In the early 1980s, I worked as a computer analyst at Robins Air Force Base, Georgia. In my free time, I gigged with various bands in the Warner Robins/Macon, Georgia area.
Around 1983, I was booked with a local cover band to perform at a party inside a newly renovated aircraft factory at nearby Milledgeville, Georgia.
On the day of the job, we entered through the back door at the factory and rolled our gear through the building until we found the party location. We set up on a concrete floor in a large room full of industrial machinery. The ceiling was at least two stories high. Everything looked new and clean.
While we were setting up our gear, a factory employee approached the band and told us that a company VP was flying in for the celebration. He warned us that the VP would almost certainly give us some kind of orders, just to let us know he was the boss and that if we’d just go along with the guy, there’d be no problems.
The party started, the band began playing, and everything was going fine. Eventually, a grumpy-looking older man in a suit and tie arrived and walked through the room, barking out orders to various people. He was the VP. Eventually, he approached the band and ordered us to turn down, that we were too loud. Although we weren’t playing very loud, we apologized and reduced the volume for about five minutes. That was enough; he’d let us know he the boss. By the time we resumed our usual loudness, he was across the room, bossing someone else.
Despite the horrific acoustics, the band sounded good. We had a new drummer that night who was very good, the audience had a good time, and eventually, the VP had a few drinks and turned into a pretty nice guy. As long as everyone in the room knew he was the boss, he was happy.
After the gig, on the way out, I found a roll of wire in a trash can that I used for years, mostly for rewiring guitars. That was a pretty good bonus for a unique gig.