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As the band plays the first ethereal chords and pounding bass drum that start the first song of the album, "Where the Streets Have No Name," the screen explodes with light: soaring black-and-white footage of the empty two-lanes of the American West. The diehards suddenly find themselves stuck in the front row of a movie theater—still not a bad spot, in this theater—while the people in the cheap seats (which are not cheap at all) experience a stunning panorama. Eric Geiger, the band's chief LED engineer, wearing all black and a headset over the top of his ball cap, is at the front of the audiovisual booth, at the edge of the singing and swaying people on the floor of the stadium, 40 yards back from the stage.
Rather than bask in the glow of the movie, he's scouring the 2,418-inch flat screen for anything that looks off.
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One guy brings a red-white-and-blue cooler, about as big as one person might want to carry."What kind of drinks?
" asks a security guard wearing aviator sunglasses."What kind of drinks? "I don't drink alcohol.""I'm not worried about you drinking alcohol," says Aviators. But the guard takes one look at his badge and Lawson gets the freeze-out.
The harness swirls into shape around his body as he pulls straps up his legs and over his shoulders, dipping and shimmying to get it to settle in the right places. And not only for the band—but of course for the band, who is playing. If it's happening on his stage, Rocko makes sure it's done right. His boots keep finding higher rungs, a round pressure on the soft instep of his foot. The strut in Deschacht's hand reverberates with the roaring sound of the crowd. They've come to the stadium, a few miles outside of New York City in northern New Jersey, from the Hudson Valley, from the five boroughs, from urban and rural Jersey. People from points east fought post-work traffic through tunnels or across bridges and paid $30 to park in lots as vast and indistinguishable as the meadowlands around the stadium.
You want to get it right when you're going to be suspended 40 feet in the air. You want to get it right because this is what you've worked for. He makes sure Deschacht is wearing a yo-yo, also known as a fall arrester—even though Deschacht will be hooked between a tower of steel trussing and a grid of carbon fiber, interlocking couplings, and cabling, so if he fell, the damage would be done long before he hit the floor. Rocko and the crew spent days going through tens of thousands of individual pieces, applying silicone waterproofing by hand. In three days, this screen needs to be in Cleveland. Fans from Manhattan and Queens and Brooklyn paid $11 to ride New Jersey Transit trains out of Penn Station and made the god-awful transfer in Secaucus, where everybody gets off one train and onto another, the whole time able to see Met Life Stadium, so large it seems to be an arm's length away even though it's still a ten-minute ride and another ten-minute walk just to get started going through security.
It's another crew member positioned out in the crowd. He grabs a limp pile of nylon webbing hanging from a truss and glances upward toward the faulty panel, his hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. It's just that if Deschacht messes this up, that's what everyone will remember. Telling him to get up there before the fans have a chance to notice. It's a practiced dance, a three-step: Hook, feet, hands, hook, feet, hands, he crawls up the back of the giant screen.