Load-in at the Port of Miami complete with dog-sniffing.

Words and images by Josh Baron

I was invited on moe. cruise this year by former Jambands.com news editor, Relix contributor and current moe. lighting director Jefferson Waful (henceforth to be called Waful). There was one condition, though: I had to work as a roadie. Here’s my story.

Saturday, 1/6
My flight down to Miami was packed with fussy kids and cranky Cubans, not a seat left. The child behind me, who was probably three and part of a family of six, immediately started with the whole up-and-down tray routine followed by the requisite kick-the-tray routine. I soon discovered that this was his first time on an airplane. At one point his father told him to put away the emergency procedures card—“you can’t read anyway,” he said. It’s nice to see parents encouraging scholarship early on. As the plane ascended, he let out squeals of joy, and as New York retracted into small lighted dots I could hear him saying, “We’re giants, we’re giants.” Wait till he discovers you can squash someone’s head with your fingers.

Load-in at the Stardust Theatre. We had to do this three times (plus load-out three times). 

Miami airport was absolute panda-fucking-monium. I’ve traveled the world and no airport I’ve ever been to even gets close to this (though I should note I have yet to fly into Bombay, Mexico City or Beijing). I’ve come through the international terminal and I have to say that the domestic one is even worse. They have over 30 baggage claim carousels and have designed them in a way that creates a human traffic flow akin to Times Square on New Year’s Eve or those lethal European soccer stampedes. I do pretty well with crowds and within 15 minutes I was wishing that they had Xanax dispensers next to the luggage carts. 

I caught a cab to the hotel where Waful and parts of the crew and band were staying. Within short order, the hotel came to be deemed by all of them as “worst hotel ever.” They weren’t far off in their assessment of what was purported to be a three-star experience (our friend Jen would later note that the hotel aptly used the term “limited service” on its website). The rooms were a bit austere—they felt like glorified cell blocks decorated with cheap materials from the ‘70s. There were also an abundance of scuff marks on the walls, so many that you thought perhaps they’d directed a form of mass transit through the room at some point. Lacerations of black scratches were to be found everywhere and rose as high as five feet in odd locations. Jim Loughlin, the band’s percussionist, said the next day that he kept thinking about that movie where they find a rotting corpse of a hooker in the box spring.

Steve and Cass figuring out the front-of-house sound.

Sunday, 1/7
Let’s meet the band quickly:
Al Schnier: guitar, keys, vocals
Rob Derhak: bass, vocals
Chuck Garvey: guitar, vocals
Vinny Amico: drums
Jim Loughlin: percussion, guitar

And the crew that I would work for (+ three words to describe them):
Kenneth “Skip” Richman: tour manager (bearded, persistent, control)
Chris Burrows: production manager (constant, methodical, happy)
Bil Emmons: monitor engineer (tough, encouraging, cherubic )
Cass Libbers: front-of-house engineer (reserved, stoic, tattooed)
Frank Robbins: guitar tech (mellow, consistent, classic)
Andy Sellers: production assistant (young, smart, learning)
Steve Young: front-of-house engineer and general jack-of-all-trades (MacGyver, hippie, crucial)
Nate: A guest of Cass’ and, like me, all around band bitch (charming, tenacious, surprising)

 Call time was 8AM at the dock for load-in. It felt like a classic case of hurry up and wait. The gear truck had been forced to move so Skip set about relocating it while the rest of us sat outside what seemed to be a defunct building on the cement. After brief introductions to the rest of crew whom I would be serving, I ate what was quite possibly the worst breakfast sandwich ever: a pre-made, barely warm egg-bacon-cheese that tasted as if it had been soaked in liquid Styrofoam. The truck eventually arrived and we offloaded the gear and corralled it around the corner where it was to be loaded onto the ship via open-air cargo bins after a healthy dose of dog-sniffing. There was about half a semi worth of gear, less than average as they were traveling without the lighting gear.

moe. getting the juices from flowing during the first set of the cruise

This part wasn’t too bad. Everything was wheeled in its road cases. With several loads left, the port authority security officer who had been keeping dibs on us said that there had been an incident at the port just a little while earlier and that all cargo areas had been closed. He said his boss was on the warpath and would flip if he saw us all here in what was deemed a restricted area. For good measure, he pointed his walkie-talkie our direction so we could hear the tone and urgency of his boss. Yup, the dude was pissed alright. We later found out via family and friends that this “incident” was major news and had been cast as a foiled terrorist plot (then again, every government action these days seems, in some way, to be an attempt at stopping terrorism).

After boarding the Norwegian Jewel, we went through the muster drill, a life-jacket-adorned exercise about how to evacuate should something go wrong. They also talked about ship health and “discouraged handshaking” during public gatherings. This led to many moe. fans thinking about other way in which to greet each other (my favorite was the ass slap). In light of the recent bouts of contagious illnesses on ships, they were taking measures, including the placement of hand sanitizers in key locations (which I now miss. NYC public transit should think about installing some of these). Then came the real load-in.

 The band was playing three nights in the Stardust Theater (among other locations), a 1000-person venue that was home to the ship’s stabs at Broadway Theater (we got lucky as the current production had flower power signs and groovy colors). What had once been rolled now had to be carried down the long aisles of short steps. This is what I had signed up for and I was beginning to think, as I took down what was the first of many heavy cases, that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. I already had a bad back and this could potentially lay me low for days. I got schooled in how to build and take apart mic stands, what a snake box is (where they keep all the really big chords) and that this is a business of tough love and sweat (and a bruised finger or two). Besides the seven of us (minus Skip who was dealing with other stuff including being assigned a “butler”) we got help from four Southeast Asian, guys one of whom who could frequently be heard saying, “Whoa tiger” in a thick accent as he shouldered the weight of the massive gear coming down the stairs with his partners. Life would have been much harder without them, that’s for sure.

Frank and Nate prepping for the first pool deck set amidst less than ideal conditions. 

I’ve enjoyed moe. a number of times and have even gotten to know Chuck and Al a brief bit. You develop a different sense of appreciation when you a) realize how much shit must be set up for each show; b) how heavy all that shit is; and c) have responsibilities beyond simply enjoying the music. I won’t lie—it took some of the fun out of it. That said, when Al was wailing away on his Moog during segue into “George,” I was like… “Yeah, I put that there and it sounds great right now (mind you, I had nothing to do with how it sounds—that falls to Bill and Cass who do the sound). However, with that said, there was also the impending sense of ache as I knew it all had to be moved back up the dreaded stairs after the show.

The first show of the week started with a bang: “Plane Crash.” Also included in the set was the rumba-like “Shoot First” about their old light guy, the rhythmic shuffles of “Tambourine” and “Waiting for the Punchline” and the heavy, proggy “32 Things” with Rob dropping low end bombs. Second set opened with an initially spacey “Yodelittle” which, dare I say it, seemed to have a “Suck My Kiss” tease in it. This transitioned into “Time Ed” and “George,” which saw Al and Chuck each taking long solos, their playing eventually latticing over one another as Vinny locked it down with Rob and Jim. This combo was a definite highlight for me. “Happy Hour Hero” > “Seat of My Pants” closed it with a “Blue Jeans Pizza” encore.

 Waful was right—it goes much faster packing it all up after the show. The show ended at 1AM and we were done about 90 minutes later. It was a bit of an ass-kicking but I think I did alright for my first day as band bitch. We were set to play the pool deck the next day (weather permitting).

Rob feeds Al a shot for his 39th birthday.

Monday, 1/8
I went on Jam Cruise last year—which was an amazing experience—but this was much different: one band with half the guests being your regular run-of-the-mill cruisers. While it’s nice to be surrounded by your peeps (there were about 900 moe.rons), it’s also perhaps more entertaining to be surrounded by people you’d normally never be around.  

I rolled up to the Spinnaker lounge, which had been converted to a bingo gaming area. I was sort of excited to play but as the options rolled out and the prices increased in proportion to how many chances at winning you had, my enthusiasm diminished. Not that I have anything against bingo, but it’s a form of gaming that requires absolutely zero skill. If I’m going to risk my money gambling I at least want to be able to stake some claim to its fate. Not so for hundreds of these folks who were enticed by the various tiered packages and bonuses that involve lip balm and “spikey balls,” which get you more raffle tickets for a free cruise drawing or somehow make your chances at winning better. It all got a bit confusing and my mind began to wander at the prospect of sleeping with slightly leathery women bedecked in gold jewelry who’ve been on a cruise or 50 in their lives. I’ve been told this is cougar country—older women who seek out younger men— nay, prey on them. I like the prospect of being hunted—maybe it’s because I’m lazy and I’ve never fancied myself good at the art of the pick-up. We’ll see how it all goes.

I’m also curious as to the people who frequent cruises. I can see the all-inclusive appeal but they seem so insulated from the world, so safe; like a padded room for someone in danger of hurting themselves. The brief stops in foreign places for the length of a work day, if that, and then gone. How is that a way to experience something? How can you really say you’ve been to place if it’s not even for a day? It rained for some time so the pool deck show might not happen. Whatever the case may be, I know it will involve heavy lifting. Sweet.

Al riffs with a young Shawn during “Not Coming Down.”

We in fact played the pool deck. To say it looked sketchy was an understatement. With the pool deck soaked, wind howling, water sloshing out of the pools in waves and rain coming and going, Skip and the crew gave it the green light. I will admit that I had some cognitive dissonance going on: lots of electricity and expensive equipment don’t really mix with a tiny gazebo-like stage and stormy weather. Maybe that’s just me. If we didn’t do it this night, we’d have to make it up another so the sense was just get it done.

After setup, Waful and I jetted to a delicious dinner with some friends at Teppanyaki. It’s one of those Benihana type deals where they prepare everything in front of you with great fanfare (there were four different cooking/eating stations in this place, which was part of a bigger restaurant). As a means of commencement, all the chefs started rhythmically whacking their massive metal spatulas against the metal skillet. While this adds to the general “excitement,” it was seriously grating on one’s ears. We had to ask him to chill on the cacophony. He seemed a bit dejected but proceeded to cook some wonderful food (Waful was particularly mesmerized by his fried rice concoction, which he eventually shaped into a massive Pac Man). Of note were the filet, shrimp and scallops.

Despite a little wet weather, the show went off without a hitch minus the occasional rain. The band seemed to enjoy the challenge of battling the elements. Rob’s shaggy mane was constantly blowing and it made for dramatic effect. Perhaps it’s not the first time he’s heard this, but Rob has always reminded me of Shakespeare’s Falstaff from the Henry plays, what with the portly figure, quick wit and beer-drinking party vibe (however, the more popular comparison is to Janis Joplin; just picture the face and smile).

A typical street in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico.

It was also Al’s 39th birthday at midnight. Schnier rarely drinks and on this occasion treated himself to a margarita. As the band made its ways through “Spine of a Dog,” Chuck gave Vinny the throat-slash cue just as the clock struck 12. Al was genuinely surprised. Rob said a few kind words which were met with cheers after which he fed Al a shot of what I presume was tequila while drinking his own bevie (cue more cheering; however, it should be noted, no visible or audible effects could be seen as result of Al’s imbibing). Not wanting to shine in the spotlight too long, Schnier invited young Shawn to join the band for a jam during “Not Coming Down.” Shawn, who's eight-years old, was often seen sitting front row with an inflatable guitar in hand during most of the cruise sets. At first I thought it was Al’s kid as he’d mimic his playing on guitar. I thought to myself, “Awww… that’s so cute, father and son, jamming.” But no, it was just a random kid who freaking LOVED moe. It also gave new meaning to the notion of “air guitar.” The kid was a pro, kept it cool and vamped liked he’d done it hundreds of times before. The band encored with “Up On Cripple Creek,” with Al taking the vocals.  

Tuesday, 1/9
We awoke the next day in San Juan, Puerto Rico, home to Bacardi Rum, two old forts and a fairly endearing “old town” and decent “new town.” Waful and I ambled off the ship with enough cohorts to fill a small van. After climbing around one of the massive forts, we made our way through the colorful streets of Old San Juan. We returned, relaxed and prepared for what would be our first of three meals at Azura, which came to define our cruise experience. This is where we met Honey.

We were seated at a large round table for eight and shortly thereafter a beaming Filipino woman appeared as our waitress. “Hello, I’m HoneyLee but you can just call me Honey.” Honey proved herself, over the course of several evenings, to quite possibly be the most attentive and thoughtful waitress that both Jeff and I have ever encountered. I would also note that I am not prone to hyperbole.

Nearly every Norwegian Cruise Line employee we met had a name tag on which was their name, country of origin and below that the acronym S.T.Y.L.E. And that, my friends, stands for Service, Teamwork, Yes, Leads to Excellence. This motto and attitude is engrained into the very fiber of their being. How, I’m not sure, though part of me can see a Clockwork Orange-like sequence in which devilish Scandinavians obliterating the minds of innocents with video montages of smiles, thumbs-up signs and bright flashes of YES and THANK YOU. 

Frye’s beach, Antigua. A small slice of paradise. 

Honey’s service and attitude were impeccable. Any dish we liked, we were offered more of. Any dish we didn’t finish, there was a requisite, “Would you like something different, sir?” She hustled—literally—as if she were almost doing that Olympic walking event everyone scoffs at for being called a competitive sport. On our last night, after Jeff and I agreed we’d hire her away as our personal assistant if we had the money, I began to cough from a spicy sausage gone awry. Before the third cough, there was Honey offering water and to see if I wanted another dish. I know if I choked on a shrimp tail Honey would have been there to clear my windpipe.

Waful has a dry, sarcastic sense of humor that looks to irony, witty repartee and cultural reference for its effectiveness. It frequently works but I’ve also seen it fall on deaf ears and blank stares. Sarcasm is a tricky thing to deliver at times; it’s even harder to get when English is your second language. So for instance when it came time to muster and Waful asked a nice Indian employee if perhaps they had the lifejacket in a nice blue color, she politely responded, “no.” Honey, however, was sharp as a tack and understood Jefferson’s attempts at humor all too well. So after she talked about the tenets of S.T.Y.L.E. and said they essentially have to say yes to anything you request, Jeff asked casually, “So what are you doing later?” She smiled politely and said, “Oh, that’s a good one sir.” A proper birthday celebration followed for Al on the pool deck with cake and drinks.

Wednesday 1/10
The shipped docked in Antigua. With surprisingly little fuss, I got Waful up and out of the room (he really likes his sleep and is very Jekyll/Hyde when it comes to caffeine). Per the advice of Burrows, we hopped a cab to take us to a beach away from the crowds. Some place beautiful and quiet. Our driver King delivered: Fryes Beach. We couldn’t have asked for anything more as it felt like we were suddenly in one of those generic computer desktop pictures except we weren’t trapped in some veal-fattening pen of an office cubicle. As our afternoon was winding down, we made our way over to the local restaurant situated atop a small hill overlooking the ocean. After ordering, we sat out on the veranda contemplating the ocean quietly over some cheap local beer. Some catchy Caribbean music wafted out from the adjoining bar and I went in to inquire who it was. A short while later a woman came back with a piece of paper with the band’s name on it: Jam Band (after further investigation, they are practitioners of a Caribbean-style reggae called soca). 

Second acoustic set featuring Jim’s rendition of the Iron Maiden’s “The Trooper” with Rob on (more) cowbell. 

That night moe. offered up two acoustic sets at the Spinnaker Lounge which were some of the week’s most memorable (fans were given tickets to one or the other though more than a few managed to see both). The band opened with “Okayalright,” slowing it down to a slow thump-n-shuffle. The band then took requests for the rest of both sets, delivering up a heartfelt “The Faker” which Al asked for clarification on: “the live ‘Faker’ or the Dither version?” (It should also be noted that this was made by Air Guitar Shawn.) They went with the live version as Schnier zealously took the lead soloing. “Rise” sounded note-perfect, as if the band could do it in its sleep, while “She Sends Me” was a vampy party jam with the emphasis on “moles” and “pillows,” as requested. “CalifornIA” sounded, as the title would suggest, as if it were stolen from southern California in the ‘70s ala CSNY, its potential origins complimented by Schnier’s baroque-like interlude. Rob then brought forth the segue challenge in which the band would segue between whatever the next two requests were. A tight “Meat” > “Sensory Deprivation Bank” followed, the bridge filled with the guitarists’ interlocking staccato flurries and Vinny’s bigger, more present drumming. The set closed with a loose reading of Tori Amos’ “Cornflake Girl,” which Rob forgot some of the words to.

The second set stretched a little longer and saw the band trot out dusty gems like “Backwoods” which had some excellent interplay from the front three as Al soloed over Chuck and Rob’s rhythms. Rob’s vocals sounded very much at home on the Americana “The Country Tune” to a degree that made me wish he’d release a whole album of similar stuff. Finally relenting to the heavy crowd chant of “let Jim sing,” it indulged them with a cover of Iron Maiden’s “The Trooper” (Jim also played bass while Rob took over the much needed cowbell). The band, led by Jim’s Mallet Cat work, took a brief stab at The Rolling Stone’s “Under My Thumb” which only saw a verse of vocals (but think about it—you can hear Jim’s vibes fitting perfectly). Rob also announced that this would be the last time they’d be playing “Tijuana Donkey Show” (well, till the next all-request set anyway). The segue challenge this time ‘round was “Johnny Lineup” > “Interstellar Overdrive.” Again, surprisingly tight with a nice solo from Jimbo. Of other interest was Rob’s revealing that moe. manager John Topper was in fact the creator, and profitee, of all those “Topper Sucks” T-shirts. Genius Topper, genius.

Thursday, 1/11
We slept late—probably till about 11AM or so. We had load-in for the theater show that night around 3PM, so there wasn’t really time to get off the boat and hit the beach. I hit some golf balls (into a netted area; no repeat of Seinfeld), ate, roamed the many decks and caught a few rays before heading down to the Conga Room, our de facto storage area.

After getting to know the equipment for a few days, there were certain pieces I liked and other ones I didn’t. For instance, carrying Al and Chuck’s Oldfield tube amps was always a pleasure. The little glass tubes in the back, the bomb-proof cases, the classic design—they made you feel cool. Ditto for any of the guitars. Whereas, say, the piece of equipment labeled PC3 (for percussion), which requires four grown men to lift, was never that cool. Nor was Rob’s bass cabinet. Those were just purely uncomfortable, like when you were in middle school and your P.E. teacher forced you to hang on the chin-up bar for as long as possible.

Malone is a sexy bastard. 

The evening’s show opened with Chuck introducing “The Pit” via the beginning of Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.” The band seemed to step on the “sick jam” pedal—as Relix marketing director Jon Schwartz would say of Trey during his Phish days—pretty quickly as they segued into “Tubing the River Styx” > “Hi and Lo” > “Tailspin.” Chuck took the brunt of soloing, favoring cleaner tones a la Kimock and Garcia with some Frampton-esque self-harmonizing though no talkbox. The band slowed the tempo down for “Hi and Lo” only to bring it back up again as it made its way into “Tailspin,” which saw a small round of soloing from each player for the outro. The set-closing “Brent Black” was all Rob and Vinny. After a raucous “The Ghost of Ralph’s Mom,” the second set eased into a meandering “Bullet.” Spacious and exploratory, it almost felt too slow as Rob helped the band make its way into “Head.” An extended “Moth” closed the set with a “Spaz Medicine” encore.

Friday, 1/12
As we awoke around brunch time Friday, another day off, I fondly recalled a college movie quote favorite: “I know you don’t smoke weed. I know this, but I’m gonna get you high today ‘cause it’s Friday, you ain’t got no job, and you ain’t got shit to do!” It’s true; I really did not have shit to do. Thus I found myself, after a     quadruple iced espresso, in the Jacuzzi, sucking down beers with Malone and Erica.

Malone, first name technically James, hails from Nashville and has been listening to, following and interacting with moe. since I was a wee lad. Over the course of the weekend, Malone proved to be a beacon of goodwill, humor and drinks. For the first few days, he had a bucket of beer by his side at all times. This is not an exaggeration. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that he in fact slept with a bucket of beers next to him in case he found himself parched in the middle of the night. As happy to be conversing with fellow fans and longtime friends, hanging with the band or letting Rob and Al’s kids bite him repeatedly, Malone was a study in compassion, mirth and self-deprecating humor that makes one feel instantly welcome and at ease. Like Motel 6, though replace the “we’ll leave light on for you” with “I’ll have a cold beer ready for you.” He’s also a sexy bastard. 

Happy Birthday Jefferson. 

That night was the moe. crew’s celebratory dinner at Cagney’s steakhouse, one of the ship’s finer restaurants, which charged a little extra to eat there. The alcohol was being paid for so the nine of us (minus Skip, plus a wife and a girlfriend) tried to do some respectable, within limits, damage. Bill for his part ordered a bottle of yellow label Veuve Clicquot for himself. “How many glasses?” the waitress asked. “Just one.” There was a little confusion. “Just one,” Bill reemphasized. They made it so. Waful and I also split a bottle of the champers while Frank got a nice bottle of Shiraz, Andy some Johnny Walker Blue Label and… the rest is a little sketchy. I do know that Waful and I got a great bottle of Cakebread Merlot to follow. Some time later Waful was presented with a small cake for his birthday (which it was not—someone had told the staff that it was). Some cheering ensued which segued into me knocking over a glass of wine which segued into me breaking the glass that had initially spilled. This was followed by a heavy amount of scotch drinking courtesy of our friend Eytan and… well… the rest is a warm, fuzzy memory. However, I do remember losing my heart to the Romanian waitress there, Marabella.

Saturday, 1/13
The Bahamas did not happen. Therefore the rustic show on the beach in some random cabana at a bar did not happen. What did happen was another pool deck show thanks to Lynn and Les’ persistence to make it so (Lynn said they wouldn’t take no for an answer and ended up taking it up the official ranks, almost to the captain).

Lynn and Les are the founders of Rhythms at Sea and are genuinely wonderful, charming people. They played the role of proud parents to all the fans who in turn played the role of kids with the really hip and cool parents that they love hanging out with. If you saw them on the street, you wouldn’t think that these two travel agents from south Florida are the masterminds behind the highly successful musical cruises that have featured moe., The Radiators or Donna the Buffalo. They get the unique dynamics of the audience and have therefore worked with the cruise line to insure that everyone—including all those not there to see the bands—is happy. It also doesn’t hurt that the passengers they bring onboard like to run up a healthy bar tab. Les announced, with more than a small hint of pride, that on the first day alone the ship’s bar sales record was shattered: $70,000 (the previous record was for the most recent New Year’s Eve at $60,000). Later that night, in between sets, the two received a howling, standing ovation for their work. “Your parents should be proud,” Les said. “They’ve raised some wonderful children.” Further cheering ensued.

This second pool deck set perfectly captured the boat, the trip, the people and feeling through its duration. Opening with “The Harder They Come,” the band then nodded to fan favorites like “New York City,” “Shoot First” and “Nebraska.” It closed the set with the perfect “Happy Hour Hero” > “Mexico,” whose chorus was quite apt for its fans who were out at sea with no land in sight: “Well I’m a million miles away from home/ And I can’t find a telephone/ My folks don’t even know where I am/ Hell I don’t even know where I am.” Schnier’s solo was, for me anyway, one of the best and most climatic he took all week. The audience left buzzing for the evening show.

Deb Amico and the wonderful, heart-stealing Marabella. 

Despite a relatively relaxing week spent with their families, the band was a little rough around the edges. I too was a banged up after consecutive late nights and was anxious to deal with the impending load-out. Set one closed with the anticipated “Rebubula.”

Set two featured the obvious “Water” in addition to a ragged “The Weight.” A somewhat spacey “Kyle’s Song” > “Kids” closed it out. The band took its final bows after “Time Again” and a vampy “McBain.”

We immediately began breaking down and loading the equipment back into the Conga Room in anticipation for the next morning’s docking. As I said before, there were several pieces of equipment which I came to despise. I helped move a good portion of those but the real monster, like the final challenge of a video game, was still waiting: the 48-channel mixer. Weighing in at nearly 900 pounds, this beast was probably six feet wide, four feet long and a foot deep. It took the brute strength of at least eight men to get it up the stairs. What followed, led valiantly by Bil, was a tremendous amount of grunting, moaning and heaving. What was nearly unfathomable was the fact that on the previous cruise, the board did not fit in the elevator and thus had to be carried up and down eight flights of stairs several times. Anyway, the hardest part was done. I was almost home free. We were deep into the port by the time we went to bed at 4AM after some “everything must go” partying in one the nicer staterooms.

Sunday, 1/14
Having spent only a small amount of time around a port, I can see why they’re such a national security issue. Seriously—I don’t mean that flippantly. Given their size and the amount of workers on any given ship—typically around 1,000 I think—it would be quite easy for a few mal-intentioned people to cause some serious damage. However, what’s perhaps equally as frustrating is the asinine red- ape one must go through to get anything done. Like many a U.S. Post Office I’ve spent time at in Brooklyn, it would seem the Miami port’s security people are opposed to doing anything with any amount of efficiency or fluency.

The boys close out the cruise in fine pajama fashion.

Having gotten off the boat shortly after 9AM, we proceeded to wait a couple of hours for some office to deal with the paperwork that they should have already received well ahead of our arrival. This paperwork would allow us to move equipment from a restricted area to the trucks (which in themselves were tied to this paperwork). At some point it was determined we needed to go get our “day” security passes. After walking well over a mile to a drab building that would have sucked to be called an office in 1974, we proceeded to slump on the floor in the hallway outside the Office of One Day Passes (this was really the name posted outside the door). This place made a bad hospital waiting room seem like the Bellagio. We were then told to grab lunch because it was going to take some time. While the employees of the newly-opened restaurant just down the street were quite nice, the ambiance needed some work. The décor felt like a bad combination of a 99 cent store, German Bauhaus and a no-frills cabana people smuggle things in and out of. Waful was further dismayed that the television cable system was such that TBS was a pay-for channel. After returning to the Office of One Day Passes we were told none of it would be possible as the truck’s paperwork, which had come via fax, was on the wrong letterhead. The wrong fucking letterhead. “Norwegian Cruise Line knows better,” the woman said. Mmm hmmm. Sure, whatever. Just give me my now-useless pass that I waited five hours for and close your office up early so you can fully maximize the federal holiday that you’ll have off tomorrow. The equipment was not to be loaded and the driver would pick it up from a storage facility Tuesday. C’est la vie. We were finally done.

As we got back to the luggage it began to rain. Goodbyes were brief. Manly handshakes were given. Nods of approval were cast. I was just thankful I didn’t have to do it all over again two weeks later like the rest of the crew.  

Addendum: Between the cruise and the next leg of moe.’s tour, there were some significant changes to its road crew. Bil Emmons, the longtime monitor engineer amicably left the band after five years and is replaced by front-of-house engineer Cass Libbers. Steve Young, a legend who’d previously been with the band and had returned for the cruise, had only recently retired from the road to spend more time with his family and pursue iron working. Steve will reprise his role as front-of-house engineer. Given what I saw Steve do, accomplish and talk about over the course of the week as far as technical issues, I was surprised the band had been making do without him. A longtime Deadhead with a happy-go-lucky attitude, there seems to be no task too big or small for him. Seriously—he’s a wunderkind. And while I can’t pretend that I know Bil all that well, I hope that his departure will one day see him pick up his beloved golf clubs again and have another go at the fairways. 

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