Tuesday, June 5, 2012


31 August 2011
Attn: All crew, the Rock Never, Ever, Ever Stops Tour. Ever.
1) Let’s get this out of the way right off the bat: Those shitbirds up front can go get fucked. The band does not care how much the douche lords from Merrill Lynch paid for their tickets. It does not give them the right to throw half-full $15 beers at the band. It does not give them license to whip those shitty plastic “Gold Circle” champagne glasses at the band. When did we start serving champagne to these entitled pricks, anyway? Charging them an extra three bills for a bottle of bottom-shelf Moët might seem like good business to the geniuses over in accounting, but it’s just not worth the aggravation. So let’s consider the plug officially pulled on that score.

2) The backstage meet-and-greets need to be scaled back. WAY back. There are only so many greasy teenagers, toothless speed freaks and flat-assed soccor moms the band can be expected to cozy up to each night. The band have remarked on numerous occasions about the staggering array of pendulous Midwestern titties they’ve been compelled to autograph over the course of the last few months. Meanwhile, the radio stations seem to be bringing in the tweakers en masse. Not sure if ROXX 106 up in Boston is out trolling for them in their notorious “Pahty Wicked Hahd” van or if meth heads just have an abundance of downtime to call 1-800 numbers for free concert tickets. Either way, we need to institute some sort of profiling scheme before we haul all these dimwits backstage. Jimmy, please call your boy over at the TSA and see if he has any tips vis-à-vis this issue. Make sure to stress that we’re not particularly concerned about “sand niggers.”

3) You are all no doubt aware of the recent rash of collapsing outdoor stages. Cheap Trick and Blue Öyster Cult had a close one up in Ottawa recently. And then there was the tragedy at the Indiana State Fair last month. Needless to say, the band is understandably concerned about being decapitated—or worse—by falling stage rigging. We’ve got that big outdoor gig/wet t-shirt contest/demolition derby lined up for next week in Omaha with FireHouse and Big Daddy Don Garlits. Under normal circumstances we’d cancel, but let’s face it: We’ve all got child support payments to make here. As of right now, the only bright ideas our esteemed crew chief has come up with involve crossed fingers, four-leaf clovers and scratch tickets. We need a viable structural solution, post-haste.

4) Keep this one on the DL, but it is officially time to give Joey D. his own dressing room. He’ll think he’s finally getting the prima donna treatment he “deserves,” but the rest of the band are sick of him two-fingering all the catering before they even arrive at the venue. On more than one occasion, the band has discovered Joey backstage scooping handfuls of potato salad or Beef Stroganoff onto his plate with his bare hands.  Not only have they expressed their dismay and disgust at this situation directly to Joey, they have also pointed out the serving spoons that are almost always right next to the food.  Though he is unaware of it as of right now, the Joey D. solo dressing room plan goes into effect for the Tacoma show. Your discretion is appreciated.

England prevails,

The Management.