Fade to Black

Last night I ran into a situation that I’ve worried about for a while. A few weeks ago, I got a confirmation from a publicist to go and shoot a show in St. Louis. It’s pretty routine stuff, and I’ve gotten pretty good at making that run. I got to the venue early because there was another big show happening next door, and I didn’t want to worry about fighting for parking.

When I got the original e-mail, there was a contact for the tour, but not for the venue’s marketing office, who usually handles the on-site coordination. No big deal, though, because I’ve worked with the place – and the people there – plenty of times. I just fired off a quick text to one of the contacts there to find out if she was handling the show. And that’s when things went awry.

I was told I wasn’t on the list for press approval. That was unusual, but not unheard of. Sometimes people forget to pass messages on everywhere they need to be. It happens in all walks of life, all kinds of business, and this one is no exception. So I pulled up the e-mail confirmation I had, having learned some time ago to keep these messages close at hand until my foot was in the door. I had plenty of time, so I sent off an e-mail to the tour contact I had looking to get things straightened out. Since I know not everyone checks their phone every thirty seconds, especially when they’re working on setting up a rock concert, I followed up shortly thereafter with a call. I left a voice mail, then waited.

When my phone rang, maybe ten or fifteen minutes later, I figured I was about to have it all sorted out. But I was wrong.

It turns out the publicist that sent my approval forgot not only to tell the venue, but anyone else, either. The tour manager had heard nothing about it, and his allotment for media passes had already been used. He was incredibly apologetic, but there was nothing to be done. I hung around chatting with a fellow photographer that was covering the show, but then there was nothing left to do but point the car north and head back to the house, empty-handed.

Between the venue contact and my fellow photographer, I’ve been told a lot in the last 24 hours how bad people feel that I got shut out, got short shrift on the show last night. Of course I’m disappointed, but this was just a bump in the road, not the end of the line. There will be other shows – I have a few on the slate for later this week – and there will be other chance to capture this artist. It could be easy to point fingers, to pound on the table, to wail and gnash teeth and to yell and scream and rage. But even if I’d done all of that, I’d still have been in the car heading home. So what’s the point? It’s just one of those things. I’m out a little gas, a little parking money, and a little time I would have spent sitting on the couch instead. So, it’s just another story to tell, to laugh about with friends, and carry on.

I’m not naming anyone here, you might notice. I don’t want this to pop up in a few months or a few years and have people start talking about the folks involved. That’s not why I’m writing this. I’m writing it more just because it’s a story, and I like telling stories. And to share that, yes, the curtain dropped early on me last night. But the show will go on, again, and again.