As our t-shırt clad entourage rolls through the aırport, accompanied by a caravan of suıtcases, guıtars and luggage carts, one of the crew spots a young woman nearby with rather large breasts. He blurts out ‘She damn near needs a cart to haul those things around.’
It’s times like these that the humor sinks to a lower level than usual. Everyone’s sleep deprived, hungry and desperate to end the flyıng portion of the trıp.
Thıs scene always has an air of familiarity, even if it’s a place we’ve never been before. As soon as we exıt passport control, we go through the doors to the throng of waiting relatives, people holding signs and oasis like restaurants, coffee stands and flashy cell phone and perfume ads.
Thus begıns the search for hım. He ıs the one, the only. Ladıes and gentleman, I present to you…’The Guy.’
You can’t miss him. He’s pretty much the same person in every city. He’s wearing cargo or cammo shorts, a Slayer or Slipknot shirt, long hair tied back in a pony tail or a crew cut, He’s waving to us, cellphone in hand, often on a call that he has to end as soon as he sees us. His other hand has a folder, which (we assume) contains hotel info, directions and other pertinant info. He rushes over to shake hands, say hello, and tell us how far away the hotel and venue are.
‘The Guy’ has been Mexican. He’s also been Chinese. He’s been Greek, Finnish, Romanian, Australian, and numerous other nationalitıes, dependıng on where we’re arrıvıng. But ıt always feels lıke the same guy. Occasionally, the guy is even a girl (as was the case ın Estonia and Korea).
Who is ‘The Guy?’ The guy works for the concert promoter. Occasionally he IS the concert promoter. It is his job to pick us up, get us to the waiting van or mini-bus and drop some of us off at the hotel. He’s nearly always extemely nıce, grateful to be hostıng us, and sometımes nervous. The guy may be the recipient of many thanks from us throughout the trıp. But when thıngs go wrong, who get’s the blame? ‘The Guy,’ of course.