wardrobes. "Hey, Rock!" Bill yelled up the stairs. Rock was one of the roadies. "You can stash the clothes down here." "Right," Rock said. With both hands he carried a rainbow of silk and Nehru on hangers. I looked around at all the bodies on stage: carrying equipment and lugging wardrobes. It was pretty impressive. I walked up to the edge of the stage in the center, and scoped out how we were going to set up. Tom walked up, looked around. "So, man, what's the deal?" "Trumpets stage right, then Mermel, then me and Bill, then drums in back, then you, then Skipton, stage left." "Sounds good." "Hey, Bill," I said to Wilander, "can you set up the PA?" "Me and you'll be about here." I pointed to a spot on the stage floor. "Correctomundo, oh wise leader." He saluted. "Bob!" I called to our number-two roadie. "Can you help Bill with the PA?" Skipton was crawling up onto the stage. "Say, Skipton, you can set up the lights, right?" I said. "I think so." "Well, Rock's got that down pretty good, so ask him if you need help." A security guard with a police-type cap and a gut drooping over his belt walked up to the edge of the stage. "You the leader?" he said. Then he looked around at all the guys. "Big group, huh?" "So what?" I could be a real wiseass if I wanted to be. "They're saying you guys are expecting quite a crowd," the guard said in a grizzly voice, still looking around. "I hope so," I replied. I didn't care for the uppity attitude of security guards, especially the overweight kind who never looked you in the eye. "Just so you know: the record here is 1,750-the Cryan' Shames set it two years ago. Before we enlarged. Now we can fit 2,000 in here. But that's it. Fire Code." "So. Why are you telling me this?" "Just in case." "In case what? You aren't going to hold me responsible for how many people walk in the door, are you?" I said. "Well, you guys put up all the fliers around campus, right?" "Oh. Our fan club did that. Must've done a good job to get you so antsy." "Don't get wise with me, son." "What? It's just that you're making this major deal-" "Listen, just so you know . . . ," he said sternly. "Say, thanks for your help, sir," I said, tossing my long brown hair back sort of haughtily just to annoy the asshole. "Remind me to call you during the next natural disaster." The guy was talking like something could actually get out of hand. |
