"That's his second time," says Bernie Punt, shouting above a screaming guitar solo. I'm standing stage side with Punt, The Bryce Jordan Center's director of public relations. The subject of Punt's observation is one of the 1,800 general admission fans amassed at the Center's 200th show, Godsmack's "Wake The F*** Up Tour." Said character has spilled over the chain link fence separating the floor seats and the stage, cast overboard into the arms of a security guard while crowd surfing. Sprinting to the rear of the throng in his baggy yellow tee and black and white camouflage cargo shorts, he throws himself into the masses once more, all for a fleeting front-row glance of the acts on stage.
I remember what Punt said earlier that day while scanning the empty arena. As Center employees taped pink mosh pit warning signs to the floor section's perimeter fence, he commented on the concert scene. Whether a hard rock show, a boy band or a country act, fans gather for the same reason: "This is their release," Punt said.
Through the course of four acts, the aforementioned fan and scores of others continue to emerge victorious from the crowd. However, behind every show a complex machine of backstage promotions, security and public relations work has been underway for months, sometimes years, just to offer audiences that fleeting moment of release when the first notes of a favorite song begin.
In this case, Punt learned four days before ticket sales opened that Godsmack's promoter was shipping the tour to State College on April 14, the day before Easter. Selling the Easter-eve show involved a number of sales tactics. The center organized an "Are You Awake?" promotion with WKPS-FM (90.7) and updated its Web site (www.bjc.psu.edu) with concert information and online samples of Godsmack tracks. However, with students migrating out of State College for the weekend, the venue also launched a grassroots attack, posting flyers on campus and in local high schools.
By 4 p.m. on show day, the venue had nearly 8,000 tickets under its belt and about 1,000 remaining. Inside the elephant doors, massive gates for tractor-trailers to unload luggage, QWK Rock DJ J.B. Lynch constructed a portable radio station. Lynch said he'd try to squeak out some airtime for Punt, but his first priorities were the live interviews with opening bands Cold and Staind.
At 5 p.m. two members from Cold arrived with Bobbi Silver, their representative from Jive Records. With one self-titled album under its belt, the quartet from Jacksonville, Fla. is still willing and eager to talk with local media.
"If it wasn't for interviews," said guitarist Kelley Hayes, "I'd be bored right now."
Later, Johnny April from Staind read some station identification cues, polishing each one off with farting noises. After Lynch misidentified him as Staind's drummer, the laid back April said, "That's alright. I play bass. I'm almost a drummer."
Eventually after snapping photos of Lynch with the bands, Punt snared some promotional airtime. As a forklift played limbo under the makeshift station's electrical chords, Punt rolled off his sales pitch. "Nobody celebrates Easter like Godsmack," he said.
Punt promotes the center day in and out. He has to. According to Punt, tour administration called his home the eve of the show.
"What's the ticket count?" tour administration asked.
The next morning, his home phone rang again.
"What's the ticket count?"
Two hours later, Punt received another similar call at the center.
The center's show, however, sold better than previous locations. When Punt ran into tour promoter Rich Engler backstage, he was pleased. The center was Godsmack's second to last gig. According to Punt, if Engler wasn't satisfied, Punt would find himself forced to explain every promotional effort from day one to the present. This time, however, Engler gave him a polo shirt instead.
As show time approached, the guts of the center growled with activity. Sound checks roared as stage crews completed the set. Arriving at 6:45 a.m., the stage crew pieced together a medieval fortress, complete with a panther (or was it a Nittany lion?) chained to a tower.
Trains of speakers and amplifiers, and rainbow racks of gleaming electric guitars lined the hallways backstage. As the crew arranged mammoth black trunks, the bands' name stenciled in white along each side, mouthwatering aromas filtered from the kitchens. At the same time, the men in orange waited in the wings after a security meeting and ushers gathered in a nearby hallway for their own pre-show briefing.
Prior to the concert, Punt still had to complete and print his final report. But, before returning to his office, he tracked down Silver to hand her a press packet and album for Stept On, a budding group scheduled to play at the Crowbar, 420 E. College Ave., over the weekend.
"Sure, I'll take a look at it," Silver said. "I can give it to the right people." Silver laughed. "Hey, it's only people's lives," she said.
Back in his office, Punt and his management assistant, Stephen Mummey (senior-business logistics) reviewed the evening's game plan. Mummey was in charge of photographers. Each tour establishes its own press rules. In this case, designated cameras were allowed in the pit for the first two minutes of the first two songs only. After that, it was Mummey's job to herd photographers out of the pit, the coveted section between the fans and the band, and back to the crowd.
In addition, Punt had four football jerseys to present to Godsmack's members, a tile to convince the band to autograph and a photo to snap. The jersey ceremony is a tradition at the center. The members of every headlining act receive a football, basketball, or hockey jersey with their names on the back. The band's signatures on the tile are added to the center's Wall of Fame, and the photos are filed with the venue's records for a variety of possible uses.
As Mummey polished the tile, Punt hunted for the permanent marker.
"The Baha Men stole it," said Mummey.
"Who let the pen out?" Punt answered, and a marketing idea was born. "Order markers with BJC name," Punt jotted on a notepad. Of course Punt and Mummey said acts might be more inclined to swipe the writing utensil. "But at least we'll be advertising," Punt said.
Now with the concert raging, I witness the show from various locations. The crowd's energy grows steadily through opening acts Systematic and Cold. However, when Staind graces the stage, the volume of the audience crescendos.
It's that moment of release Punt spoke of before. Band and crowd blend into a uniform element. When front man Aaron Lewis shares the mic, his stadium of fans embrace him, singing every word. For fans, it's a shared moment in the spotlight, a solo for thousands. From box seats, the crowd on the floor looks like a stormy sea. Waves of bodies rush toward the stage and waterfall over the fence. Pockets of moshing draw people into undertows of physical energy. This is their release.
Punt works 60 to 80 hours a week. His extensive desk is divided into various projects. One stack, for example, is comprised of letters from various nonprofit organizations. Schools, charities and other fundraisers ask the center for donations. Punt receives about 250 e-mails a day from promoters, record companies, the press and private parties.
Before the 98 Degrees concert April 7, for example, Punt received a letter from a father on behalf of his three daughters. According to Punt, the girls, ages 17, 19, and 21, were passionate 98 Degrees fans and victims of a debilitating genetic disease that confines them to wheelchairs. The letter described how father and daughters had driven to New York City for an airing of MTV's Total Request Live.
The weekday music video countdown invites fans gathered outside into the studio for the daily taping. The girls and their father were one of the first hopefuls to arrive on the scene, but were passed over when MTV's selection team arrived. The father told Punt he was heartbroken as he watched the television crew select attractive teens while passing over his hopeful daughters.
Moved, and convinced the letter was valid, Punt contacted 98 Degrees' tour manager to ask if the girls could be included in the band's meet and greet. Tour officials agreed and the sisters not only met the band, but also presented the Penn State jerseys.
According to Punt, moments like those mentioned are the best part of the job.
However, special meet and greets are always the decision of the individual tour. The center only makes requests under special circumstances, and even then the act always makes the final decision. For example, I was not allowed backstage until Punt received clearance from the tour's management. The center rarely allows guest observers backstage, but Punt said the center tries to assist Penn State students when possible. Even venue employees are strictly denied access to the visiting acts unless a specific exception is made.
Punt chugs a cup of cold coffee and braces for the home stretch. In the background, Godsmack's pyrotechnics shake the building. At quarter after 11, several claps of thunder rattle Punt's window. "Must be the finale," he says.
After the show, the acts unwind in their dressing rooms while the band's publicist prepares for a meet and greet. In this case, unwinding involves loud music, loud laughter, refreshments and a skateboard or two.
Back in Punt's office, Mummey grabs the tile and marker and Punt examines the football jerseys. He asks me if I know which face belongs to each name and moments later, a very nervous reporter is pacing outside the dressing rooms with Mummey, a stack of shirts in her hand.
Mummey scans the scene for the right person at the right time. I scan the scene for a trash can to dump my butterflies into.
Eventually, the band's tour manager walks by. "Are you looking for my little boys?" he asks. After Mummey explains our mission he tells us to stay put. "I'll make it happen," he says.
I'm still trying to decide what to say when the manager signals. We follow him to the Capperella Star Dressing Room and right smack into Godsmack. Before I can introduce myself or ramble off a rehearsed line or two, the band members are shaking our hands and making conversation.
Bassist Robbie Merrill eagerly snags his shirt. Merrill says he bought a hockey jersey during his last visit and asks if the campus has a rink. Godsmack golfed that morning at the Blue and White Courses, but next time Merrill wants to hit the ice.
Drummer Tommy Stewart hesitates, then accepts his shirt.
"I went to Michigan State," he says. "I can't believe we even invited you guys into the Big Ten." Still, he drapes it over his shoulder and says thanks.
The entire group raves about the dressing room. "It's the nicest one of the entire tour," Merrill says.
Missing at first, lead singer Sully Erna suddenly appears like a 5'5" bolt of lightening. The entire band eagerly signs the tile and gathers for the photo, but Erna disappears again.
While the search party works, the rest of the guys gather around.
Stewart is on my left. "Your hair smells really good," he says. At that point I almost drop the tile. "It smells really clean," he adds.
Just as Erna returns, ready to say cheese, Stewart begins to drift off.
"Hurry up and take the picture," someone shouts. "We're losing Stewart."
Finally, with Snoop Dogg thumping in the background, the band's tour manager snaps some shots, everyone shakes hands and the mission is complete.
As I return to the administration office, I attempt to take in the entire scene one last time. The stage crews are already dismantling the set, driving a highway of high power equipment back to the trucks. They've got two or three hours of tear-down ahead of them.
For the center's administration, however, operating the venue requires an aggressive, round-the-clock philosophy. Staff is already negotiating with prospective acts for the next two years. New summer programs are on the back burner, bids must be packaged and before this night concludes, the venue settles all finances with the tour. When the concert reviews hit the press, Punt will piece together a public relations packet to ship to each band's management. All this, just for that elusive moment of release.
After meeting Godsmack, I'm on cloud nine. Granted, my life is a far cry from Almost Famous, but I still caught a taste. That was my release.
And so concludes The Bryce Jordan Center's 200th show. According to Punt, when the venue opened, the university estimated eight to 10 shows per year. At that rate, the center would have hosted less than 50 shows to date.
"Does it seem like 200? No." Punt said. "Some days it feels like 1,000, some days it feels like 50."
It's 1 a.m. and Godsmack's "Wake the F*** Up Tour" is finally winding down. "Happy Easter," someone says as they head for home.
