Typical Day
"All right, boys! It's show time," says Brock Banderson, as he pops his hopeful, overly tanned face into the drummer's hotel room.
His face falls as he observes the four members of the chart-topping band, SMOOCH, collapsed and almost comatose on a garish, heart-shaped bed.
"Guys, guys, guys. What's going on? We have a show in a few hours! Please tell me you didn't forget..." The bassist grunts. The keyboardist snores. Brock lets out what can only be described as a half-groan, half-sigh.
It's always been difficult for Brock to explain to friends what exactly he does as the manager for SMOOCH. They don't understand that he's serious when he says just getting them out of bed and onto the stage is pretty much a full-time job. So he usually lies instead, sharing anecdotes about crazy after-parties with "the boys" at swanky clubs.
In reality, Brock is never at the clubs with them. He aims to be in bed by 1:00AM every night because he, unlike the band members, needs to be up bright and early, making calls to concert venues and tracking down band members who've gone missing in the night (this happens more often than you might think).
"Oh, come on," Brock mutters, back in the hotel room with the band. He starts to pull the covers off the frontman, Per Simmons, before realizing that the covers are all Simmons has covering himself. Brock immediately puts the covers back and moves back to his position near the door.
Brock scans the room, looking for any pet cobras lurking in corners, or tiny sparkling things that might be jewels from the personal collection of the actual Queen of England. Both these things have happened before, leaving SMOOCH in some regrettable legal situations and leading to a regrettable ulcer for Brock.
"You know who's not sitting in their bed right now? That guy, Mike Jogger, and—oh, what's his name—the other one—Richard Keiths! Those guys are up and moving by now, I promise you." Brock is so mad he can't keep the names straight of people whose careers he's studied inside and out.
Still, Per Simmons's head pops up slightly at the mention of Mike Jogger, but the success is short lived: it then lolls back on his neck, as though he can't hold it upright. Brock starts to feel that familiar feeling—oh no, what have they done this time?
Simmons manages to string together some vaguely intelligible words: "The Tumbling Pebbles have nothing on us, and you know that, Brock." Look at that—a full sentence, and one that suggests he understands what's going on at the present moment.
Brock isn't so sure of Simmons's assessment—probably because Brock's the one who negotiates the band's contract deals, scrutinizes sales reports obsessively, and runs (and re-runs) the numbers into the wee hours of the night while SMOOCH is partying it up. He knows exactly how close (or far) SMOOCH is from the Pebbles' level.
In his ten years of managing, though, Brock has learned his place. His job is to make the SMOOCH guys look good.
And when they look good, he looks good—where it matters, in his bank account. That's the beauty of working on commission. But right now the band is in danger of losing a perfectly nice commission, if Brock can't somehow shepherd SMOOCH to the stadium, where thousands of people are currently gathering to revel in their music (and buy overpriced, limited-edition t-shirts).
"Guys. Get going...now," Brock says, putting on his best babysitter tone. This time, they get the message and start shuffling around on the bed. With signs of movement evident, Brock leaves them to go check on the team setting up the concert, then he makes some phone calls to upcoming venues on the tour.
Always, always, always with the phone calls. If his phone isn't ringing...well, it's probably because he's talking on it.
Brock needs to eat, but he never misses an opportunity to network. He grabs a quick bite with a possible merchandiser—not for this tour, but Brock hopes something might work out in the future. When you're this high up in the game, a meal eaten alone or with your family means you're losing precious time that could be spent wining and dining with a client.
Grabbing another coffee on his way to the stadium (he's been up since 5:45AM, and never gets to bed until 2:00AM on concert nights), Brock is feeling just amped enough to handle whatever emergencies the band throws his way.
As the show approaches, it turns out there are two emergencies. First, the bassist has apparently gone missing at some point between the hotel and the stadium. Second, Simmons's makeup team has run out of white face paint. Never a dull moment.
Outside the dressing room, Brock attempts to talk Simmons through an improvised face-makeup plan, which Simmons is hysterically referring to as "Whitegate." Brock is assuring him in whispered, nurturing tones that none of his fans will be able to tell the difference.
"But I'm going to look like a tiger, I just know it!" Simmons stamps his foot on the floor, not unlike a child gearing up for a tantrum. Brock sighs. Simmons isn't exactly wrong—the knockoff white face paint won't mesh well with his bronzed facial hue. Such are the dangers of orange spray tans.
"You'll just have to get out there anyway, Per. Look, buddy, you've got a lot of people relying on you. I promise to buy you as much white face—hold on. It's my phone."
It's the police. They've found the bassist. They describe a scene of disorderly behavior at a nearby IHOP. They're letting him go this time, they say, but next time he won't get off so easy. Brock apologizes profusely, and immediately calls for a taxi to get the bassist to the stadium.
He turns back to Simmons. "—face paint as you want. Now, just come on out, and let's get this show on the road, eh? Do you hear them? They're cheering for you. Don't disappoint them."
Eventually, Per Simmons emerges from his dressing room, pretending nothing was ever wrong in the first place. Brock lets it go. The only matter of importance here is that Per stands up on that stage with rest of the band (yes, all of them), plays a few ditties for the crowd, and calls it a night. Just enough to make the suckers in the audience feel like they got what they paid obscene amounts of money to watch.
The night is finally over and Brock tumbles into bed, exhausted but pleased. Another successful (and sold out) show, another decent review from critics, another recording contract signed, and a pretty nice paycheck coming his way for managing it all.