Stephen Gallagher on Why He's 'In Film'

Stephen Gallagher is one of New Zealand’s most respected film and TV composers and music editors. You will find his credit on The Hobbit trilogy, The Lovely Bones and District 9. He even has a letter of commendation from Brian Eno. We asked Stephen to write us a piece on how he came to work in film. Delightfully, this is what he sent us.

Why I joined the film industry. Kind of…

Often I think about how relatively safe a job composing, or music editing, in media is.

When I say ‘safe,’ I mean, it’s largely free from the prospect of physical harm.

Yes there are risks associated in long hours of work, high volume/sound levels, sitting stationary at a desk for extended periods in the dark, stress and vitamin D depletion, but there is very, very little threat of violent assault at the workplace. Maybe it’s just that I have lucked out on the jobs and clients I have worked with to date.

Whatever. I am incredibly grateful for feeling relatively safe from harm whilst being fortunate enough to have some fun jobs and super great people to work with. Lucky, lucky, lucky…

It has not always been the case in music-related pursuits.

A long, long time ago – in the nineties – I was a member of what could be diplomatically termed an ‘indie pop band’. We were on the dreamier side of indie pop, signed to a small independent record label with a debut album released along with a couple of singles on the radio and music videos playing on the television (and maybe on dial-up internet too). Our manager booked gigs and tours that took us all around the country. We played everywhere. House parties, halls, bars, ski resorts, hostels, garages, camping grounds, kitchens, bowling clubs, train stations, school classrooms… you get the idea. Mostly it was a good time. Fun people, some great shows, some ok shows, some forgettable shows, long days, no money, and inevitably waking up on couches and floors all around the country. So far so good.

One late-winter’s weekend, we drove up to The Far North to play a pub gig that our manager had kindly booked for us. This was the furthest north we had ever played. It took most of the day for us to make the trip up from Auckland. There were seven of us in one van. Five band members, our manager and a chap by the name of Dave who was our good friend and support act. We finally made it to the pub in the late afternoon. Inside the empty pub, the bar manager told us to set up our gear, sound check and then check in to the motel next door. Easy. Set up and sound check went smoothly and we were all buoyantly looking forward to a fun evening playing to some, hopefully enthusiastic, punters of The North. Then came the first clue that something was not quite right. The motel. Or should I say, the motel owner. We never saw the inside of the motel. All was going well as we entered the office to check in. The owner greeted us warmly and began taking our details. After some minutes he asked why we were all in town. Our singer replied it was because we were playing a gig at the pub next door. The motel owner suddenly froze. His expression lost all friendliness. He fixed us all with an urgent wide-eyed gaze. Then he said “You can’t stay here. I am sick of you bands coming back here making noise all night, taking drugs and setting the beds on fire. You all need to leave. Now.” He was insistent. We left.

Slightly amused and wondering about what kind of bed-burning bands frequented this place, we jumped back in the van and headed to a hostel up the road. “No one say anything about why we are here!” came the manager’s order from the driver’s seat as we pulled up outside the hostel. We checked in, got dinner and headed back to the pub. From outside the venue, we heard the muffled rowdy sounds of what seemed like a sizeable crowd. Excited we walked through the entrance and gazed upon a pub crowded with a hundred or so people. They were all men. Big men. They were all wearing gang patches. They all looked like chaps who would not be fans of the kind of fey indie pop they were about to be subjected to over the next hour and a half. Music like that played by a bunch of city boys was not going to wash with these guys. Oh no.

Dave the support act was up first. He played his set for a half hour. He played and sang his heart out. No one even clapped.

Instead, the audience just looked mildly more menacing. The five of us were up. And we were all terrified.

Setting up on the tiny stage we saw a man from the audience approach and beckon us toward him.

“Bro, what’s the name of your band, man?” he asked.

“Breathe,” our singer replied.

“Breathe,” he replied nodding without smiling, “go hard, aye?”

Gulp.

We started playing with our most upbeat and energetic song. When the song came to an end there was… silence. Then a roar of approval and applause from the patched crowd. Relief. Maybe this would turn out ok and we wouldn’t be thrown through the rear wall of the tavern like sacks of fey indie pop potatoes. We played on.

Several songs later we made the mistake of playing our slower dreamier songs. There was palpable unrest rippling through the bar. We looked down into the crowd as the same man who approached us earlier returned to the foot of the stage and once again beckoned to us.

“What are you guys doing?” He asked with a stone-like calm.

“You guys can all play your instruments and that, but… do you want to die?”

Do you want to die? What a motivating question.

Looking around with wild panic, our singer played us the chord changes to a Bob Marley song and we all started playing along. This seemed to placate the crowd somewhat. We dropped the fey indie pop shtick and played some classics. We desperately thrashed our way through more Marley songs and then some Curtis Mayfield pieces. It was during such a song that we looked up to see one gang member break a bottle on a table and stab the man next to him in the stomach. Then a fight broke out. Seconds afterwards a full bar brawl ensued. Everyone was throwing punches, furniture and each other. We stopped playing and watched the battle in a frozen-disbelieving stupor. The fight continued and slowly moved out into the car park. We took our chance and quickly packed down our equipment to the van in the opposite direction. Outside we turned to see a police car as it slowed down to look at the fight raging in the car park. Help, it seemed, had arrived. The car slowed to crawl as the window was wound down. An officer looked out, looked around and then drove away into the night leaving us standing on the footpath. Our silence, in shock, only interrupted by the orchestra of yells and percussive combat sounds still echoing around the car park.

Panicking we threw our equipment into the van, drove to the hostel, grabbed our stuff and sped out of The North and back to the more indie pop-friendly climes of Auckland. Arriving as the sun rose, we crawled into the windowless warehouse we were living in and slept. And we slept like survivors freshly escaped, unscathed, from a rancorous mob of indie pop averse patched gang members.

Now, every day I come to work thankful. Every day I go through these things in my head as I walk to my workstation. One of these is that I feel safe in my workplace. It’s an amazing feeling. I enjoyed being in a band. The above story is only one of many where our safety, and often our lives, was at risk ‘on the job’. There is no touring band version of the NZ Techos’ Guild. No body or organisation formed with the aims of looking after people and keeping them safe as they work. No Blue Book equivalent. No NZ Techos’ Guild magazine. No group of passionate, hard-working people who care about every member on the set of any production, anywhere in the country. There are constant challenges in any field. Film and TV present new challenges, on new fronts, every day. Knowing that you are not alone and that the Techos’ Guild has got your back on any set, on any production, is something we could all easily take for granted. We could continue on and let it be a given that this organisation is there to help us out and advise us whenever we need it. Or, we could keep in our minds why the Guild was set up in the first place, think about the constantly changing and challenging face of film and TV production and how we can work together to expand and better the Guild in the 21st century. To all help each other to keep each other safe.

Hopefully, none of you ever have to encounter a group of angry beer bottle wielding gang members on your next shoot. If you should ever be in this situation, please remember this NZ Techos endorsed advice: Whatever happens, do not under any circumstances play them any 90s-era dreamy indie pop music