(Largely adapted from a similar post in an earlier thread, in case it sounds familiar. 
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I used to sell merchandise for a volunteer-run bluegrass, folk, and Americana concert series in Lexington, KY. (The Troubadour series, for the locals.)
In addition to sales tax, the theatre kept 20% of the total take from merchandise. This was a source of conflict at nearly every show, as road managers and such would bitch endlessly about this highway robbery. (The guy who ran the series, a touring musician himself, told me that this was actually a pretty standard deal, and that people always bitched about it–it was part of the game. I don’t really believe him.) This led to several memorable encounters, including two that stand out.
The first (which I’ve recounted before) was at a double bill with Ralph Stanley and the Del McCoury Band. Ralph not only brings more merch than anyone short of possibly Riders in the Sky, he and his whole band sit at the table and sell it. They were set up long before I arrived, 2 1/2 hours before showtime, and seemed to be doing fine on their own. I just went and introduced myself to Ralph, said it was an honor, blah blah, and that if he needed anything, to let me know.
“Just between you and me,” the Yoda of bluegrass music himself said, “this 20% business is a bunch of bullshit.”
Not much I can do about it, I said, and left him alone, returning to help Del’s wife (a lovely bluegrass matriarch who sells merchandise for them on their tour and who I got to know pretty well).
Ralph’s set was first, and frankly, it blew dead bears, though his haunting a capella “O Death” nearly redeemed it. (The “O Brother” soundtrack was out, but hadn’t picked up much steam yet.) They all returned to their merchandise table during the set break, while I helped Mrs. McCoury. I went in to watch Del’s set (and there are few bands I’d rather hear live, BTW), and came out in the middle to check on things…
…only to find Ralph’s tables cleaned off and everybody gone. Michael, the head of the series, was running toward me. “They left!” he said. “They got on the bus and left!” Yes, the bastards stiffed us. They never paid up.
The other encounter was with Leon Redbone, who tours completely solo in a station wagon and does all the business himself. After the show, when we were settling up backstage, he said, “Step into my office,” and walked into the bathroom. (His voice really does sound like that all the time, which makes this 10x funnier.) “Now, nobody told me anything about sales tax,” he said.
I defended the policy like I had learned to do, but at the same time, I realized that I was arguing about money with Leon Redbone in a bathroom. More surreal than unpleasant, really.
There was plenty of backstage drama that I missed, working mostly front-of-house. Rickie Lee Jones was apparently a total bitch. Vonda Shepard was nice herself, but had hired someone to be a bitch for her. (I wasn’t even sure why we got her; all the volunteers spent the whole show in the lobby watching me do card tricks while the soccer moms shook their booties inside.) Gillian Welch threw a bit of a diva fit once, which was disappointing at the time because we were all slobbering fans of hers; it turned out that there were legitimate frustrations beforehand and apologies afterwards, and that it was completely out of character for her.
Good encounters? The aforementioned Del McCoury Band is one of the nicest groups of people you’ll ever meet. Bruce Hornsby, Alison Krauss and Union Station, and the Cowboy Junkies were all joys to work with. Steve Earle was very nice and engaging. I expected Suzanne Vega to be rude or standoffish, but she was very friendly and pleasant–she was apparently blown away by how great our audience was.
