I work as a sound tech for live music events. I am a mixture of friendly and direct, which may be responsible for my ability to ask people to help break down the equipment, and their not only agreeing but roping other people in. This helps everyone leave sooner.

One musician on this night has been more needy and picky than most and seems to think of me as a friend since I did sound for him years ago. This somehow makes the following interaction even funnier.

After he packs up, he looks at the scene: four to seven people are helping me. He then asks me if I need any more help. I have enough, but I can delegate more.

Me: “Oh! Thanks! You can coil some cables if you want!”

He looks down at the cables, disappointed.

Musician: “…”

I start to get back to work.

Musician: “Actually, you know, I have a long drive ahead of me…”

I slapped on a huge, gregarious smile and shooed him off the stage and out of the way, telling him to drive safely.

When he was gone and I was coiling cables, I laughed to myself about him and all the other people who think they can offer me something and I will follow the social conventions of rejecting the offer. The usual is someone going to the store and asking if anyone wants anything. I always want one thing, like apple sauce or a drink, and they usually look a little put-out. But this guy was funnier somehow. Maybe next time, he won’t offer to do something he doesn’t want to do.

I am a sound engineer for live music, aka a sound guy. I am non-binary and don’t dress like the typical sound guy. Today, I am wearing a square dance-style skirt. I’m medium-sized — a little small for a guy, and a little large for a girl — so people assume I’m a woman.

I’m walking through a venue carrying a piano keyboard for a musician. A tall man walks up behind me.

Man: “The sound guy wouldn’t want you to be carrying that.”

Before I can react, he is holding the keyboard without breaking stride.

Me: “Who the h*** are you? I have never met you. Hand that back.”

Man: “You can’t just show up and mess with other people’s equipment.”

Me: “Neither can you? Give it back.”

Man: “Really, only the sound guy should be carrying this. I’ll just find him.”

Me: “You found him, and you are correct. Give it back.”

He stops walking and looks around.

Man: “It’s just the two of us here.”

Me: “Hello, I’m the sound guy. Please don’t touch other people’s equipment. Hand that keyboard back.”

He is too tall for me to just take it without risking dropping it.

Man: “You can’t be a sound guy; you’re a girl!”

Me: “Are you sure about that?”

Man: “I’ve never seen a sound guy who looks like you before.”

Just then, a male musician from the band walks up.

Me: “Hi, [Musician], I’m your sound guy for the evening!”

Musician: “That’s great! Good to meet you! Where are we setting up?”

Me: “As soon as this complete stranger hands the keyboard back, I’ll join you. I’ve set some chairs out for y’all over there.” *Points at the stage*

The man looks at me. The musician looks at the man.

Man: “You see something new every day! Wow! Hey, do you find you are treated differently for being a sound gal?”

My jaw might have literally dropped.

Musician: “Hey, man, can I take that keyboard?”

Man: “Oh, sure.”

He hands it off, still staring at me.

Man: “A sound gal, huh? And you’re so small! How do you even lift things?”

Me: “I don’t like you. Don’t disrespect me again. I have to work now. You can return for the concert.”

Man: “Return?”

Me: “Well, you have to leave first. Bye.”

And then I walked away. This only happens a few times a year, but it’s never surprised me. Luckily, it’s funny.

I work at the customer service desk at a concert venue. A concert has just finished and customers are filing out. One approaches me, looking quite stern.

Customer: “I want a refund!”

Me: “For what reason, sir?”

Customer: “They didn’t play my favorite song!”

Our concert venue is always careful that our venue isn’t loud enough to cause hearing damage for either the performers or the audience, having a few decibel readers throughout the venue. Sure, you can have it loud, but at some point, you’re just hurting people and the sound isn’t any better.

A lady approaches me at the information desk.

Lady: “I’ve just had ear surgery.”

She says nothing more, so I bite.

Me: “What would you like me to do with that information, ma’am?”

Lady: “Well, you’re going to need to keep the volume way down. I could experience permanent damage if you don’t keep the volume down! My doctor said it needs to be at no more than a conversational level!”

Me: “There are a thousand people in the venue.”

Lady: “Yes.”

Me: “And you want us to keep the noise at a conversational level.”

Lady: “Yes.”

I get my manager, who then tells her to leave and offers her a refund. When she won’t, he has her escorted out.

Manager: “There’s no way I’m getting sued by someone that stupid.”

My parents are well-known musicians, part of a band that has quite the following and has been around for about thirty years or so. Around 2004, when I was thirteen, I went on tour with them when I was off school for summer break. They paid my expenses out of pocket and made sure I was treated like a member of the band. It was a very fun time and an eye-opening look at what really goes on behind the scenes of concerts.

We arrive in London for one of their shows. We all have to wear special crew passes to get in and out of the venue before and during the show. I am given one by my parents and told to always have it visible when we are at the venue. Each badge has a specific number attached to it, and all security guards working the doors are given sheets of paper with these numbers and who the badge belongs to with a picture of that person. It’s 2004 technology at its prime.

My parents decide that we are going out for food before the show, and we make it back just in time for their call time. I tell them I’ll meet them inside, as I have to use the restroom really quickly before we go in. They tell me to take my time but to be backstage before the doors open as I usually wander around and speak to the merch vendors as they are setting up, even helping them out at times due to boredom.

I finish up in the restroom and head toward the backstage area, but I’m stopped by a security guard.

Guard: “What do you think you’re doing?”

I flash my crew badge.

Me: “Going backstage?”

Guard: “Where did you get that? This is an eighteen-plus show — no minors!”

Me: “My parents, [Mom] and [Dad], gave it to me so I could meet with them. I just had to stop by the restroom before—”

Guard: *Snatches the badge from my hand* “Who did you steal this from?! No kids are allowed, and the venue is closed right now! You need to leave or I’ll be calling the police service and having you arrested for trespassing!”

I try to grab the badge back from the guard, but it is no use. He grabs me by the arm and pulls me outside the venue, shoving me into the street and warning me that if I come back, he’ll call the police. As I do not have a cell phone due to it being 2004, I have no way of contacting my parents. I decide to wait outside the venue — luckily it is summertime and not too cold — to see if my parents or one of the crew will come looking for me.

It is well past call time when police cars show up, and they are escorted into the building past fans who have started to line up early. There is murmuring in the crowd, but I think nothing of it until a police officer comes outside about half an hour later and looks through the crowd until he spots me. The officer walks over to me, and I can’t help but be my normal smart-a** self.

Me: “I believe you might be here for me, officer.”

Officer: “And why would you think that?”

Me: “You were either: A) called by the security guard trying to arrest me for trespassing, or B) called by my very scared and worried parents wondering where their son has vanished for about… two hours now?”

Officer: *Looks me over* “Are you [My Name]?” 

Me: “That would be me, yep.”

Officer: “Could you step inside with me, please?”

Me: “Gladly.”

The two of us headed inside, where we were met by my very worried — read: exhaustedly bawling her eyes out — mother and my very upset and worried father. The officer asked me for my side of the story — where I had been, what I was doing, etc., and I told him about what happened between the guard and me. I can’t exactly remember much of what happened next, but I do know that my dad was furious and berated the guard for not checking the sheet and for going on a power trip. I know the guard wasn’t fired for what he did, but he was only allowed to work the front doors for the rest of the tour and was given a severe reprimand from his boss once his boss found out.