They say the show begins when the curtain rises.
For the Load-in and Load-out Crew, the performance is perpetual, played out in shadows and exhaustion. The ghosts of the theatre, the ones who make the magic possible but never take a bow.
They start when the city sleeps. The roar of the truck ramp dropping is their overture. Under the unforgiving glare of work lights, they haul the impossible: crates heavier than a man, steel scaffolding, and the delicate instruments that hold the audience’s gaze. Every aching muscle, every blister, every back spasm is a quiet prayer to the god of the clock, demanding they be faster, stronger, better.
This isn’t just lifting; it’s a desperate race against the schedule, fueled by stale coffee and the silent understanding that failure is not an option.
Then, the show happens.
A symphony of light, sound, and cheers.
They are waiting in the wings, silent, watching the very set they bled to build. And just as the last applause fades—when the stars are high and the audience is drifting home— their curtain rises again.
Load-out.
It’s a brutal, mournful ballet of destruction. The glamour is gone. The energy is spent. It’s just them, the dust, and the deep, cold weight of the gear.
They dismantle the dream, piece by agonizing piece, reversing the magic until the stage is bare again.
When the last crate is chained, and the doors slam shut, they don’t cheer but just lean against the truck, inhaling the cold air, feeling the profound emptiness of the now-vacant hall.
They built a world, lived in it for a few hours, and then tore it down. They carry the memory of the light in their weary bones, knowing that in a few hours, the road calls, and they will do it all again.
They are the Load-in and Load-out Crew.
They are the unsung, the overworked, the ones who carry the weight of the spectacle so you only have to carry the memory of the song.
Remember them when the curtain goes up.
Courtesy of Jay Still
