Before the audience arrives, a different show begins. An inside look at the pre-show mechanics—seat retraction, rig drops, riser adjustments—at Someone’s Stage.
You think the performance begins at eight o’clock? Kind of. The audience arrives, the lights go down, and the first line is spoken. But the real first performance—no one buys a ticket for—starts hours earlier in an empty, silent hall.
It’s a different kind of show. A mechanical ballet. Its performers are the house crew. Its music is the low whir of motors, the solid click of locking pins, the call-and-response of teammates on opposite sides of the room. Its purpose? To completely remake the space. To build a new world for a new night.
Every production has its own needs. A comedy asks for a different room than a tragedy. A solo performance needs a different container than a rock opera. The room must change to fit the story. Always. That change is our first job—the first act.
The first step is to create a blank canvas. For us, that means the seats have to go.
The whole front block of our hall—hundreds of chairs—disappears. Gone. It’s quite a thing to see. Row by row, the chairs fold down into themselves. They retract on rails, sliding back into concealed pockets beneath the floor. A low groan from the machinery, a series of satisfying clunks as the locks engage, and then… nothing—just a wide-open, flat floor.
To do it right, the crew moves in concert. A team on one side communicates with a team on the other. A hand signal. A nod. A shared understanding of the sequence. It’s a conversation without words. First, this section. Then the next. Then the final block.
The floor opens up. The possibilities follow.
Once the floor is clear, we look up. Way up.
High above the space hangs the grid. A metal sky full of lights, speakers, and rigging points. For most shows, it lives up in the heavens. But for a changeover, it comes down to meet us.
On a cue from the deck manager, the motors engage. Huge chain hoists begin their work. The entire grid descends from the ceiling. Slowly. With a measured, deliberate motion. It’s a heavy, complicated dance. But a dance all the same.
Having the grid at chest height lets our technicians work. They can re-hang lights, run new lines, and rig new scenery elements with their feet on the ground. To get this right, the descent has to be perfectly level. A quarter-inch tilt on one side could throw the whole apparatus off. So we check the levels. We recheck them. Precision here is everything.
With a clear floor and an accessible grid, the real construction starts. This is my favorite part. It’s like architecture on a deadline.
The crew brings out the risers. These are modular blocks, big platforms on wheels. They are the building blocks of the new landscape. We roll them into place, connect them, and lock them down. One by one, a new topography appears. A tiered concert setup. A thrust stage for a classic play. A flat floor for a gala.
The lead carpenter has the floor plan—a new world map. The crew follows that map to the inch. A riser gets set. A lock clicks. A brake set. The line goes taut. Another riser comes in. It’s a puzzle of heavy pieces, and the picture on the box differs daily.
The machinery helps, sure. The computer-aided designs help, too. But the whole thing works because of people.
The crew knows this room. They know its moods, its quirks. They know the sound a specific lock makes when it’s correctly set. They know the feel of a brake that needs adjustment. This knowledge isn't in a manual. It lives in the crew’s hands, in their muscle memory.
For instance, we need to build for sound absorption and audience energy to get the room ready for a rock show. For a quiet play, we need to develop for acoustical clarity and close sightlines. Those are entirely different geometries. The crew understands the "why" behind the "what." They know a show's success starts with their work. Pretty solid job, right?
All this happens in the quiet afternoon hours—a flurry of activity, coordinated effort, and focused work.
Then, just as methodically, it all stops.
The grid ascends back to the ceiling. The new seating gets uncovered. The stage gets its final sweep. The crew’s tools disappear. The room is still, but it’s a different room now. It’s a new machine, tuned for a new purpose.
The audience walks in later and feels the space. They think the intimacy of the steep rake is for drama. They believe the open energy of the wide floor is ideal for a concert. They might not know why the room feels a certain way. But they believe it.
They feel the work the crew did. The first performance of the night. The one that sets the stage for all the others.
