Just a little something I wrote. Hope you enjoy…
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the building
Not a monitor was humming, no signal lights blinking;
The speakers were hung by the ceiling with care,
We’d hoped that St. Gear-man soon would be there;
The microphones were nestled all snug in foam beds,
While visions of IEM’s danced in my head;
And my volunteer in his sweater, and I in my cap,
Had just settled in, talking about Sunday’s recap,
When up from the sound booth there arose such a clatter,
I sprang to my feet, fearing theft was the matter.
Away to the stairs I flew like a flash,
Tore open the door, ready to tackle the rats.
The dim of the rack light on the empty booth floor
Gave me pause as I looked at the stage far below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature van, and eight tiny roadie-reindeer,
With a short little driver, so far yet so near,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Gear.
More rapid than stage-hands his roadies they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Bruno! now, Jimmy! now, Alley-Cat Jones!
On, Stevie! on Ralphie! now on with the show!
To the top of the stage! to the top of the hall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So out through the fire exit aisle they flew,
With the van full of audio toys, and St. Gear-man too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard from close by
The screeching of tires as that van engine died.
As I looked at the volunteer, and was turning around,
Into the sound booth St. Gear-man came with a bound.
He was dressed all in leather, I saw at first glance,
XLR cables, they held up his pants;
A bundle of audio gear he had flung on his back,
And he had stuff just for me to fill my audio rack.
His eyes — they were bloodshot! his face how hairy!
said he’d just mixed-down "Christmas In Killarney."
His droll little mouth was drawn up in the middle,
Said "I swapped in a bass solo for their silly ol’ fiddle";
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a narrow face, no signs of a belly,
I guess nicotine wins, over biscuits with jelly.
He was surprisingly gaunt, a right tired old man,
telling us, "took me 18 hours straight to get that song in the can;"
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
The mixer peak lights had just all gone red;
He spoke no more words, but went straight to his work,
And installed a new amplifier; then turned with a jerk,
And cupping his hands up over his ears,
laughed at the new decibels we’d be pumping out next year;
He sprang to his van, to his roadies gave a whistle,
pulled out a Twinkie and sucked out the middle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and may your mixes sound tight."