It’s one of those things that you have to sort of be invited into.

Four years ago, my good friend Mike Banks called me after months of me badgering him to “get me on a call”.

It was for Movin’ Out at the Hershey Theater and, on the ride in, Banks gave me the lowdown.

“Dude, it’s a fuckin’ beehive in there. Just keep your eyes open, your mouth shut and bust your ass and you’ll be fine.”

“But, bro…I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“Can you push a box on wheels?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Can you wrap cable?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know how to use a c-wrench?”

“I do.”

“Then you’ll be fine. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut and you’re good.”

Four years later, I’ve pushed Billy Joel’s piano out of the truck and onto his stage. Uncrated Nils Lofgrins’ guitars and grabbed a setlist from Bruce Springsteen’s stage in Hershey. Cleaned the mirrors of Rod Stewart’s under-stage dressing room. Assembled the moving truss for Trans Siberian Orchestra. Placed bike rack around the spike marks of John McCain’s big-bus entrance at the Giant Center. Hung lights for Christina Aguilara, Brad Paisely, Toby Keith, ZZ Top, Government Mule and plugged David Byrnes effects pedals together.

And until today, I’ve done that all on what’s known as the “overhire list”.

But tonight, I took the oath and was officially sworn in to Local 283 of the IATSE Union.

It is a brotherhood.

Brooks, Banks, Dave Neale, Chile, Tim Stack, Scotty, Zouba, Jackson. And hundreds of thousands of guys all across the country are the backbone of the touring concert and theater industries.

We safely rig the motors that raise the truss which hold the lights that dazzle the fans in their seats. We stack the speakers and pull, literally, miles of cables and run the snake from the stage to “front of house” so your favorite band can rock your faces off. We’re the first to come and the last to leave.

You don’t see us- we’re usually dressed in black. And our war stories are far more impressive than your friends wildest bullshit stories.

And it’s dangerous work. Guys get killed regularly. A few months back, a stagehand was killed when a forklift tipped over on him. Riggers fall from the rafters. Guys get electrocuted. Back in October, I almost departed to that great gig in the sky after a poor judgement call from the tour guy I was working for…seventy feet in the air and the only thing separating me from becoming a permanent fixture on the stage was a single vice grip which acted as a makeshift brake on the track we were suspended from.

And it sure ain’t glamourous.

But it’s a calling. And those of us who do it, rarely ever stop. There are guys we work with who’ve been laying marley and pulling feeder since I was just a twinkle in my Mother’s eye.

Next time you’re at a concert and you see those big video screens or the lazer show or feel the bass pounding in your chest- remember the Stagehands that put it all together for you.

You may not ever see us- but the show would not go on without your local IATSE brotherhood.