I arrive at Dos Equis Pavilion way too early. The show doesn’t start until 6:30, and I’m at the venue by 4 p.m. I pull into the “VIP and SPECIAL ACCESS PASS” only parking lot, greeted by confused security. I hear one of them remark to a coworker, “Who is that young man?” I say, “I’m here to photograph for Angel White.” Security looks amused, as if I’m lying. “Come with me,” says an older man with ‘70s glasses. I pull my car into the lot and wait a moment before getting out. I grab my camera bag and step out. The man has a clipboard filled with names of those allowed backstage.
“What did you say your name was again?” he asks, bemused.
“Jacob Peroyea, sir,” I say confidently. He looks through his list. All the papers are out of order, some upside down and backward. He touches his glasses. “I’m sorry, my papers are out of order; give me a moment.” After a couple of minutes, he finally gets things straight. “Your name’s not on the list,” he tells me.
I’m a bit confused. “Angel told me he added me to the list! Are you sure?” He double-checks and gives me a look, then tells me to follow him. We walk through the massive parking lot to the backstage entrance, where we meet with the production manager. I’m told to go to the east box office to pick up my pass. I walk about 5 minutes to the box office, where they tell me to go to the west box office and ask for a guy named Roman. So, reluctantly, I walk 15 minutes to the west box office.
I talk with the officials there. “You’re looking for Roman?” I nod yes. “He’s not here yet, so just wait a bit.” Five minutes pass. No luck. Fifteen minutes pass. No luck. I start to get antsy. “Where’s Roman?” I ask. I get a shrug and no answer. I decide to pack up my things and walk back to the backstage entrance. I talk with a security guard.
“I’ve been told to go all over the place, and I still haven’t gotten my pass.”
The security guard looks annoyed and calls over another guard. “This young man says he’s looking for a photo pass but hasn’t received it yet.” He gives me an eye roll and a smirk. Thankfully, the other guard was kind enough to call production. Production makes a call, and a tall man with glasses comes out.
“You’re here to shoot for Angel White, right?”
I smile, “Yes, sir!” I wait a couple more minutes, and finally, Angel White comes out. He’s all smiles and gives me a fist bump. “Glad you could make it!” He hands me my photo pass, a light green square that reads, “HELL YEAH! I GET TO TAKE PICTURES OF WHISKEY F*CKING MYERS!” with the date: 11/2. Angel takes me and his friend Marco backstage. When we reach the dressing room, security stops me again.
“What pass do you have?” I show him my photo pass.
“That’s not allowed back here. Who’s your point of contact?”
I tell him Angel White and his manager. He makes a call, and Angel’s manager comes out with a working pass, giving me backstage and on-stage access. “Thank you!” I say. Angel invites me into his dressing room. Outside, there’s a simple whiteboard that says, “ANGEL WHITE’S DRESSING ROOM” with the day’s schedule posted next to it.
I walk into the dressing room. Empty beer cans and cigarettes cover the tables. Pictures of popular spots in Dallas hang on the walls. There’s a collection of guitars and other objects, and the TV blares clips from Bonnaroo. The room smells of smoke and cologne. There’s a big entourage of people—family, friends, and the band members themselves. I sit down and chat with everyone.
Later, I meet up with Angel in the truck lot backstage. “Let’s go take some portraits! I have something cool to show you,” he says mysteriously. I follow him and Marco to the other touring trucks in the parking lot. There it is: Willie Nelson’s original tour bus in all its glory. I’m starstruck.
“This is INSANE. How’d you even get it?” I ask. Angel points to a guy in denim, boots, a blue button-down shirt, and a mustache.
“My friend Evan Boyer,” he says.
After the introductions, I take out my Polaroid and start snapping photos outside the bus. Angel is approached by a fan, and they have a short but sweet conversation. I take a couple more Polaroids and digital shots of Angel. Then, he invites us onto the bus. The second I step in, I’m hit with the smell of 60 years of weed. I start coughing, then laughing. “This is crazy,” I say.
We walk through the bus, and I start thinking about all the memories that must have been made here. It’s an incredible feeling. We finally reach the back, where a pink neon sign reads, “Party.” Angel sits down and pulls out a small bag of weed—a fitting tribute to Willie’s bus. I take a couple of portraits while he rolls up. Then his videographer, Chloe, joins us and starts recording as Angel’s manager bursts in. “You’re on in 10 minutes,” he says, out of breath.
We pack up and head back to the dressing rooms. Angel quickly changes, and I take a big group band photo. The team says a quick prayer together, breathing in and out in unison, getting ready for the show. Then, we get word from production that it’s time.
I make my way to the photo pit. Angel’s electrifying voice fills the 20,000-seat amphitheater. He plays his best songs and has a jam session with the band. The crowd is into it, soaking up the gritty guitar and bass tones. His set ends, and the audience erupts in applause. Back in the dressing room, Angel is welcomed by cheers from everyone.
“Congrats, big dawg!” someone shouts.
Afterward, everyone leaves the dressing room to get food, courtesy of the Whiskey Myers touring staff. I wander the venue for the next two hours, waiting for Whiskey Myers’ set. At 8:25, I make my way down to the front of the house, ready for Whiskey’s performance.
Now, I’d heard rumors that photographers weren’t allowed during Whiskey’s set. I noticed that it was just me, Chloe, and Roman as the only photographers/videographers at the venue, which is a bit unusual for a show this big. Typically, there are five to eight press members. I decide to ask security anyway.
“Am I allowed in the photo pit during Whiskey’s set?” To my surprise, they say, “You’re allowed for three songs.”
I’m surprised but decide to go for it and walk into the pit. I talk with the front-of-house live video team, making a plan to avoid getting in their way. The lights dim, and a montage of Whiskey’s tour starts playing on three huge screens. A chord strikes, and I turn to see 20,000 fans screaming, eagerly waiting for Whiskey Myers. Finally, Cody Cannon steps on stage, and the band delivers an electrifying performance. The light show is wild—a mix of psychedelic, country, and rock. There’s jumping, yelling—the whole works.
I shoot my three songs, in awe of the performance. As I’m leaving, I run into Angel and thank him for having me. As I walk to my car, I’m reminded of how lucky I am to do what I do. The kindness of others is something that should never be taken for granted.
