Last week my parents were in town. Mum was keen to catch a show somewhere, so we all went and checked out the Ruby Suns at the Hopetoun. Having come fresh off their tour with The Shins, the Suns played a explosion of psychedelia that brought LSD-assisted 60s pop to mind – think a cross between early Pink Floyd mixed with the grandeur of something like The Polyphonic Spree’s live show (albiet with far fewer members).

Obviously the swirling oddball pop wasn’t quite registering with one of the support acts as well as they thought it should be, and they felt that some adjustments to the mix were in order.

Across the little pub this one individual marched, and delivered a statement which no one should utter if they want to live long on the earth:

“You really need to turn the vocals up”

I was half expecting the entire room (band included) to fall silent melodramatically in a way reminiscent of a face-off scene in a movie. Everyone knows that you don’t tell the sound guy what to do. Ever.

The sound man is the wizard, making it possible for the joys of music to be heard by all. Through his masterful hands does the entire spectrum of musical signals get guided on their merry way to the punters ears, as they stand and revel in his mastery. The sound man is, put simply, the master. Obviously, he should never be told how he should best be exersizing his talents.

A pause.

The band did not stop playing, nor did most of the room notice the sudden spark had just been ignited.

But there was definitely a pause. And then came the response, polite but firm:

“I think the vocals sound fine, thankyou”

The master resumes his rightful place on the throne. The musician retreats hastily. And the rest of the show continues uninterrupted.