Funny Pages: People

A long time ago and in land very far away

(Germany) We did the location sound for a TV show. The local guy that did the electrics for the hall wanted to tap into our system for some reason (I think he wanted to speaker in the green room or something like that).

Being a bear of very little brain, he plugged into one of the mic inputs and then ran a cable out to the green room where he started fiddling with the wires.

There was an almighty shout and he suddenly came running back. White in the face, he told me that he had been stripping the wires with his teeth and had received a massive electrical shock.

When I discovered that he had plugged into a mic input and had been sticking 48 volts into his mouth, I started laughing. This made him really angry and he shot off to find the man in charge of the hall (Hallenmeister).

Five minutes later he returned with the typical Hallenmeister (bifocals and a tool-belt) ready to lay down the law.

"His sound system is dangerously defective and I received an electrical shock that threw me across the room. He must be stopped before someone gets killed!" he said, pointing at me like a panto male lead.

I tried explaining about phantom power and microphones, but the Hallenmeister was having none of it.

"I'm a qualified electrician with over thirty years experience, so I know that there is no such thing. In my role as Hallenmeister, I deem your equipment unsafe and I must ask you to dismantle your equipment and pack it away."

He then stomped off to the OB truck to tell them that all on stage would be killed if they didn't stop immediately. The director came followed by the Hallenmeister and the bear with very little brain. I explained about the phantom power and that the bear with very little brain had stuck a mic lead into his mouth. The director told the Hallenmeister that there was indeed such a thing as phantom power and that he could not see anything wrong with our system.

"Rubbish!" said the Hallenmeister and went into his 'I've been an electrician for over thirty years' routine and added "and I've got a tape recorder at home, a Grundig. The best money can buy. It came complete with a microphone so that you can talk into it and everything and it does not need a power supply. It works with a crystal and it's got a lovely sharp sound. You see, I know about these things!"

By this time a little group of roadies, cleaners and other odds and bods had gathered. Voices were being raised and people were beginning to take sides. A cleaning woman declared that she wouldn't like to have to clean our equipment if it was unsafe and a roadie declared that his mate had told him that Sennheisers were the best microphones you could buy. Rubbish, said another, AKGs were the best. He knew because he had read that in a magazine.

The Hallenmeister weighed in to defend the honour of his Grundig crystal microphone.

"It's got a lovely sharp sound, has that microphone. You know, I recorded a clock on the other side of the living room and it sounded just like the real thing when I played it back. Now that's what I call quality!"

The director, a young man with a career that wouldn't be going places if he didn't get his shoot done and soon, clapped his hands and called for order.

"Come on people! We've got a concert to put on so let's go!"

"But that's not good enough!" said the Hallenmeister. "You can't go putting your television show on here, not with defective equipment you can't. That's more than my job's worth!"

The director, a dynamic man in made-to-measure leisure wear and an Omega watch, was not going to let a Hallenmeister stop the show.

"Listen!" he shouted at point blank range. "There is nothing wrong with this equipment. Now piss off!"

The Hallenmeister and the bear with very little brain left the hall with red faces.

Shouldercams were on shoulders. Dollycams were on dollies and jibcams were on jibs. The audience was let in and after sitting down, people pointed knowingly at the cameras and lights and told each other in hushed whispers what they were pointing at. The star of the show, a peculiar woman with brown hair and legs like champagne bottles, was back stage practising the words "Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen and welcome to the show!" and spraying something into her throat.

The house lights dimmed and a murmur of excitement ran through the audience. This was a country audience not used to the glitter of the City. This was it! A proper television variety show right there in their neighbourhood and in front of their very eyes. They settled down for an evening's entertainment.

Then the police arrived.

The Hallenmeister marched in, followed by the director, followed by the bear with very little brain, followed by two German policemen in green uniform. Flight control (mixing/recording position) was in the middle of the audience, so they got a free floor show as we started the argument about phantom power all over again.

The director, who was nervously looking at his Omega watch, was beginning to see his career in private television (this year a variety show, next year who knows - maybe a soap or even a top game show) slip between his fingers.

He was thinking the most dreadful thought in private television. One word kept recurring in his brain. A word so dreadful that it was officially banned in private television. A word that could make programme directors cry and location managers loose their jobs. The word: overtime.

Well, I'd like to tell you that the evening ended in disaster and hilarity, but German policemen are far too matter-of-fact a breed to leave such a simple problem unsolved. Headquarters were called to phone up some recording studios and ask if there was such a thing as phantom power and would sticking a mic cable give you a shock?

Within five minutes the replay came back: Yes on both accounts.

So remember - don't lick your mic cables!

We think Ulfs real name was Ralf, but we were not too sure as he had no roof to his mouth. If you asked him his name, he just said Ulf!

Well, Ulf came into the studio one day and said he wanted to become a rock star and asked how he should go about it. I suggest he should form a band and make a recording.

To cut a long story short, Ulf and a motley collection of German and American musicians recorded two songs for a single. These two songs were, well, they were so bad that when I sent the recordings off to the mastering lab to have white labels made, the technician phoned me up to ask if I had not sent the wrong tape by mistake.

Then Ulf asked me what I thought of his recordings. I told him that it was quite the loveliest thing I had ever heard.

Ulf wanted to send a copy to every radio station and disco in Germany and so we worked out what that would cost him with promotional material and postage, etc. It came to 9600 Marks - about three thousand Pounds.

Ulf did not have that kind of money, so he went to the bank.

He also took his band with him and a ghetto-blaster.

They went into the manager's office, sat the ghetto-blaster down, cranked it up to full volume and Ulf and the band mimed to their recording.

The bank manager, an elderly gentleman, sat staring wide-eyed until the noise had died down. He then asked them why they had done that. Ulf explained that he needed 9600 Marks to become a rock star.

Despite the shock the poor man had suffered, he was still able to say No in a clear and firm voice.

Ulf went to another bank and tried the same tactic. This time the manager, a younger man, was warned in advance what was going to happen and he sat through the performance, until, about half-way through, he began to choke on something and had to leave the room.

He returned, red in the face with tears in his eyes, and told them that, as good as it was, he would still have to see some collateral. They offered him the publishing rights and he got another choking fit.

Ulf was beside himself. Convinced that international stardom had been denied him for want of such a paltry sum, he realised that now was the time for radical action. He decided to rob the bank.

He went to the first bank, the bank where he had an account and they knew him, with his fathers 9mm service pistol and asked for 9600 Marks. They probably had many times that amount behind the counter, but Ulf was not a greedy man. He asked for just that sum that stood between himself and international fame and fortune and not a penny more.

The cashier assumed that it was just a silly prank and told him to "Put that toy away!" But Ulf was not to be put off so lightly and made his point by firing a couple of rounds through the ceiling. They gave him the money.

He then made his get-away in his car which he had parked outside the bank. His own car, with his name and the name of his band on the back window. There was also his telephone number next to his name in case anyone wanted to book him.

Somebody must have snitched on him instead, because when he drove home, there were about eight police cars and dozens of policemen armed with submachine guns surrounding his house.

He turned and fled. He made it all the way to Spain, where the law requires that every tourist is registered with the authorities. Normally this is done automatically by the hotel, but as he was just staying in small boarding house, he went down to the local police station to do it himself.

After spending several months in a Spanish prison, he was extradited to Germany, where he received nine years for armed robbery with menaces and applied violence.

After six years he was told that he was being given three years off for good behaviour and that he was a free man.

Tony wanted to be a sound technician. Mrs Barker wanted to chase rabbits.

Mrs Barker once managed to close down Bitburg Air Base. Well, I say Mrs Barker, but Tony had the main hand in it.

Originally Tony wanted to learn about sound technology, but in the end we had to physically throw him out. The very first time that I took him with me to a concert where we were doing a mobile recording, he walked into a low-slung spotlight that was on a centrally pivoted cross-beam holding about twelve such lights.

Petulantly, he pushed the spotlight away from himself.

"Bloody light!“ he whined. The whole beam swung round majestically and the same spotlight caught Tony nicely in the back of the head, knocking him clean off the stage into the orchestra pit. The same evening one of the stage fuses blew, so I told Tony to hold it down with his finger whilst I try the main switch again. There was an almighty flash and Tony flew across the room, crashing into a pile of chairs.

"Me arm!“ he said, "I can’t feel me arm!“ I told him not to worry: we’ll try again.

"Use the other arm.“ I suggested. He did and flew across the room a second time.

A week later I told a wiser and more careful Tony accompanied me to a show at Bitburg Air Base where we were recording a country and western band for the US military. During the evening I asked Tony to get me a beer out of the truck. I realise now that should have divided the assignment up into more easily understood parts, starting with ‘Go to truck, stand still and await further instructions.’

After about half an hour I was beginning to wonder what had become of Tony, and more important, my beer. I soon found out. The officer of the guard came to me and asked if I employed an Englishman "called Tony something or other?“ I was kicking a bit inside at the word ‘employ’ as that would imply remuneration for work done (Collins Economic Dictionary).