Issue link: https://digital.copcomm.com/i/1546135
C I N E M A A U D I O S O C I E T Y. O R G 73 My initial meeting with Kirk came about when I received a phone call asking if I was available to work as the utility sound technician on a movie that would be filming in New Orleans by the name of 12 Years a Slave. I was recommended by a gaffer, Andy Ryan, who thought I would be a good fit for Kirk's team. I was very interested in this project, but I was unsure about working with Kirk Francis. He was described as a very interesting man who does not suffer fools and could be quite cranky. There was one story I heard where the location department had placed traffic cones and caution tape around Kirk's sound cart with a sign that read, "Beware of the Cranky Sound Mixer!"—written in 14 different languages. I was very intimidated, but rather than just saying no thank you, I tried to price myself out of this opportunity. After speaking with the line producer, I wrote to Kirk explaining that unfortunately I would not be able to do the project for the rate that was being offered. However, something about my email had the opposite effect of what was intended. Kirk pulled some strings and found a way to make my deal work. I was caught off guard and with no way to gracefully back out. This made me quite anxious as I was now about to embark upon a very difficult and extremely intense project with a boss that I was unsure about. The time came for our first meeting where I would help Kirk receive several shipping pallets sent from the Pacific Northwest to a warehouse in New Orleans, LA. I began walking around the nearly empty warehouse looking for my new boss. Cautiously turning each corner, I eventually spotted the only person around. In the distance stood an older man with wiry gray shoulder-length hair. He was wearing a basic cotton T-shirt that was stained with the ink of a leaky pen that was still in its pocket. He was wearing what appeared to be khaki shorts that were frayed in various places. And most notably, he was wearing flip-flops. Then came the sound of a gravely voice yelling from a distance, "Aloha, kid!" As I got nearer, I was surprised by a very friendly smile. As I recount these events, this is the point when I begin to feel my eyes welling up with tears as I am reliving a moment when my life would take a major turn for the better. He greeted me and asked that I help him use a hand-pallet jack to maneuver these blocks of tightly packed equipment to a place where we could organize and build up his carts. He began directing me as to what to do next. I would use a box cutter to remove the cellophane and place his cases where he wanted them. Now, by this point in my career, I previously had the opportunity to help several other sound mixers who had come to the region with this portion of their prep. But this time, there was something that struck me as quite different. As I removed a case and would look for my directions as to where to place the item, I found myself encountering a variety of guitar cases. He would growl, "That one will go in the pile of things that go to my apartment." I began to find that the amount of guitar cases was growing quite large. "That one goes on the trailer." Then there was a two-burner propane camping stove (more on this later). "Apartment," he said. After we finished organizing things and building up the carts, I was taken aback by the minimal amount of audio equipment that was actually for the purpose of recording the sound for this film. I had worked with production mixers that were maximalists in their approach. Kirk was