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— 1:30 p.m. Lunch — and my first bit of roadie lingo: ''flat meat,'' for unsavory deli platters. The band are nowhere to be seen — perhaps they've already scarfed their ham sandwiches.
— 3:30 p.m. The sign on the backstage door says it all: ''Pyro Zone: No Smoking.'' Each night, about 500 pounds of mild explosives are detonated, creating the constellation of flash pots and fireworks that threaten to immolate the arena. ''This could take out a building, easy,'' says head pyro Randy Bast, while calmly mixing compounds for the show's big blast.
I try to forget Bast's statement as I begin wiring the six charges that will ignite behind drummer Criss' kit. Each ''comet'' is the size of a roll of pennies and is connected to a detonator switch. Imagine hooking up your home stereo, but with the unsettling feeling that it could blow with the slightest misstep. Besides, if my blast doesn't ignite on schedule, the band may disinvite me to all those backstage orgies.
— 8:30 p.m. The house lights click off, an announcer introduces ''the hottest band in the world,'' the crowd unleashes a bellow, the band clomps on stage — and I can't see any of it.
Some people fantasize about winning the lottery. As a rock fan, I have dreamed of working a fog machine at a concert. To my surprise, the four fog machines — which resemble the blue recycling bins found in most offices — are situated not near the stage, but beneath it. I find myself crouching in an industrial swampland, surrounded by metal braces and wires, the ceiling inches from my head. Stagehand Scott Nordvold signals for me to flip the ''on'' switch, the band breaks into its opener, ''Deuce,'' and without warning, it's life during wartime. Smoke gushes out of the bins and envelops me, and I start gagging as stage bombs explode all around.
The song ends, but the machines need to be reloaded. Nordvold and I run backstage, fill two metal tins with 70 pounds of dry ice, and race back beneath the stage. In a show so carefully choreographed that it runs almost precisely one hour and 58 minutes each night, the fog needs to appear on cue. Emerging from the pit two hours later, cramped and crumpled, I want to ask the band if they liked my fog, but they've already bolted in a private van.
Day 2 Cleveland
— 2 p.m. A late start, since the stage is already standing. I have been a roadie for only 36 hours, but I already wonder why anyone would do this for a living. ''You go with what pays your bills,'' shrugs Nordvold, a 34-year-old Houstonite. ''And this is steady work. I know what I'll be doing for the next 16 months.''
With his ponytail and rugged features, Nordvold doesn't match the roadie stereotype of the beer-swilling biker. Likewise, the other 63 men and women who travel with the band range from fresh-faced twentysomethings to divorced dads in their 40s. They hail from San Francisco and small towns in Kansas, and many started in local theaters, where they began working their way, literally and figuratively, up the roadie ladder. ''There's no manual for it,'' says Tim Rozner, the bearded, garrulous tour production manager. ''People learn from practical application.'' Just as there is no handbook, there is also no union. Crew salaries range from $35,000 to more than $150,000 per tour, but a union would never sanction 16-to-18-hour days without overtime. The band does pay for the crew's meals, but not its insurance: one of many cost-cutting measures on this tour.
