“Workman has provided priceless insight with his book which should be studied top-to-bottom by anyone looking to make their living in the business.” Blabbermouth.net
In One for the Road: How to Be a Music Tour Manager, author Mark Workman shows you how to become a tour manager for a music group in any genre of music; how to organize a music tour the right way; how to complete one effectively; and how to build your career as a music tour manager into a successful one.
As the music business continues to go through many dramatic changes, music groups are quickly discovering that to build and sustain a successful career, they must stay on the road and do as many shows as possible each year. Because of this, skilled tour managers for music groups are now needed more than ever.
If you’ve ever wanted to become a roadie and get on a road crew working for a famous band, this is the book to read. Part memoir, part how-to book, One for the Road: How to Be a Music Tour Manager is the first and only book on music tour management. This book covers every aspect of being a road manager touring the world with a famous band in three hundred and fifty-four pages.
One for the Road:
How to Be a Music Tour Manager also includes an insightful foreword by virtuoso lead guitarist of Testament–and author of his new memoir Geek To Guitar Hero–Alex Skolnick.
by Alex Skolnick
Take a very close look at any band that has achieved international recognition, and you’ll find someone who has been an integral part of that band’s development from offstage. For example, producer George Martin—as well as manager Brian Epstein, keyboardist Billy Preston and others— each earned the nickname “The Fifth Beatle.” Led Zeppelin’s longtime manager, Peter Grant, was considered an unofficial offstage band member.
The individuals mentioned above happen to be household names to any serious rock fan. But in most cases, a band’s crucial team member is someone who is less widely known, especially in the genre of thrash metal, where compared to The Beatles and Led Zeppelin, the audience is, to quote from the mock rock documentary This Is Spinal Tap: “More selective.” Yet whatever thrash metal may lack in terms of mainstream popularity—especially when compared to timeless rock royalty—it more than makes up for in terms of fan dedication. And if there is one name that should be better known to fans of this genre—or for that matter, any music fan interested in what takes place behind the scenes—it is Mark Workman.
As you read this, there may be thousands out there working on behalf of bands—emailing, calling, negotiating, and rousting them out of bed, etc.…but scant few, if any, have had the insight, knowledge, humor, and intellect to write about this process effectively, until now. One for the Road is the perfect title for this series, and Mark Workman is the perfect author to create it.
A seasoned veteran of many a metal tour (a short list of credits includes Testament, Slayer, Anthrax, Megadeth, Machine Head, Danzig, Dio, and Mudvayne), Mark has long been the instigator of many repeated tour quotes and anecdotes. My own band, Testament, never had the good fortune of finding the right producer or manager early on—both positions would change hands several times. But in 1988, as touring began for our second album, The New Order, we found Mark, who’d become our first long-term trusted team member. He’d only signed on to that tour as LD (lighting director) and came across as an inconspicuous crew guy. But when our tour manager suddenly jumped ship, it was Mark who grabbed the reigns and took over the job as TM, while continuing as LD.
As I write this, my own memoir, Geek to Guitar Hero, is being published. I mention this not in the interest of self-promotion, but because it directly relates to this book. Mark Workman is the sole person who has an entire chapter devoted to him, based on our original nickname for him: Sergeant Slaughter.
“Without a doubt, the most memorable and dominant personality in the history of the band is Mark Workman. It pretty much started on the day he took over as tour manager. With a fierce directness, strict work ethic and leadership skills to match, Mark was the only one able to get us checked in and out of hotels, to interviews, or wherever else we needed to be on time. As our first lighting director (LD), his demeanor had been that of an unassuming crewmember who kept to himself. But as tour manager, he transformed us from an out-of-control nursery school to an army barracks.”
From the day he hopped on board that bus in 1988 till the time of my own departure in the early 90’s, from the reunion shows of the mid-00’s to the 2012 release, Dark Roots of Earth (our first to crack the Billboard top 15) and several points in between, Mark has been a part of the soul of our band’s organization. He has helped get the live show where it needs to be, both on a visual and organizational level, and helped guide us through that crucial early period when things easily could have gone sour. Sure, there’d be times where he and the band would drift apart (as is true of my own situation with the band). There’d be times when his demons would get the better of him (as detailed near the end of the book). But Mark has always come back, like a prizefighter that refuses to go down for the count.
While we’re on that subject, Mark’s dedication to the road and metal music mirrors that of his other passion—professional boxing—for which he is a boxing writer with essays posted by BoxingScene, Fox Sports, and others. When a band gets offstage, it’s a bit like the period in between rounds during a boxing match, where the fighter is in the corner, talking to no one but his trainer. The band sits alone in the dressing room, allowing the breathing to return to normal, the sweating to dissipate, and the dizziness of constant movement to subside. No guests and other well-wishers are allowed backstage during this sacred time. Mark is like the trainer—the first non-band member to walk through the door—a welcome presence, letting the band know just how the show went—what worked, what didn’t, if it was a great night or just so-so.
Having shared buses and dressing rooms with Mark since our first tour together in 1988, I’ve long found him to be the rare person who says what he means and does what he says he’s going to do. He will tell a band what they need to hear and not what they want to hear. He’s also a constant source of dark comedy with an acerbic wit and abrasive humor. That spirit shines through in these pages. Faint of heart, take heed: Mark does not mince words.
While he occasionally causes shock and insult, Mark always keeps things from getting boring. His harsh mannerisms, brutal honesty and fierce directness are not for everyone. Those who do not have a thick skin be warned (and while you’re at it, this might be a good time to reconsider a career in the music business). Whether in the Testament camp (bandspeak for organization), or others, Mark is the source of more tour stories than the musicians themselves.
This book, and the eventual companion editions, will no doubt become an invaluable asset to anyone who thinks they have what it takes to run a tight ship on tour. This will be the guide that many tour vets wish they’d had when starting out. Reading it, one can imagine what might have happened if Charles Bukowski or Hunter S. Thompson had been a fight fan who spent his life as a member of the road crew for some of the world’s fastest heavy metal bands and wrote about it. I will not be the least surprised to see One for the Road: How to Be a Music Tour Manager become a must read among road crews for many years to come.
The road is a great equalizer. Not being prepared for its pitfalls, curveballs, “clusterfucks” (a favorite term of Mark’s), and other unpredictable factors has contributed to many a mental breakdown among tour personnel, regardless of age, gender, cultural background, or musical genre. This book will encourage potential tour managers to realize just what they are getting themselves into and come to the tour adequately prepared. Conversely, it will also force those who do not have what it takes to come to their senses and, it is hoped, get out with their dignity still intact.
This is a book for beginners.
I almost quit writing this book three times, but I don’t believe you’re out after three strikes any more than I believe cats only have nine lives—the little bastards live forever. If I believe in nothing else in this life, I believe in resurrection and new beginnings. Trust me; I’m living, pulsing proof of it.
Writing this book became more frustrating with each successive draft, and I simply couldn’t figure out why my middle finger seemed to be constantly pulled against its will to my computer’s delete button like a planchette on a Ouija board.
Captain Howdy, that isn’t very nice!
Is there an exorcist in the house?
Then it struck me like an uppercut from “Iron” Mike Tyson; the problem was clear to a blind man. As I edited each chapter, I wearily waded through a rigid how-to book that highlighted the positives and downplayed the negatives of being a music tour manager. To put it simply: this book was so full of happy horseshit, you needed a manure collector to get rid of it all.
I made up my mind, right then and there, to tell it like it is: the good, the bad, the ugly, and the monstrously horrible. I offer no phony sales pitch; no mysterious insider secrets will be revealed, and no false promises of an exciting new career are guaranteed or your money back. Not that this book ever contained any of those shameful things—it didn’t—but it was stiffer than a crone’s arthritic fingers and had about as much humor as a handbook on autopsy practice.
My book was reborn.
I hope you have a sense of humor. Yes, there is job discrimination in the music business; tour managers born without a thick funny bone need not apply. You won’t last without one.
The Power of the Press
In the spring of 2004, I was on tour with the mighty Machine Head in the U.K. The band was playing on the main stage with Metallica at the Download Festival at Castle Donington. It was an important event for Machine Head because their popularity in the U.K. was growing rapidly. The band’s record label, Roadrunner Records, had convinced the band to allow a journalist from one of the big metal magazines to travel with us and write an on-the-road report. No one was overly thrilled with the idea, but they had to do it.
After we finished the show, we had a brief amount of time for the band’s singer, Robb Flynn, to do a post-show interview with the journalist, and then we had to drive to London’s Heathrow airport and fly home to the U.S. It’s an easy drive to Heathrow airport from Donington Park, but it can take up to four hours to get there with heavy traffic. We had a long thirteen-hour flight to San Francisco ahead of us, and I had no intention of missing that flight.
The post-show interview was important and needed to be done, but Robb Flynn was nowhere to be found. Donington Park is a massive complex, and the tour buses were parked a great distance from the main stage area. It was a very long walk, and you had to wait for shuttle buses to take you from the bus park to the main stage. As the clock started to tick away and Robb was still nowhere to be found, I started to get tense, worrying about missing our flight.
As my English friends will tell you, some people in the U.K. drop the word cunt like they say hello. Here in America, on the other hand, even whispering that diabolical word will provoke enraged responses, such as off with his head, burn him at the stake, and castrate the motherfucker!, by the entire female population. The scene from Frankenstein where the angry mob, fiery torches in hand, chases the frightened monster through the town immediately comes to mind.
I’ve toured the U.K. more times than I could ever remember, and there was a time when I immediately morphed into an English alien replicant the minute I entered England. I ate wonderful cholesterol-packed English breakfasts and greasy fish and chips, drank me some of the finest English ales, puffed me some lovely Dunhill cigarettes, honored Her Majesty the Queen, and said the word cunt with every breath I could muster. Sorry, Mom.
While I stood outside Machine Head’s tour bus waiting for Robb Flynn, the journalist from the metal magazine chatted away incessantly. He could sense that I was becoming highly annoyed and very worried about missing our flight. He continued asking me trivial questions while I basically ignored him. Looking off into the distance towards the main stage area, I said to myself, “Where is this fucking cunt?”
Now, I’ve known Robb Flynn since the late ‘80s when he and Phil Demmel (Machine
Head guitarist) were both in Vio-lence, and at the time I had already done three records with Machine Head. The band was an old client, and the guys in the band are wonderful people. I consider them dear friends. Robb Flynn wasn’t a cunt, nor did I feel he was a cunt.
However, when this magnificent on-the-road report finally came out in the magazine, there it was in black and white: the tour manager calling the singer of the band a cunt. Robb was far from pleased, and neither was I. And Machine Head’s long-time manager, Joseph Huston, a good and honest man, didn’t think too much of it, either.
Only a complete and utter mongoloid idiot would call his employer a cunt in a magazine that’s distributed around the world. While there’s a tiny, infinitesimal part of me that wants to believe the journalist meant no harm and was merely repeating a harmless phrase that he’d blabbered countless times himself, I no longer believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, or the Easter Bunny.
Do I regret saying what I said? Hell, no. They’re just words, and my friends, including Robb, have heard my colorful expressions many times. Do I regret dropping my guard and muttering those words in front of a journalist that I didn’t know and trust? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Crossing Crazy Borders
In the fall of 2006, I decided to try something I’d wanted to attempt for a long time: I got my CDL (commercial driver’s license) and began to drive a tour bus for my old friend Sandy Stein at Coast to Coast Coach in Lancaster, California. I drove many of Sandy’s buses for almost two years, and I had a great time doing it, with the exception of a nasty confrontation with a hotel’s brick wall and a telephone pole, and two difficult tours that were run by new road managers.
Near the end of my driving career, I had an interesting experience that will drive home the sharp point of this chapter. It was November 2008, and I had pretty much stopped driving a tour bus and was back doing the tour manager/lighting designer gig for my long-time client Testament. I was at home enjoying some time off the road when Sandy Stein called me up and asked me if I’d be willing to fl y into Chicago, Illinois, and do a double-drive up to Saskatoon, Canada, with his bus driver, who was driving a popular heavy metal band that shall remain nameless to protect the guilty.
The bus driver had to drive thirteen-hundred and fifty miles across one travel day from Chicago to the band’s next show in Saskatoon, a small city out in the middle of nowhere between Winnipeg and Edmonton. Now, that’s not an impossible journey for one driver to do, but a bad snowstorm was expected along the route. I had already driven the Long Beach Dub Allstars—the living remnants of Sublime—nine hundred and thirty-five miles from Vail, Colorado, through a blizzard to Long Beach, California, in twenty hours on my own, so I wasn’t afraid of this long double-drive in bad weather.
I was getting bored sitting at home in Richmond, Virginia, so I agreed to fl y in and do the double-drive. I also wanted to do it because one of my best friends was the band’s new road manager. This was his first time doing the job, but he’d done many tours with me in another capacity, so I was very curious to see how he’d do on his first tour as a road manager.
Once we’d begun our journey, and I was behind the wheel doing my fi rst shift of the drive, my friend sat with me and we spoke of old times while I drove. At one point in the conversation, after remembering how much my friend loved his weed, I reminded him that we’d soon be crossing the Canadian border. I asked him how many people on the bus did drugs. He promptly replied, “No one does any drugs at all, except for me; but I’ll get rid of my weed before we reach the border.”
We drove north as the snow began to fall.
Before we reached the Canadian border crossing at Pembina, North Dakota, I stopped at a truck stop to get fuel because the cost of diesel was lower in the U.S. It also gave me a chance to take a short break and allow the entourage to get some food before we resumed our long drive, which was becoming more difficult as the bad weather grew worse.
Once I got back on the highway, I asked my friend if he’d remembered to get rid of his weed. He replied, “Yes, sir. As much as it pained me, I tossed it in the garbage can at the truck stop.” I reminded him to do a good cleaning of the bus to remove any possible weed residue or anything else that a border drug dog could detect. He promised me that he’d complete this important chore.
The snowstorm began to worsen, and driving became more dangerous. I needed to get the entourage to Saskatoon in time for noon load-in the next day, but the bad weather was slowing me down considerably. By the time we reached the Canadian border, we were in the midst of a full-blown blizzard.
Driving in bad weather wears you out a lot quicker than driving on clear roads. I looked at my watch and realized it was almost midnight. Knowing full well that some of these smaller Canadian border crossings are not open twenty-four hours, I asked my friend if he’d checked to make sure the border crossing was open all night. He hadn’t remembered to do it.
My stress level increased two notches. Driving on iced earth is one thing; but hauling ass through the creepy Dean Koontz darkness of the night while worrying about slamming into a dumb Canadian moose stupidly hanging out in the middle of the road and careening over a high cliff to a fiery, pig-squealing death is a whole other matter.
If the border was closed from midnight to 8:00 a.m., there’d be no chance of us making a noon load-in the following day, since we still had another six hundred miles to drive through what was turning into a very scary snowstorm. We wouldn’t have made it to the venue until 9:00 p.m., in which case the first show of the Canadian tour would’ve been canceled.
I finally pulled up to the Canadian border crossing a few minutes past midnight, and my friend and I walked inside the office to begin processing the entourage into Canada. The border guards were not happy to see us, because they were about to close the office until 8:00 a.m. and go home for the night. My friend knew he was going to be in deep trouble with the band if we had to sit there at the border for the next eight hours and miss the Saskatoon show. He pleaded with the border guards to process us into Canada so we could continue our journey. After a bit of tense complaining, the border guards begrudgingly agreed to process the entourage into Canada. The tour manager was told to get the entourage off the bus and bring them inside for processing; and that’s when the trouble began.
When your tour bus or van attempts to cross into Canada, you can almost always
be assured they’re going to check your vehicle for drugs. A music group should always assume this is going to happen every time and prepare for it. Clean your tour bus from top to bottom—no, the bus driver won’t do it for you—if anyone has been doing drugs of any kind in the vehicle, and don’t smoke weed right before you arrive at the border because you’ll never get rid of the smell in time. You’d have to be completely paralyzed from that shit and have fuzzy fruit salad for a brain to think otherwise. Wake up.
While the entourage waited in the immigration office and the border guards checked us out for criminal records in their computers, the rest of the guards searched our bus for drugs and other contraband. As I looked at my watch, realizing that their search was taking a lot longer than it normally does, I turned to my tour manager friend sitting beside me and said, “Bro, this is taking a long time, and that’s happening for a reason. Are you sure you got everything off that bus?” He looked at me with worried eyes and replied, “To be honest with you, when I cleaned the bus, I couldn’t find my pipe.”
Just as he said those words, a female border guard walked into the office carrying my friend’s pipe in her hand. Slowly shaking my head, I looked at him and said, “Well, they just found it for you.” My friend was far from happy. What happened after that was one of the worst Canadian border crossings of my entire career, and I’ve done more than I could ever hope to remember.
For the next four hours, we sat in the immigration office while they turned our bus upside down; and we were told we had to wait for the canine to arrive. They said the drug dog and the border guard who took him home every night would arrive in about ninety minutes, delayed by the storm, of course. None of us were allowed to use the restroom because they believed some of us probably had drugs shoved down our pants and would flush them down the toilet if given the chance.
Once the drug dog—a frightening beast of German descent that I could easily see
terrorizing prisoners at Stalag 13—and his handler arrived, we were all told to form a long line so the canine could walk down it and sniff each of us for drugs. Before doing so, the border guard warned us that the dog would also be sniffing our crotches, and if he smelled drugs, he could get very excited and possibly bite us in our happy parts, so if we had any drugs hidden in our underwear, it would be a smart idea to hand them over now. I thought of Mike Tyson dropping Michael Spinks, slowly clenched my fist, and tried to imagine what part of my living room wall I was going to hang this dog’s jaw on after it came back from the taxidermist…after I got out of a Canadian prison, of course.
I knew I didn’t have any drugs on me—hell, I hadn’t done cocaine in two years—but
the thought of going back home to Richmond without my testicles because they’d been gnashed off at the bloody roots by Canadian Cujo had me slightly concerned. Since we’d all been deprived of using the toilet for quite some time, I had to piss desperately and was in a lot of pain. If the little four-legged fucker had bit my precious prick, a tsunami of piss would’ve blown him back to the fatherland.
The canine snitch went down the line and sniffed everyone in the entourage and found nothing, although he seemed to have a special fondness for the sound engineer’s genitals. Still determined to find the massive cache of drugs that we had to be smuggling into Canada, the border guards then made us empty every piece of luggage from the tour bus and take it into a nearby building where they thoroughly searched it all. That was a first.
Finally coming to grips with the agony of defeat, the Canadian border guards threw in the towel and said to us, “At this point, we have enough with the pipe to refuse you entry into Canada.” The band became very agitated, knowing full well that being denied entry into Canada would force the cancelation of four sold-out Canadian shows and cost them a small fortune in lost income. One of the border guards held up the pipe and said, “Whoever this belongs to had better own up to it now.”
The entire entourage turned and looked at my tour manager friend, and he knew then and there that he had no choice but to confess to being the owner of the pipe. Now hours into the ordeal, he’d become more unwelcome on the tour than Hamas in a synagogue.
My young tour manager friend confessed to being the owner of the pipe, and we were finally allowed to enter Canada as the snowstorm continued to come down on us hard. My friend was very lucky that night. He could’ve been arrested. He also set himself up to be thoroughly searched and harassed every time he comes into Canada in the future.
Do I need to speak anymore about how it’s extremely important to make sure your vehicle is cleaned spotless before crossing any border? Have you gotten the sharp point?
In case you’re wondering, we arrived in Saskatoon five hours late for load-in. To say the crew had to do a quick “throw-and-go” was an understatement, and the vibe amongst the entourage was not a good one. I got paid, said goodbye to my friend, and went to my hotel to spend the night and fly home the next morning.
That was the last run I ever did as a tour bus driver. I decided to just stick with doing my gig as a tour manager and lighting designer. Since then, I’ve been in and out of Canada many times with Megadeth, Anthrax, and Testament with no problems.
Foreword by Alex Skolnick
Part One—The Beginning
How I started in the music business
Part Two—Organizing the Tour
Gathering vital information
Working with the team
Preparing an accurate tour budget
Hiring the best road crew
Hiring the right bus company and driver
Booking air travel
Backline rentals and endorsers
Backdrops, scrims and stage sets
Carrying sound and lighting
Foreign artist tax
Visas and work permits
ATA carnets and equipment manifests
Air and sea cargo
Riders and contracts
Creating your tour book
Coordinating with the support acts
Preparing your tour accounting
Creating signs for the tour
Tour management software
Part Three—Advancing the Tour
Getting organized to advance the tour
Stage plots and input charts
Making a proper advance sheet
Preparing your pre-advance package
How to properly advance a tour
Advancing your cash requirements
Online show advance system
Part Four—On the Road
The first day of the tour
Day sheets, press sheets, and the flow of information
The power of the press
Guest lists and passes
Doing your daily road accounting
How to do show settlements correctly
Advancing your hotels
Surviving fly dates
Crossing crazy borders
Working double-duty on a tour
Supporting a bigger band
Taking care of your client
The last day of the tour
Part Five—Building a Successful Career
Networking and self-promotion
How to find your first gig
Road hazards up ahead
Media reviews of One for the Road:
How To Be A Music Tour Manager by Mark Workman.
Blabbermouth 1/13/14 (book review by Ray Van Horn, Jr)
Workman loads “One For The Road: How To Be A Music Tour Manager” with plenty of humor and just enough sordid recounts of road life that will entertain even those who have no interest in a music industry career. However, Workman has provided priceless insight with his book which should be studied top-to-bottom by anyone looking to make their living in the business.
If you think you have road life figured out and you don’t have the same amount of miles clocked as Mark Workman, think again and read “One For The Road: How To Be A Music Tour Manager”.
Metal Kaoz 12/7/13
The language is extremely easy to read and understand, so it feels like you are getting a private lesson by a friend who has been doing this stuff for a really long time. Honestly, I’d love to see many tour managers reading this book because maybe there will be light at the end of this dark tunnel and the bands we love will continue to exist while enduring all the economics hits taken from the degrading music market. In any case, this is a must-read for everyone who is considering becoming part of this grinding called ‘music business’ by learning how things should run in order to make a living out of it.
National Rock Review book review 11/18/2013
It’s a virtual treasure trove of information for current or aspiring road crew members. I cannot fathom a single nugget of information that was left out of this book. Itʼs like a graduate level course in the summer semester. Youʼre going to learn a lot and learn it fast!
Revolver Magazine Top 5 List 10/29/13
Drawing from 30 years of worldwide touring experience with such bands as Slayer, Megadeth, Anthrax, Testament, Machine Head, Mudvayne, Danzig, and Dio, Mark Workman has written a 354-page book that not only shows the novice tour manager how to do the job correctly, but also provides a witty and entertaining read for anyone who just wants to know how a music tour is run. One for the Road: How to be a Music Tour Manager also includes a foreword written by Testament lead guitarist Alex Skolnick. With all of the success in Workman’s background, Revolver asked why he wrote the book to begin with–and here are his Top Five Reasons for doing so.
5. To make money. “I love money. Money is good. We all need to make it.”
4. For the music fans who simply want to know more about how a music tour is run. “I wanted to write an interesting book for them that contained some behind the scenes true stories that were told in an entertaining way.”
3. For new tour managers already out there on the road trying to learn how to do the job with no real training, flying by the seat of their pants, and praying for success. “I spent the first few years of my career back in the ’80s trying to fool everyone into believing that I knew what I was doing while I struggled to learn how to really do the job without being discovered and fired.”
2. For up-and-coming bands around the world, signed and unsigned, who cannot yet afford a tour manager and need to learn how to do the job themselves and take care of their own business at local shows and on tour. “I’ve seen so many new baby bands show up on tours that I was doing who knew nothing–but it’s always great to see the few that actually know something about how a tour is run and act like professionals. They get a lot more help and respect from the headliner a lot quicker this way.”
1. Inspire all of the people around the world who have the same dream that I had thirty years ago. “In 1979, at the age of 19, I left the hills of West Virginia on a Trailways bus with $150.00 to my name and went 2,400 miles to Los Angeles, where I didn’t know a soul, to find a way into the music business. It took me three years until I met Ron Keel and his band, Steeler, but I finally made it happen. A career was born. I truly believe that anyone can make their dream happen as long as they never stop believing in themselves.”
Soundcrave Magazine book review 10/27/2013
“This is a must read for anyone considering getting into the tour managing business. But in my opinion this book is a “must read” for anyone who already is in the business. It is a step by step guide on how to be successful in the world of road management and touring. If there is ever a class on tour management I hope Mark Workman is the professor.”
Examiner.com article 10/26/13
“What makes this book valuable is that Workman has limited his war stories in favor of practical advice, things that an aspiring tour manager needs to know. The advice in his book is universal. It applies to Shania Twain, to Justin Bieber to Slayer. If you are a musician, you should read the book just to know what your tour manager is doing and what he or she has to put up with.”
Pittsburgh Music Magazine book review 10/21/13
“Mark Workman lays out such a comprehensive strategy to becoming a working tour manager that if one has the will, Workman provides the way. Add to that Workman’s writing style that is very smooth, humorous at times, and easy to understand, and you have one hell of a how to guide. It would not be surprising to see Berklee School of Music or The Musicians Institute making this book, or eventually the series, part of their curriculum…it’s that good. If you want to get into the music business, are in the music business already, or are like me, and just fascinated with the music business, you will find this to be a treasured find.”
Get your copy of One for the Road:
How to Be a Music Tour Manager today.
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