"Welcome to Diamondville"

by

James L. Cypher

A three-day, two-night all expense paid trip to work for Neil Diamond began at a temp service I was wasting time with. They sent me to an arena, a huge building that only made me think of cans of warm stale beer from my youth. I liked temping, as many of the assignments were good experience, while the rest seemed like bad episodes of the late 60's television program “Mission Impossible”. I was always up for a good challenge. The receptionist at the arena's business office looked at me like I was an alien who just landed in the parking lot.

"No honey, you should be at the hotel with the band." She said this like I was a wayward child, lost in her little perfumed and flowered designer office. Her polished nails and untouchable hair told the story.

At the hotel I was at first greeted with similar resistance. The front desk people wouldn't even admit that Neil Diamond was there at all! "We can neither confirm nor deny the existence of Mr. Diamond at this facility." I would have been brushed off like a common fan except for the fact I had SEEN the tour buses and eighteen-wheelers out back by the dumpsters, where the kitchen help smoked cigarettes and whatever else they had on them. I was put in a room called "Prodo", short for Production, but I kept thinking of it as Frodo's long lost cousin or somesuch from Middle-Earth. I set up the fax machine, the copy machine, the laser printer and some other office equipment (a stapler, a tape dispenser and a pencil sharpener). I was served coffee, fresh squeezed orange juice and croissants from a table-sized tray of breakfast items. I sat there at my little folding table of a desk, feasting and getting off on the whole hotel experience I was having. It was only twice before been able to enjoy a stay without having to pay for it myself.

In walked a bearded middle-aged man with a notebook computer and a smile. Stanley Miller looked around and was impressed with my set-up. After he gave me a few pointers, like where the extra paper was kept, he unloaded a stash of new pens with a corporate logo on them. He looked at me and said, "Swag.". I was still groggy and half asleep as the coffee buzz had not yet kicked in fully. I pictured a pirate's booty or one of those 70's style hanging lamps with the little fabric balls hanging off of it.

"Sealed With A Gift!" he said, giggling before continuing the explanation.

"They sponsored our last tour, bought us shirts and hats, all that free fun stuff." I was agape. It reminded me of the paper and pens at the doctor's office with the names of expensive prescription drugs stenciled on them. A picture of corporate America completely engrossed in this type of cute marketing stuck in my mind. No wonder why everything cost so much. There just HAD to be money in the budget for some more junk to help push the products!

Stan's the Chief Audio Engineer and reminded me of my high school music teacher, genuinely and sincerely friendly while focusing intently on the task at hand. He showed me where the files were on the computer and how to finesse the output to his satisfaction. He explained that the production office and the sound system were run off of Macintosh computers and the lights and lasers were run by IBM clone PC's. This created a microcosm of techno-tension much like the battle raging in offices in the "real world". The lights were by Morpheus Inc. and most of the rest of the production was done by ArchAngel Productions. The Road Manager, Jerry Murphey, came by often and had me do some odd jobs for him. Murph looked like the hairy and haggard road-weary and world-wise veteran of the arena rock circuit. Quick eyes, moustache, denim and a black Harley-Davidson t-shirt.

I met the Public Relations manager, Sherrie Levy, ever so briefly. She was involved with coordinating interviews and in-store appearances. She was also taking care of a very special project close to Neil's heart. He had authorized one of the leather motorcycle jackets from the tour to be donated to a charity so it could be auctioned off at a fundraiser. Motorcycles? Some of the roadies looked like they could be in a club, but there was something different about them, these folks ran with Neil Diamond, not Hunter S. Thompson. They turned out to be hard-core Harley junkies who take to the open road as often as was practical. They called themselves "The Mild Ones". One of them told me about riding in some downtown area buzzing dangerously close to a large group of Neil's fans waiting outside the gig. The fans cursed them and made gestures until they saw exactly who was the leader of the pack, Neil himself under the full-face helmet.

The next denizen to make themselves known was the Tour Manager and Production Supervisor, Patrick Stansfield. He literally ran the show. He was driven. He walked in and set the tone from behind his designer frame glasses. On the phone in a gruff but very businesslike way, "Yeah, this is Patrick Stansfield with Neil Diamond....uh huh.....can we get some food up here? Yeah...uh uh...sounds good, thanks." He looked around like a Captain inspecting the bridge of his ship. He looked at me, "Who's this?" Stanley explained to him that I was the temp and would be typing memos and the other grunt work. "Oh, well, welcome to Diamondville, enjoy your stay." I mumbled a quick word of thanks and tried to look busy. Then it all sank in, I was doing a job that many people would die for, to work for their idol, the Jazz Singer himself. My closest exposure to him had been to the movie by the same name. Was it supposed to be a comedy?

Mr. Stansfield looked like he had just quit smoking as he chewed gum a mile a minute and the next day, when he was with his lovely wife walking to the pool, I saw the leg scars from the bypass surgery. Many in the organization had quit smoking and the trend had gained enough momentum that the nightly card parties had become smoke-free affairs. These guys were fun to be around and so far I had not yet seen the man they called #1, the Principal and amazingly enough, The Man. I had to wait to see him in the flesh. He was busy "moleing", that is, spending time in his room, sequestered. The mystique was building up in my mind. I had fuzzy memories of his music from being trapped in my parents’ car forced to listen to AM radio while going to the store or to visit relatives.

Doug Pope, the Tech Director/Stage Manager came by and we worked on some things together. Doug could have been easily mistaken for a second year law student, he was able to inspire cooperation and performance above and beyond the call of duty with little more than a nod, a smile and the will of his personality. I was asked to find the closest authorized Harley-Davidson dealer and obliged by grabbing a phone book from the front desk. The venue provided a van driven by a "runner" and a large part of the band went off to look as SofTails, hogs and FatBoys.

The whole thing was outside my realm of experience. I got back to work and in walked the Accountant. Neil Diamond toured with an actual, genuine, spreadsheet toting, bean counting, management CPA. Mr. Gelfand (who looked like a mean Norman Lear, if that's possible) looked at me and my shabby clothes in an almost funny (not ha-ha) way, disapprovingly even.

He and Patrick wore what came close to being suits. The rest were casual and it was then that I felt so overdressed in my suit jacket and tie. I took the jacket and tie off, rolled up my sleeves and got back to work. They worked on the lap-tops and I had to admit to Stan that my systems background was not 100% Macintosh. My father worked for IBM for thirty years and I worked mostly on DOS machines, but I had been forced to sell Mac's at my last job! He laughed. The high-tech mobile office they had created facilitated the administrative end of tour operations to a scientific degree of precision and efficiency in what had been a traditionally low-tech field. Bubble gum, baling wire and duct-tape were being replaced with software utility tools and diagnostic programs.

Day two started like the first. I sat in Prodo in my chinos and rugby shirt, eating breakfast alone again for two hours until the band and the crew wandered in and out for the rest of the day. They looked tired and spoke about not getting any sleep. Between the all night card parties and the planes landing so close to the hotel, they got little sleep. I was given a free T-shirt and two comp tickets and back stage passes without even asking. They were all so gracious and thankful for my help. The latest issue of their "on the road" newsletter hit the hotel. The Post Bugle Intelligencer, was a fun collection of hard news, soundcheck at 4:00, etc... good old fashioned gossip and sarcastic wit and humor centered around the many cities they played and the crazy people they met. The "convenient-to-the-airport" location of the hotel did not escape the wrath of these talented writers and graphic artists. A picture of the buildings silhouette from the complimentary stationary

was scanned into the computer and clip-art airplanes were cut and pasted all around to show how close we all were to the noisy jets taking off and landing.

I helped secure the hotel's front door as we readied the transport to the venue. The Man was on his way down to the lobby. It would be the first time I would see him. The fans waiting outside were certainly an odd group. There were the ubiquitous "Mountains of Love" girls who are the semi-official fanclub. Middle aged chunky women with massive pink sweatshirts with "Mountains of Love" written on them in the same white iron-on lettering from the store at the mall. They were whipped up into a frenzy of sorts as they shifted their weight back and forth on canvas sneakers, out of style wedgie sandals and ugly espadrilles. They had on nylon stretch pants and the edgy look of restrained suburban dementia.

An older man in the crowd caught my eye. He wasn't with his wife or girlfriend and he kept jockeying for a better position from which to see the musicians. He looked just like the pictures I had seen of Neil. The salt and pepper hair and all. Of all things he had a sign that read "I love you!". Him I was worried about. He looked obsessed and potentially dangerous, at least to himself should he get in the way. As a joke I imagined myself stepping forward to take the bullet if it came to that. In cinematic slow motion my blurred body came between an obsessed fan and his quarry. What a way to go! And I was only a temp!

Over my walkie-talkie came the word Neil was off the elevator and in the lobby. He came into view with sunglasses, jeans, cowboy boots and a plaid button-up shirt open at the neck exposing the tufts of grey chest hair to the breeze. The fans got all silly as they waved and yelled a frenzied welcome of sorts. The potential stalker pointed his finger and said over and over, "You're the MAN! YOU are the Man! You ARE the Man!" Weird. Neil looked good, older than I had remembered from the last time I saw him on the Tonight Show. He justifiably took his act seriously, for his fans sake. I thought it was high camp. A pop music anachronism I had once seen on TV and recoiled away from back when I first heard and enjoyed Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin. This man had grace, style and confidence, something the latest generation of singers seem to completely lack.

I went to his show and it was a truly unforgettable event. The crowd screamed when he finally appeared after a dramatic introduction with colored lights and music filling the arena. The stage moved around slowly and he raised his arm up high as he looked at the floor. It was truly magic. I was blown away and tears welled up as the romantic music and lyrics echoed throughout the arena. I let it pick me up and take me away. I looked over to Stan working the mixer boards and the Macs, and he'd smile and nod at me, seeing that I was blowing my cool and enjoying it all way too much for someone my age.

Neil let many handicapped children in wheelchairs close to the stage for free, as was his giving style and big-hearted nature. The crowd was a strange mix of older couples in suits and dresses out for a night on the town, while the rest were younger and more casual. All my suppressed AM radio memories came back and I found myself singing along, and from which dark corner of my memory those words came, I still don't completely know.

Neil ate it up. You could tell he loved his work, and work he did. He shook his butt all night long in his trademark tight black gabardine slacks. Around and around on the rotating stage they spun. Everytime his rearend faced our section an audible murmur of feminine interest raced through the audience. His open neck shirt exploded with wild colors and the moussed tufts of greying chest hair. The lights were perfectly choreographed and the sound was clean and clear. The horns and strings added a sophisticated edge to the arrangements that I enjoyed. I turned all sappy when they did the old stuff. "You Don't Bring Me Flowers", "Sweet Caroline", "I Am, I Said", "Hello Again", "Holly Holy", "Cracklin' Rosie" and more.

During these old slow songs the audience tried to light lighters, but they were so few and far between and the attempt was so totally weak, because as it turns out, Neil Diamond fans just don't smoke. Afterwards I told Stan how I had been so impressed by the performance. He blushed as my cynicism and sarcasm disappeared and I overflowed with appreciation for what they had created for us all that night. Call me Mr. Kornball fan, but the feeling of caring and love, of romance and innocence palpably lingered in the air as the last smiling fans filed out into the hot August night. I was humming as I went to leave with the crowd and then remembered I was able to hang out backstage! I had a few sodas and talked to some really great people, some were fans but most were relatives and radio station employees, a disproportionate number from the easy listening station in town. Stan came by, saw me beaming with a smile plastered on my face and shook his head in disbelief. I was s

till all silly from the experience. Patrick shook my hand and asked me what I thought of their humble creation. I told him how wonderful it all was, and I think he too got the feeling I was on my way to becoming one of the converted if not the obsessed. Making myself over to look like Neil and chanting "You are THE Man!" while holding a little sign, I hoped it didn't get that extreme.

The next day before I packed up the fax and the copier, there was still more free food and as I went back for another croissant there was Neil himself sitting alone at a table in a t-shirt, Bermuda shorts and sandals eating cream cheese smeared bagels. I said hello and asked him to sign some copies of the tour publication, the Post Bugle Intelligencer, that I had pilfered in the interest of preserving wacky computer generated "art". He looked confused, looked up and asked me what they were. I was caught off guard. "Well Sir, that's your in-house employee newsletter." He looked back at it and said nothing. Didn't they let him see it? It was hysterical to read these daily reports of life on the road. I thought about what his life must be like. Then I was too busy loading up the bus and saying goodbye to theorize about his existence.

They were going onto another city. Half of the group flying with the management, while the rest of the band and the roadies were riding the buses. There were some nervous jokes about Buddy Holly, as it was raining out and the flashes of lightening and thunder off in the distance echoed and reflected throughout the hotel lobby. Stan said “Goodbye” as did Doug, Murph, Sherrie, Mr. Gelfand and some of the band-members and roadies I had the honor of meeting. They shook my hand and told me I had done a good job, I was almost hoping for a job offer before realizing I'd be like a Deadhead, or was it a Diamondhead? It was then I realized why Stan thought I was so goofy, the glow of the novelty would wear off and it would be a grind like any other job. I'd probably take up riding a "hog" to escape the drudgery.

Patrick Stansfield came back and spoke into his walkie-talkie to the guys loading the airplane less than a mile away. Their flight was delayed for a couple of hours and if the weather didn't let up the group on the bus might actually beat them to the next city. He looked sad, disappointed and not at all happy just then. His eyes got all narrow and steely as he reached in his pocket reflexively for a cigarette and came out with only a thin stick of chewing gum to relieve the growing stress. He looked up at me dejectedly before smiling and over the frames of his glasses he said as calmly as he could while shaking his head, "Welcome to Diamondville!"

- Since this was written in the early 1990s, Neil has a webpage, http://www.diamondville.com