‘Here comes success . . . Here comes my Chinese rug,” Iggy Pop sang in “Success,” one of my all-time favorite songs. I’d seen so many bands go through the stages from struggle to success, and the pattern was usually the same. In Stage One, they were young. They were sexy. They had nothing to lose. They wore some version of their everyday clothes onstage. It took two weeks to make an album. Then came attention (if it came) and some success. In Stage Two, a band moved from a van to a tour bus, or to coach seats on flights from city to city. If they got really big, edging toward Stage Three, it was more “cost-effective” for them to charter their own plane. The rationale was they could fit 12 people on a private jet for the same price as 12 first-class tickets. Sort of. Plus, they weren’t hassled in airports. Each band member had a bodyguard. The band had large dressing rooms backstage. In arenas, there were private dressing rooms with even more private inner dressing rooms, with security guards standing outside the doors. There were extra rooms off the backstage hallways to house the trunks with the band’s traveling stage wardrobe. Their production team had an office backstage. There was a greenroom with food and wine for their guests. It took around six months to make an album. And then full-fledged Stage Three or maybe Stage Four of all this was the move to stadiums. More of their fans could be accommodated. It supposedly thwarted the ticket scalpers (except it didn’t). The band had a stylist who oversaw its onstage costumes. And, finally, the band made crazy money. Along with those multi-million-dollar-grossing stadium tours came the houses in Malibu. By now, it might take well over a year to record an album. And a band in Stage Four had all the accoutrements that accompany big-time rock success—including, but not limited to, the plane, the police escorts, the private chefs, the grass-fed beef, and the complicated, political hierarchy of the backstage pass.
Backstage passes reflect status. The first time I was made aware of this was when I traveled with the Rolling Stones in 1975. The entire touring party had laminated photo passes that allowed us to go anywhere backstage. This became the norm for a major group. Clubs and smaller halls didn’t always have this pass setup, but as soon as a band made it to arenas or stadiums, the elaborate pass situation was standard for what goes on behind the scenes. The first and lowest backstage pass is the stick-on “After Show” pass for the greenroom mob scene. This literally is a square or circular or triangular piece of fabric with paper on the back that you peel off and stick onto (and ruin) your clothes. Next is the stick-on “V.I.P.” pass for the “pre-show” greenroom mob scene. (I always thought it would be funny if some band had a pass that led to a door that opened right into the parking lot outside the venue.) The next level is the laminated “V.I.P. Guest” pass for a “band room.” It isn’t really a band room; it’s a “meet and greet” room where the band—or, in the case of U2, Bono—might make an appearance before the show. After the V.I.P. Guest pass comes the “Staff” laminate, with no photo, which allows the bearer to move freely around the backstage area—except in the band’s dressing rooms. Then there is the “All Access” photo laminate, but you still might need an “escort” with a better pass to take you into the band’s dressing rooms. And then there is the top pass: the “All Access” laminate for friends and family, which allows you to go anywhere, including the band’s dressing rooms and the stage. But still, there might be a sticker or a star on this pass that alerts security just how far you can go: into the band’s private, inner dressing rooms or just the band’s private, outer dressing rooms. The whole structure is byzantine, and familiar only to people who’ve been through all these maneuvers. I recall many a time seeing someone proudly waltz backstage with a stick-on pass on their jacket or jeans, only to watch their face fall when they saw someone else with a laminate. Or those with non-photo V.I.P. laminates glance enviously at those with the photo laminates. The entire pass arrangement is a visual indication of just exactly where you stand with a group. John McEnroe and I became friendly because of just such a situation. In 1978 the Rolling Stones were performing at Madison Square Garden. John was backstage. I was writing for the New York Post, and I was a huge McEnroe fan. I went up to introduce myself to him. He sneered when I mentioned the Post. I pointed to his stick-on pass and pointed to my all-access laminate. No words were needed. It broke the ice; we’ve been good friends ever since.
by Lisa Robinson, Vanity Fair | Read more:
Image: Bob Gruen
