How I met Shaynee Lee: Part 1

The year is 2011. I have a press-pass for a music festival in lower Alabama. The lineup is bananas. We’re talking Paul Simon, Foo Fighters, Primus, Flaming Lips, Widespread Panic, My Morning Jacket…and that’s just the surface.

It’s day one of the festival and I am feeling pretty good. I know there is a slim chance an artist might actually talk to me in the interview tent, even though I am not the music writer for the  Lagniappe, the newspaper I am working for. 

Sure, it feels like 1,000 degrees and I’m sweating my nuts off while manning the Lagniappe booth but I was there for the tunes, mannnnnnn.

Suddenly, a figure I barely recognize steps in front of the booth. They are wearing all black. A strange choice since it’s a million degrees in Alabama…in May…and we’re on the beach! I squint my eyes as the figure reaches out their fist for a dap. 

I never turn down a good dap. Never.

“Greenberry? Or Tripp,” the voice says. “Uh. Tripp,” I reply. “It’s me, Ryan. Chavez. From Spring Hill.” Ryan and I both went to Spring Hill College for undergrad, but he was a few years older. Our paths never really crossed, and the times when they did were, let’s just say “foggy.” 

“Oh shit. What’s up, man,” I asked. “Working sound over at the Breadboard Stage. You?

“Just working this booth. Hoping for some interviews later,” I replied.

Clearly he could see I had the sweetest gig. I was perched under my white pop-up tent that was situated on the blistering asphalt located in between the wooden boardwalk and beach. I was lucky enough every once in a while to get a swift wind that would blow sand right into my face. 

All of my meals were crunchy. Perfect.

“Do you want to make some money,” he asked. “Nah. I’m good,” I said, gesturing the the press-pass. I could see the envy in Chavez’s eyes as he looked over the white tent that was my domain for the next three days. “Ok. Just wanted to check. Pay is $100/hr,” he said as he turned to walk away.

The press-pass quickly lost its luster. The power of the tunes began to fade, mannn. The crunchy meals I had the privilege of eating were no longer appetizing. 

I love music. Love it a lot. But I was 22 with a low paying job, which I loved but low paying none the less. I was living above my sister’s garage (which was awesome, Shai). A gig paying $100/hr was insane. It could change my life. 

Ok. Maybe a little dramatic on the “change my life part.” By life changing I mean that I would be able to afford high quality “goods,” and fill my car up with gas on a regular basis instead of hitching rides with Shai in her green Honda minivan blasting Ice Cream and Cake.

Lowkey though, that song still slaps. And that green minivan went HARD.

There was only one problem: I was the only person scheduled to man the tent all weekend. 

I had volunteered, despite the uproar from others dying for the chance to fry like an egg on the blacktop while festival goers strolled by with cold beverages, funnel cakes, and smiles plastered on their faces.

I told Ryan I needed to make a quick phone call.

I’ll give you three guesses who I called, and the first two don’t count.

“Get your Lagniappe! Step right up and get your Lagniappe,” Pops was screaming as he slammed a paper copy of the newspaper against his palm. 

I called him to ask for his advice. He responded with, “Holy shit! $100/hr!? Your mother and I will be there in 3 hours. Cash money, dude!”

I can guarantee you that the two of theme gave out more copies of the Lagniappe than a 10-man army. He and my mom acted like they had a quota to hit. They sounded like two newsies from the 1920s out there. 

Get ya paper! Hot off the press! Get ya papers!

With pops and my moms holding it down, Chavez came to get me and we started walking. I still remember the stroll because we came to a backstage-looking area and got stopped by two huge security guards. Chavez flashed his credentials. We got a head nod followed by the two sweetest words you can hear in production (outside of a silent gesture): You’re good.

“So you’ll be working artist transportation,” he said. Did he just say artist transportation? My job was going to be driving the actual artists on the festival bill?

Me and Paul Simon cruising in a black SUV on the way to pickup Julio down at the school yard before the press could get to him flashed in my head. Les Claypool giving me a high five as he exited my imaginary luxury automobile, sayin, “Love the rumble of the diesel, good buddy. Thanks for the lift,” danced in my brain.  

We arrived at a white trailer. A dude named Alex walked outside, shook Chavez’s hand, and then greeted me. “Let’s go meet Shaynee and see if we can get you setup,” he said.

And then we walked into a totally different world.

The trailer was nice and cool inside, a welcome change from my previous circumstances. Those god awful fluorescent overhead lights had been shut off, replaced by random lamps that were radiating soft, warm light throughout the strucure. I think there were some Christmas lights too. It smelled like a mixture of sunscreen, lemongrass and lavender, and musty trailer. 

It was a vibe.

Suddenly, a deep, booming voice accompanied by static filled the room. “Dayne for Shaynee,” the voice echoed from a long distance, walkie-talkie situated next to a laptop decorated with stickers, most notably a Hello Kitty one. 

Someone behind the laptop grabbed the walkie-talkie, but I didn’t see who! It was like that scene from E.T. where Eliot sees the Reeses Pieces get grabbed! “Go for inaudible,” a nice, calm voice radioed back to whomever this Dayne/Dwayne guy was.

The two exchanged some nonsensical talk about gas, float, and Lamberts. When the conversation was over, the tiny human from behind the computer stood up and walked toward me. She did not introduce herself, but I figured this must be Shaynee. 

“Are you a volunteer?,” she asked. A fair question.

I was rocking my most righteous festival gear that day: a t-shirt I had scored from Voodoo Fest 2007 when I worked as a volunteer, white soccer shorts — never played, love the shorts — patterned Chaco sandals, and a backwards Kelly green Celtics hat. The t-shirt was navy blue and had a cool Voodoo logo from that year on the front, and LAGNIAPPE written across the back.

So, yeah…I looked like a volunteer.

“Nope. I am a journalist,” I proudly responded. No response from the small human. Not impressed. 

Next question. “Do you listen to  XXXXX,” she asked, sharpening her eyes on me.  * band name redacted for Shaynee’s safety*

“I do sometimes, but XXXX is more my style,” I said, asserting my knowledge of jam bands that I was sure would impress after the failed journalist response. * band name redacted because my response would trigger a natural connection, and the fan bases are often at war arguing over superiority *

“You’re hired. You’ll be doing the graveyard shift. 6 p.m. – 6 a.m. Alex will get you set up with a creds, a van, some float, and comms.”

“I’m Shaynee. Nice to meet you.”

Read Shaynee Lee Part 2