This column has one simple aim, to expose the side of the rock industry that the rock consumer never gets to see. The side that has its acne scarred face well and trully airbrushed by the time it is put on display for the innocent punter. We've named the column after one of the great standards, one of the great monolithic cliches that dot this business like Easter Island statues - Fifty bucks, two loaders.

If you're going to start out in a rock band then the odds are pretty good that you are going to hear that phrase. It's surface meaning is simple. Yes, you can play this support gig. You will provide two people, be they from your own band or outside of it, who will help load the PA into the room at the start of the night and be there to load out at the end of the night. For this, you will receive $50. To be fair, $50 was the going rate when we started out. It may well be $75 by now.

The first thing that happens is that you say "Yes" to the gig. Why? Because you are a desperate as 4 men on a 3 parachute Cessna with engine trouble to play. Playing! that's what it's all about! The music, the seat, THE TRUTH! Granted, you may feel slightly different about THE TRUTH when you step off the stage at 8:30pm after having just played to the bar staff to find out the the doors are not due to be opened until 9pm. Still, how else are you going to get known? Face it, you have to do the gig. And the promoter knows this. He knows that if you decide to stand on your principles and tell him to get fucked, he can get any one of a huge number of other bands, slobbering with the desire to play who will fill your role just as adequately.

In fact what is your role? Heads through the door-wise you can't pull the foam off a flat beer so it's not your money earning capacity he wants. Music-wise the room will probably be virtually empty come showtime and those who are there will simply sit disinterestedly on the floor becoming bored and heading into the other room to play pinball. This would indicate that it's not for artistic or aesthetic reasons that you have been hired. No, your role is to help bring the PA in.

And in this role you automatically have a problem. The problem is that unless you are friends with a group of unemployed bodybuilders who can't afford gym membership and so welcome an opportunity to lug an endless stream of anonymous cases which, if x-rayed, would be revealed to be tightly packed with those "100 cwt" pyramid shaped weights that always fall on cartoon characters' heads - then you are going to have to do it yourself. To greatly abbreviate the sentence that precedes this one, "who the fuck else is going to prostrate themselves before a group of semi-human roadies od dubious parentage (ie it is very doubtful as to whether or not they even had parents) who still have to misplaced arrogance to treat you like a son of roadie - miscreant, layabout, stupid son of roadie, whilest doing permanent injury to your spine, lower back, knees and fertility all for nothing, nada, stuff all, NO FUCKING MONEY!

I am having trouble making my point precisely. The point being the IT'S FUCKED. You have no option. In the words of Helmet "Killing hurts, has to be done". You will arrive at the venue and help load the PA up 3 flights of stairs in 35 degree heat. You will play the gig knowing that the entire world could not give a fuck about you or your music, all the time being made to feel like everyone: door person, bar staff, venue owner, other bands, road crew, sound crew, patrons are doing you a favour in allowing you to live, let alone play the gig. You will stand around awkwardly for the next 4 hours drinking bottled water that cost you $2 over the bar because they didn't believe you when you told them you were in the band.

The main band will be hailed as an example of all conquering genius. You will load the PA out, finishing around 3am. You will endeavour to obtain your $50 from the promoter to be told, "Sorry mate, haven't finished sorting out the money. Give me a call between 10:30 and 10:45 next Thursday." You will ring for the next 2 months. You will drive one and a half hours to get home because you are not cool enough to live in the inner city. You will despise yourself and life when you finally arrive home with the sun already rising.

You will do it again.