5:30PM: Arrive to meet tour manager in the lobby of Phoenix Concert Theatre.
6:35PM: Tour manager arrives.
“Alright, let’s get this going. You’ll be filming it out by the bus.”
6:45PM: Bus location looks good, ready to film.
7:00PM: Band manager arrives.
“Mac doesn’t want to go outside. We’re doing it in the 80’s room.”
7:05PM: Contemplate connotations of shooting Echo & The Bunnymen in the 80’s room.
7:10PM: Location looks good, ready to film.
7:45PM: Tour manager arrives.
“Mac doesn’t want to come downstairs. We’re doing this in the dressing room. It won’t take very long will it?”
7:50PM: Contemplate what work looks like when people ask questions like “it won’t take very long will it?”
8PM: Follow tour manager up first flight of stairs.
“Wait here. Don’t come up until we tell you it’s ok.”
8:05: Imagine tour manager’s next request will be to film it on the tour bus driving to upstate New York the next morning.
8:25: Band manager arrives.
“You’re up mate.”
8:30PM: Meet a new wave powerhouse.
Mac was tired, the room was sparse and tiny, the direction from the subject was specific and artificial (nothing low angle, don’t move around so much, just splice the takes together) but somehow, against the odds, a moment of vulnerability was captured. An icon, scribe of The Cutter, squeezing The Killing Moon through vocal chords 25 years the song’s senior, comes back from the bridge and falters, chastises the imperfection and continues, locked into a more determined groove, continuing strong until the finish when a showy guitar swing breaks through the moment, settling it back into artifice.
A final brandy is poured, a cigarette lit, and I sit down, flanked by a pair of road-weary scousers, to enjoy the easy reality of a room finally left without a camera rolling.