Antony Freeman concludes his roadie's-eye view of a day's activities in the middle of a JETHRO TULL tour of Europe

And so it came to pass that the black-painted stage gear did rise at last like a phoenix from the debris and lo, life was breathed into it and it did function, apart from the buzz from the Leslie cabinets, the earth hum from the Elka string machine, the dead channel in one of the stage multicores and the blown fuse in one of Martin Barre's amps.

But it also came to pass that with the crew there were two technicians, Dave and Geoff, with their fully equipped workshop in two big, heavy flight cases, who wore white coats and carried soldering irons. And Dave was good at modifying television sets in hotel rooms and carried his kettle, cutlery and other things tied to his belt. And they were summoned from backstage where they were making tea and talking about microprocessors. And they did mend the Leslie cabinets and the Elka and the multicore and Martin Barre's amp and lo, all the stage crew were exceeding pleased, for it did save them the trouble of doing it themselves.

Stage centre now sat the battered riser on its last tour, bearing Barriemore Barlow's blue-tinted, translucent Ludwig drum kit with its two bass drums and numerous toms. The riser was flanked on either side by the speakers and amp stacks of bass player John Glascock and guitarist Martin Barre. The two keyboards installations stood at the extreme left and right. Everything was laid out to a carefully prearranged pattern, exactly the same each night (except in England, where most of the stages were too small and the layout had to be condensed sideways.)

Behind the drum kit was the mixer for the drum monitors, set up and controlled by keen Andy. Offstage left stood the monitor mixer, set up and operated by stage manager Kenny. At the far end of the stadium, dwarfing sound engineer Chris, stood the mighty Cadac 32-track PA mixer, a monster of a machine, weighing half a ton, which lived in a six-wheeled flight case the size of a garage and broke many a humper's heart (and back) when it had to be manoeuvred up stairs and into galleries. (Second to the PA mixer in the hernia league was Big Bertha, the massive, reinforced iron chest containing the stage power supply transformers and output sockets.) Beside the Cadac stood the lighting control console, a Rock Desk, operated by American lighting director Mike. Linking these with the stage were two multicore cables, together forming the spinal cord of the living entity that the show was to become.

For a while, at least, the sweating and rushing about was over. It was late afternoon and the band, who travelled separately and stayed at different hotels from the crew, were due to arrive soon for the sound check. There came a commotion from a nearby door. An enterprising but not very convincing kid was waving a 'backstage pass' made from a Tull picture cut from a programme and trying to get in. The security man uttered the appropriate response in German and the kid went away. Nice try.

John Evans, one of the original members of the band, was there already and had been, as usual, since early afternoon. He sat, alone and unheeded, stage left, wearing headphones plugged into his Yamaha electric grand piano and practising scales and pieces of Beethoven with a dedication that suggested more an aspiring concert pianist than an internationally-known rock player. The piano used to be the first keyboard instrument to be set up each day so that John could practise. Other members of the crew, particularly when sweating over duff cables or when behind schedule, used to mutter quiet curses behind the amp stacks as yet another scale began but I knew one day that John had won them over when I heard someone start whistling along with an intricate, four octave scale in G sharp minor.

Cables were taped down and everything made tidy. The last remaining empty flight cases were hidden away behind the stage. Someone came in with two dozen take-away meals, the only hot food we would see that day. The vegetarians on the tour had a hard time; all European food seemed to consist principally of meat, most of it barely cooked or raw. (Haven't the Europeans heard of the life cycle of the tapeworm?) We stopped to eat. Whereupon the band arrived. They always seemed to arrive just as we had stopped to eat, drink or breathe. I hope they didn't get the impression that we were permanently immobile.

First on stage, as always, was Ian Anderson, striding through the confusion of wiring behind the equipment (the part the audience never sees), throwing rapid glances around to make sure that everything was in place and ready, a quick 'Hullo Chris' into his microphone to the sound engineer. The rest of Jethro Tull, Martin, Barrie, John and David, followed close behind, greeting the crew, chatting, joking and discussing any problems that had arisen. Ian remained aloof; he did not waste words and seldom spoke to the crew about anything non-essential. He always gave the impression that he was directing all his energy and concentration into the coming show.

Dressing rooms and a tuning room had been prepared. The German mind is nothing if not methodical; in one dressing room were two identical toilet cubicles, one labelled P for Pissen and one labelled S for Scheissen.

A plastic dustbin, not labelled B for Bieren, was packed with ice and contained all the beer, wine and soft drinks that were going to be needed for the evening. Ian drank only iced spring water on stage; the others got through moderate amounts of wine and beer. There was much controlled chaos backstage as crew, security men, hampers and record company people came and went, the crew playing 'find the tuning fork' (a middle C to which the whole band tuned via strobotuners), carrying guitars, running 110 volt extension cables, chasing promoters.

The sound check lasted two hours or more. All the levels and EQs were set up and checked. Some pieces of music which had been causing problems were practised and perfected, a process of polishing which had begun weeks before in Buckinghamshire, England, and would continue throughout the tour. Soundchecks were also the occasions when changes to the running order of the concert were discussed and worked out. The order of the songs was changed several times during the tour. The Berne gig, which was to be recorded (on Sunday, May 28), was approaching and Ian clearly wanted the set to be as good as possible for the planned live album.

Rehearsals for the tour began early in April at an old film studio at Pinewood, almost next door to the enormous 007 studio (the wrecked white Lotus from the last Bond film stood under a tarpaulin outside our building) and close to the studio where special effects for Superman were being shot.

It was at Pinewood that I first saw the band, who turned out to be a friendly bunch of characters. Ian the patriarch, who came in each day from his farm wearing muddy wellies and a camouflaged anorak; bass player John Glascock and drummer Barrie Barlow, who were mean pool players and shared an offbeat sense of humour; keyboards player and strings arranger David Palmer, who showed a penchant for chess and had studied at London's Royal College of Music; John Evans, the original keyboards player, whose clownish stage image belied his slightly shy personality; guitarist Martin 'Lancelot' Barre, who grimaced a lot at Ian's jokes about wigs. They all drank gallons of tea and coffee and worked with dedicated professionalism. No sitting around talking about things; they arrived punctually each morning and got on with it.

John Glascock must have collected some bad karma from somewhere. During rehearsals he cut his right thumb badly and had a sticking plaster on it for days. Early in the tour he ripped a ligament in his left wrist and couldn't play for several days so two gigs had to be postponed. Then as soon as we returned from Europe he got blood poisoning from a rotten tooth which put him in hospital, where he ended up having major heart surgery because the blood poisoning had attacked a faulty valve in his heart. He spent six months recuperating, which is why he was not with Tull on the televised American tour, and is now back with the band.

After two weeks we said farewell to Pinewood and the cheese rolls from the canteen, packed the stage gear back into its truck and moved into a disused television studio at Wembley, north London, for a week's full dress rehearsal with the PA and lights. One of the pieces of music practised intensively by the band during these three weeks, but eventually discarded, was a rock version of Beethoven's ninth. I liked it and was sorry that they decided not to use it on tour. They also rehearsed, but did not use, Acres Wild from Heavy Horses and My God from Aqualung. At Wembley the crew took it in turn to stay the night and guard the equipment, using the lid of the mixer flight case as a bed. It was at Wembley, too, that we got carpenters wandering in from the half-built television set next door to see what the noise was. 'Jethro Oo?'

It is ten minutes to nine. The stadium is packed, a young and noisy audience, nearly 10 000 of them. A loud hubbub of sound echoes from the bare walls and roof. Occasional chanting for the band rises and falls. Germans have the endearing inability to say 'Jethro Tull'; they pronounce it 'Jesroh Tuhl'. Someone is waving a large banner with 'Jesroh Tuhl' written on it. I check for the tenth time that everything I'm responsible for is ready. All switched on and functioning. David's saxophone for Too Old To Rock 'n' Roll, Drinks. The three huge balloons hidden backstage for the encore. Torch. Set list. The other stage crew are doing the same, indistinct figures, now dressed in black stage clothes, moving around in the darkness.

Nine minutes to nine. Kenny checks the stage temperature and compares it with the temperature in the tuning room. Too much variation and the Martin acoustic guitars which Ian has been re-stringing and tuning backstage will go out of tune (which happened at Munich). It gets very hot under 100 kilowatts of lights; Ian is always soaked with sweat from the moment he hits the stage.

Eight minutes to nine. Some noisy American GIs in the front two rows start yelling and jumping around. We were to see them again — often. They yelled and jumped around through about six shows until Ian got pissed off one night, stopped in the middle of an acoustic number and told them to shut up.

Seven minutes to nine. The three acoustic guitars are brought from the tuning room and put on stands in the wings, together with a red bowler hat. Ian later tells the audience that the red bowler is his little bit of security. They laugh. Audiences always laugh at the serious bits.

Six minutes to nine. Paper aeroplanes made from posters advertising a Dylan concert start landing on the stage. Considering what happened on the American tour we were lucky it was only paper planes. (More bone-headed Yanks amused themselves by throwing steel bolts at Tull when they played the televised gig at Madison Square in the autumn.) The Super Troupers are fired up and tested.

"Let me bring you
Songs from the wood
To make you feel much better
Than you could know..."
From 'Songs From The Wood' by Ian Anderson (Courtesy Salamander & Son Music Ltd and Chrysalis Music Ltd.)

Five minutes to nine. I put the headphones on. Much chatter from the desk and the stage. 'Hello, room service? Room 502. Would you bring me a wheel of oaken wood, a rein of polished leather, a heavy horse and a tumbling sky and a pot of tea please...'

Four minutes to nine. Nerves start. There are so many things that might go wrong and the band depend entirely on us not to let them. At Birmingham a mains fuse mysteriously blew and knocked out half the keyboards two minutes before the show was due to start. It could have been worse; it could have happened during the show.

Three minutes to nine. I hope the pipe organ is still vaguely in tune. Andy goes round and does the mic check. The audience, watching everything that moves on stage, cheers enthusiastically as he speaks into or taps each mic and is heard through the PA. Andy loves it.

Two minutes to nine. The band are waiting in the corridor leading to the stage, smoking and prowling. Even bands with Tull's experience still get nerves. Ian, as usual, remains impassive. I often wondered what he was thinking in the minutes before he walked onstage each night. The show stood or fell almost solely on his performance. It rarely fell.

One minute to nine. Kenny comes on the headset and checks with each of the crew that all is ready. Thumbs up signs are flashed around the stage. The frivolity ceases. From now on it's deadly serious. The atmosphere tingles with the expectation of 10 000 spectators and 15 crew (sorry, 14). Not to mention the six musicians who are generating it.

Thirty seconds. Martin Barre, fidgeting nervously, is standing behind the curtain in silk dressing gown and eyeglass toying with a long cigarette holder, guitar at the ready, waiting to make his entrance. John Glascock lurks behind the other end of the curtain. Barrie Barlow is behind the centre of the curtain, close to his drum kit. John Evans and David Palmer wait in the wings. Ian stands motionless in the shadows, his flute over his shoulder like a rifle.

Twenty seconds. The promoter walks to the microphone and announces the band. He pronounces it 'Jesroh Tuhl' as well. The house lights go down. The audience cheers wildly. The intro tape starts, an unreleased piece of early Tull instrumental. That piece of music puts the seal on our labours. If we haven't got it right now, we're in trouble. We pray silently that we have.

Martin takes a deep breath and walks out of the darkness. Standing alone in a blazing circle of light he nonchalantly throws away the eyeglass and cigarette holder and blasts into the opening riff which introduces No Lullaby. One by one the rest of band join him until there is only Ian left. The first bars of No Lullaby go thudding around the arena from drums and bass and a roar goes up as Ian leaps on to the stage, brandishing a flute, instantly channelling his and the band's energy and pouring it into the audience.

The show, the event to which we have all dedicated our lives for the duration of the tour, passes in a blur of high intensity sound, movement and kaleidoscopic lights and colour like a rock and roll High Mass. Two-and-a-half hours of old and new songs delivered vigorously and usually flawlessly, a cleverly-paced mixture of acoustic material and thundering rock with none of the theatre of earlier tours. The audience love it.

Old favourites like Aqualung, Locomotive Breath, Thick as a Brick and Too Old to Rock 'n' Roll are mixed with newer material such as Heavy Horses, One Brown Mouse and Songs from the Wood. Ian throws in carefully prepared fatherly repartee and bawdy humour and leaps and dances around the stage like a dervish. The audience certainly get their money's worth.

One or two minor mishaps occur to keep the crew on their toes but the audience doesn't notice. The third night at the Hammersmith Odeon was about the worst for silly things going wrong, although the Birmingham Odeon came a close second. In the final show of the tour, at the Manchester Apollo (one of the postponed ones), the interval had to be greatly extended while several of Martin Barre's amps were hastily repaired, having blown up in the first half. Ian had the witty idea of having the band sitting around playing cards when the curtain eventually rose, which got a laugh. It was at Manchester that Bruce the lighting man was introduced to Sheila the humper...

Out of sight behind speaker stacks, PA and curtains the crew, like a posse of efficient butlers, are busy fetching and carrying equipment, operating the monitor mixers, supplying the band with drinks, cigarettes and towels and making sure that everything runs smoothly.

We get little opportunity to behave as spectators. There is too much to be done and thought about. It is probably assumed that roadies laze around with cans of beer and enjoy a privileged view of the show. Well it ain't so. It would have been nice, just now and then, to have gone out front to see how it all looked and sounded but it was only when we got our freebie copies of the live album, months later, that we heard the show as the audience heard it.

Cues come and go and John Glascock's strings remain intact (his Music Man bass kept breaking D-strings for some reason, perhaps a bad batch, which meant frantic scrambles behind his speaker stack to fit and tune new ones while John continued with a spare Fender Precision). The pipe organ stays acceptably in tune. Several people get carried away and leap over the security fences, past the security men and up on stage during the first encore when the band launch into the heavy part of Locomotive Breath. Having got there they seem to run out of ideas and look rather relieved when they are grabbed and escorted off by menacing-looking, black-clad roadies. 'No violence — we don't want to start a riot' is the instruction from Kenny but violence is not necessary. They are just having a good time. There can't be much scope for that in Berlin.

As Locomotive Breath pounds to its climax the audience goes bananas and comes surging forward to the barriers. The crew crouch unseen behind the PA, ready to deal with any unpleasantness. But none comes.

The crowds in Germany were fanatical in their devotion to Jethro Tull. At the end of the show one night, as we started to clear the stage, I was grabbed by one of the audience who told me emotionally, in broken English, that for him Tull was a religion, his whole life centred on them, and PLEASE could I get them back for another encore. It was hard to know what to say. A brusque 'there is no more' brought tears to his eyes. Very strange. Perhaps it isn't only rock and roll.

In the blackout that descends at the end of the first encore we watch the front of the stage for groping hands — and, sure enough, a hand reaches up from somewhere and lifts one of Ian's flutes from the stand by his monitor. Instantly the beams from three torches (black, crew for the use of) flash out of the shadows and pin down the hapless souvenir hunter. Like a ferret up a drainpipe Kenny flies out from behind his mixer, five foot ten of Scottish fury (the flutes were his responsibility), leaps into the audience and grabs it back. I have never seen anyone look so surprised as that person does.

Having whipped the crowd into a frenzy the band returns for the final encore, whips them up some more with Aqualung and then delivers Ian's little joke — the Dam Busters' March. The three six-foot diameter balloons are brought from backstage for Ian to throw into the arena as the follow-spots strafe the crowd like searchlights and bomber noises are mixed into the PA.

There had been some doubts about how the German audiences would take the joke, especially in the Ruhr valley, but it seems that they have never heard of the Dam Busters or, if they have, couldn't care less. The balloons, too big to catch, bounce around on the heads of the crowd while the show reaches its finale, occasionally getting heaved back on stage, an eventuality for which the stage crew has been prepared by being given lessons in balloon intercepting and returning.

And that is it. As the last strains of the Hammond die away and the last balloon bursts, the lights go down and the band sneaks off, leaving Ian alone in the spotlight to close the show with a final piece of Aqualung.

Kill stage lights. House lights up. Cue tape of soothing, cinema interval-type music for audience to depart to. It's all over folks. For you it is. For us, another three or four hours' work dismantling and packing away everything you have just seen. Tomorrow another town, another show.

We keep on doing it, though we sometimes wonder why. But it's fun, it's exciting and it's a nice high, especially after a good gig. It's a living. And it's something to write about in magazines. Good night, all.