I use to spend all my time in the shop. Painting, building props, set pieces. Working over top of each other in the winter, vying for a spot by the stove to dry paint, or glue, or just bloody well keep warm. Half sunk into the earth and 18 foot high ceilings, it’s the best place to hide from the summer heat.
Sawdust, grease, diesel and welding equipment, mix with horse blankets, hay and dank earth. Big speakers we’d listen to Danzig and Slayer on.
One winter we dragged a couch in that was being thrown out. At the end of each work day, we’d drape ourselves like sloths around the stove. I was dozily curled up, when Mick flashed his infrared temperature sensor on me and said the reading was 37 degrees Celsius. Stoned from the heat, we pulled the couch back.
I miss the shop. I would paint and build, switching to stage management in tech week. Frenetic as all fuck, but we made it work. Now my time is fully engaged in rehearsal. I just run in to build the odd thing, grab a tool, or linger to the sweet baritone wails of Glenn.