Anna L. Hight ([email protected])
Wed, 18 Nov 1998 23:18:15 -0500
So Mexico City started out as a pipe dream. I started thinking about it
somewhere in the south. Had a little sign that said "Mexico City or Bust!
Pop for Gringos!" In Houston, after the show, I found out that if I managed
to get down there, the tour management office would give me a job as a gate
auditor. $50 a show, see the show for free, plus a pass and free eats.
Sounded good to me, so me and some friends started "discussing" maybe going
to Mexico City. Ha ha.
Dana, remember that? You on the phone in a Days Inn, trying to convince a
Continental Airlines agent to get you a flight back to Chicago, meanwhile I
tried to convince you to ditch that test and go to Mexico. <g> And Darren,
that strange bald kid who ended up hauling us both to the airport and then
me to where my friend Tim was staying... Aiie.
So somehow, I ended up on a bus from Houston to Mexico City, one of the
single most frightening experiences I have ever had. It was fairly
uneventful while we remained in the States but an hour inside the Mexican
border we were stopped, and our passports were checked. Now, raise your
hand if you knew you needed a Tourist Card to enter Mexico. Color me
stupid, because I had no clue. So they YANKED me off the bus and screamed
at me in Spanish, and told me I'd have to go back to "Bronveel"
(Brownsville). There WAS no bus back to Bronveel. So rather than stay
overnight with a bunch of angry Mexicans who spoke NO English (yet ran a US
border checkpoint) and carried very big guns, I did what any of you would
have done: cried. Loudly. Hysterically. I was tossed back on the bus, guess
they'd rather not deal with an insane tourista. <g>
So, twenty-six hours later, the bus reached Mexico City. About three hours
later it reached the bus station in the middle of town. BIG TOWN. VERY BIG.
HUGE. I don't know why I did it - necessity? I wasn't walking - but I took
one of those little bug-taxis to the stadium, which was harrowing at the
very least. Argh. No front seat, no seat belts, no habla Espanol. Never
again. I swear.
Got to the stadium, eventually, and... well, walked in. Let me say now that
local security was capital-C R A P. Crap. Grande crapola. Bah.
Everything seemed to go fairly well after that - I got my little working
staff pass (pink for the first night) and they explained what we'd be doing
-- watching all the gates with the other auditors, making sure nobody tried
to get in for free, either with a real pass other than All-Access or VIP,
or with fake passes or tickets. I'd also be running around to the gates
collecting ticket stubs from the takers in big orange bags, and then taking
them to the Tour Management office to be weighed and counted. There were
four of us auditing - myself, Tim from Pennsylvania, Angelica the Amazon
German lass, and one of the roadies. four people for eight (eight? seven?)
gates. Ouch.
The worst part was when it came over the radio that a fan had snuck into
the stadium and was just sitting in the second row, waiting for the band.
This is about three hours before the show's supposed to start. Jerry Mele
comes on saying he wants her out. Since Tim and I know the fan from other
shows, we're elected to go and remove her. It's a touchy business, the fan
doesn't want to leave, so Tim coaxes her out, we all buy some lunch and she
eventually leaves. And comes back. As far as I know she was kicked out this
time by Jerry Mele, but I think she was at the show. Anyway. Yeah, auditors
do a little security, too.
So the first show was... well... I honestly don't remember much of it. I
remember being backstage when it started, counting tickets like a goon
(twas my job, after all). Finally being released and allowed to race out
into the fray, plowing my way through the masses for somewhere decent to
watch. Ended up at the end of the bstage, and there was bubble action. :-)
I walked up and down the aisles blowing bubbles during one, and people
seemed to like that. :)
After the show, we were standing around behind the stage wondering where to
go. Two of us had nowhere to go for the night, so we were weighing our
options and talking to the riggers when ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE. About six
riggers who were on the second level of a bi-level office building
backstage jumped down the stairs and tore off towards the electrical area.
The next thing we know, they're hauling one angry Mexican in a suit out of
the place, and an ambulance arrives. Turns out, we're told, that Meltzer,
Adam's bodyguard, was just cold-cocked by the President of Mexico's son's
bodyguards, and he's being taken to hospital for medical attention. Bah!
He's concious though, which is a very good sign. The stadium clears out
then, so we go off to find one of those psychotic little taxis and a hotel.
Where we ended up was a little place for $20 a night, which was actually
very nice. I DID drink the water and I am still here, incidentally. My
companion bitched about the price the whole time, which was annoying,
considering that place in NYC would have run us about $139 per night as
opposed to $20. Bah.
The next morning, sore and broken, we made our way back to the stadium. it
seemed a bit brighter that morning, day of the big broadcast, and it was
madness inside. We went behind the stadium to the big swag lot, where they
were selling all the bootleg merchandise. What's amazing is that it was
excellent quality stuff -- I got a sweatshirt with "U2 POPMART MEXICO 97"
embrodiered on it for $15, and a skull cap with U2 and the little Stay
angel stitched on it for $5. We actually shopped for crew members. :-)
Everyone seemed to love the swag merch.
Passed by Jerry Mele and Guyer in their monkey suits. Not too shabby. :-)
Today though would prove to be harder than yesterday. My pass is orange
this time, but apparently nobody explained to the local security that
passes changed colors with every show. I'm not allowed backstage, nevermind
that I'm carrying a huge orange bag with ticket stubs in it. When I finally
get past them, I find my boss, Craig, and explain the situation. He allows
me to stay backstage and just weigh the tickets as they come in, which is
fine with me. Less walking and a place to sit, and close proximity to the
food tents. :) Angelica, though, gave me her VIP Staff pass so I wouldn't
get hassled too much. Guess nobody notices that it says Houston on it. <g>
As I'm standing at the door of the T.M. office, counting tickets, Howie B
and Flood come out of the PM office next door, and proceed to sit on a
flight case and smoke... whatever. Nobody's seen Howie since the, ehm,
incident with his herbal refreshments in Minnesota, so I go up and say hi,
and tell him America misses him. "Stay the hell out of the midwest, Howie.
Fargo was based on a TRUE story." I give him a t-shirt that Ruby (Hey
Flamebrain!) made for him that says "Free Howie B!" - if you were in
Montreal or Miami you'll recognise that. :-) He loved it! He was adorable,
"This is fookin' magic, yeah. Thanks!"
A little while later, as I'm still weighing tickets (about 120,000 people
showed up for both nights), someone familiar comes out of PM's office,
Mark. A bunch of us met him in Miami when he came out of the hotel and
asked us to tell him about being a U2 fan (he was writing a book -- lord
knows where THAT project is now). He comes over and we start talking, as
Edge stumbles out of the PM office and lumbers over to the dressing room.
Larry wanders by. Thing is, it's not a big deal, right? I'm still weighing
tickets, and I'm telling Mark about the tour, when Adam comes out and kind
of stands in the doorway, looking around. Mark asks me if I've met him yet
and I say he's the only one I hadn't met, and I'm terrified of him. :) Not
as much as Larzilla though. <g>
So Adam walks over and leans against the flight case, talking to Mark. I
have NO idea what to do -- do I leave? Stay? Curl up into a ball and
whimper? I kind of just back away, sit on another flight trunk and try not
to listen. Who am I kidding? Mark and Adam talk about the first night, how
the lights kind of overwhelmed the audience and he thinks it led to them
being a little unresponsive. Mark then asks me what I thought, and all I
can come up with is that the sound was a little muddy, or something. I
don't even remember. :-) Then Mark introduces me to Adam and I have to
stand up and shake his hand.
Flight cases are big enough to fit a human body in, incidentally. :)
No, I didn't do that, I behaved myself. :-) Adam was quite lovely. He asked
about my sweatshirt, the Mexico Popmart one I'd bought earlier. I was a bit
embarrassed that it was swag and not legitimate, but he liked the colors.
:) I asked him why he avoids people at the hotels, and he said he didn't
like being "trapped" but when it's a really managable number, like, say,
two, he'll stop. It just depends on his mood, he said. And then, as he was
leaving, I asked him why he's called Sparky. "It has something to do with
my blonde hair, I think." As good an answer as any, I guess. :)
So the show is starting now, and I'm still stuck backstage weighing 58,000
tickets. The show STARTS, and I'm still back there. (Word to anyone who
wants to work behind the scenes for U2 - you very rarely get to actually
SEE the show. Do it late in a tour, if at all.) Finally, about halfway
through the show I'm released and I head for the floor. And I get stuck
there. I'm not allowed anywhere, in the aisle, and there's no place else to
go. I bump into Angelica and Mark on the floor and we retreat back to the
dressing rooms to hide.
In Howie's dressing room there's three sombreros and several bottles of red
and white wine. Angelica has a camera. Truly odd pictures are the result.
After a little wine we're ready to try again, and this time, we fight our
way towards the catwalk, where one of the big cameras are. Angelica and I
are hoisted atop the camera's platform, where she takes pictures and I do
what I do best -- bubbles. :) I'm hearing they don't show up on the home
video but on the broadcast they're after WOWY.
We end up in the front row at the end of the show, watching One from a
couple of feet away. It's odd, I've never been this close in a general
admission show -- say what you will, I know there were seats but it became
VERY GA by that point. Angelica got into a big fight with security over her
camera -- a bitchy woman kept grabbing the lens. She did manage some nice
shots though, and I managed not to get killed. :) Always a plus!
Afterwards, we retreated to the hospitality lounge, which sounds posher
than it is. It's a bunch of armchairs and a little fridge with a lot of
booze in it, and beautiful people milling about. Mark explains that he's
brought me back there because "you won't go nuts if the band walks in."
Willie Williams comes in, saying that "There were some moments when Bono
was... off. But I have some moments where he's ON, from the first night,
that can go on the Laserdisc release." (Check your copies, folks -- notice
that there's NO date listed on the box for the video? Mofo is from the
first night, I think. Most of it is, really.) He then tells me that five
bubbles made it on the screen, that the cameraman made sure of it. Wooha!!
Mark's called away to watch the end result, and the rest of us are enlisted
as roadies-for-a-night, and we start breaking down the dressing rooms and
whatnot. We pack up EVERYTHING -- the chairs, the drapes, the tables, the
booze -- well, we pack some of that <g> -- the lamps. We raid the food in
Howie's room and the veggie platters in the band's room -- Bono has a
penchant for ranch dressing. Kept a lollipop (for the bus ride back to
Texas), but I ate all the carrots. I was hungry!
While we were doing that, on the other side of a partition the band and
their ilk were watching the video of the broadcast. Towards the end, after
WOWY, I heard clapping, and a familiar voice saying: "BUBBLES!!!!"
ROTFLMAO. I mean, yeah. :-)
So finally we've got the place cleaned up, and the van pulls up. Mark comes
over to say they're all going out, and he'll find out where so we can all
go along. Bono comes RUNNING out of the dressing room, rubbing his hands
and saying, "HEREWEGOHEREWEGOHEREWEGO!" He launches himself into the van,
only to come back out to talk to someone's kids. :-) Mark runs over, talks
to him, then comes back and says they're going to a bar called Karisma,
near the hotel. We're to follow 'em. So we go off and get into one of those
horrid little taxis again.
Karisma is a tiny little pub-like thing with bad American cheese-rock
(Eagles) blasting from a CD player behind the bar. Mark waves us to his
table, and I plunk down across from the bodyguards and next to... Larry?
I'm so terrified that I start in on the guacamole dip in the middle of the
table. Urp. Larry asks Mark how he liked the show, then he asks me. "It was
great." Inspired. Next time I'd say, "Well, the guitar was way off, the
bass was flat and I don't know WHERE you found that singer, but the drums
were greaaaat." :-) So Edge sits down in Larry's place and starts talking
on a cel-phone.
After a while, the barkeepers start encouraging me to send a few sailing
their direction, and then they'll pop them, laugh, and bring me a Coke. One
bubble sails over to Edge's nose and pops, and he laughs. it's cute. As
Bono is leaving, he stomps on a bubble. :-)
Eventually, it dawns on us that, at least for me and Tim, we have to go
back to America tomorrow. Our bus is at 9am and it's... 4am now. Ouch. Mark
says we can all come back to his room at the 4 Seasons and crash for a
couple of hours before we go to the bus station. So he calls one of the
runner vans (you know, those big ass white vans? only this time it was some
4x4) and we all pile in, and head back to the hotel. I don't remember
anything but pillows, floor and bedspread after that. :)
Next morning was a blur. Sneaking a bottle of Howie's wine out of the
country into the US, after the most horrible bus ride through the Sierra
Madres possible. The streets are this big [] and around every corner is a
person or a burro, and the roads are curvy and waaay up high and... oog.
Too much guacamole the night before. Blah. Blurp. We make it back to
America in one piece, only to crawl into someone's car and start off for a
2-day drive to Vancouver. Ouch...
So, yeah. Mexico City. Lots of memories but very little show... <g>
Madness, it was all just madness. I'd do it again in a second... but I'd
make sure to get the damn tourist card first!
Yours in guacamole,
~A
"I'm so far gone that it seems like home to me..."
www.jacklukeman.com
This archive was generated by hypermail 2.0b2 on Wed Nov 18 1998 - 20:25:02 PST