Jordan Para sees all sides of humanity in a single night at his job of venue security for the Broadberry, a live music venue in Richmond, Virginia.

Born and raised in the Detroit area, Jordan found a passion for music in middle school.

“The moment that I realized that I was really into punk rock and hardcore was in, I want to say, sixth grade, and my dad showed me the music video for ‘American Psycho’ by the Misfits. And literally ever since then, like complete downhill,” Jordan says. 

But Jordan’s foray into live music and performance as a career took more time to develop than his love for punk rock and hardcore. In 2011, his family moved to the super suburbs in Williamsburg, Virginia, which is not exactly a magnet for the kind of music Jordan was into, like the Detroit area is. It wasn’t until he began to work the tech booth in high school theater productions that Jordan’s artistic interests began to click. Upon meeting some like-minded peers in the theater department, he connected with them over music, a bit, but mostly a shared passion for the DIY aspect of theater tech, which dovetails with a lot of the values that punk rock and hardcore embody. 

“I think there's probably like a big DIY aspect to it, like you kind of figure shit out for yourself, and you're kind of an outcast,” Jordan says. “At least in my high school, there weren't a lot of other punk kids. There were emo kids, and not to be like, ‘there's a difference!’... but… there's kind of a fucking difference.”

Almost ten years after graduating high school, Jordan is now working in the kind of space he had envisioned for himself back then. But only a few years prior, while living an ideal post-graduation life in the mountain town of Waynesboro, Virginia, things were very different.

“I was working for the local community theater up there, and I was also working for the UVA theater department. That was all I wanted to do,” Jordan says. “Unfortunately, Covid came in and completely killed that. Even when things were starting to kind of open back up, both departments were like, ‘Hey, we're really trying to play it safe. We only are bringing in production people who are trained and ready to go. We can't take anybody else on to be an apprentice right now,’ which was heartbreaking, but I also totally understood.”

A bit lost due to his suddenly narrowing prospects for work, Jordan did what so many creatives who grow up in the suburbs of Virginia do when shit hits the fan: Instead of moving back home, he split the difference and moved to Richmond. Jordan had already spent quite a bit of time at punk and hardcore shows in the city even before moving to Waynesboro. Richmond is only about 45 minutes west of where he grew up in Williamsburg and is arguably the strongest magnet for such music in the region if not the whole commonwealth. 

“When I moved to Richmond, I knew that there was obviously a huge music scene that I've been involved with since I moved down to Virginia. And I knew there was also a pretty big theater community,” Jordan says. 

That prior experience gave him a slight edge to help deepen his connections with live theater production in Richmond. But if he wanted to be meaningfully involved, he would have to engage with the scene and its stakeholders beyond simply attending shows. So he began by cold emailing “literally any theater, any venue, not even asking for a job.” Instead, Jordan requested informational interviews with industry professionals in Richmond who were doing what genuinely seemed interesting to him, simply by emailing venues and asking “‘how did your production people get into that field?’” Jordan says. 

Of the many emails Jordan sent, only one got a response. But a single informational interview with production artists from a local art gallery was enough to sustain Jordan’s fierce desire to work in live performance production. All the while, Jordan kept building other genuine connections by continuing to go to live shows in Richmond and engaged with the local arts scene in a multitude of other ways. A few genuine connections later, one off-hand joke with a newer friend is what ultimately led to the next step for Jordan.

“I actually had sent an application to the Broadberry about six or so months prior to working there. That was toward the beginning of the year when I first applied. But I got in because I have a friend who works there,” Jordan says. “Troy had been working at Broadberry for I think a little over a year at that point. And I was talking to him one day, I was like, ‘Hey, you know, I put in an application,’ and I made a joke to the effect of, ‘Maybe we'll be coworkers one day,’ and he messaged me back saying ‘Hey, check your email. I told them about you, and they want to talk to you.’”

Jordan was quickly offered a job at the Broadberry after an interview. He had been attending shows at the Broadberry for almost two decades, so working for the venue that is arguably the focal point for mainstream punk rock and hardcore live music in Richmond was a dream come true. But the specific job that Jordan had applied for –– venue security –– was unlike any other live performance gig he had worked before. Despite this, the environment of a live show has remained a sacred space for Jordan, who so clearly continues to execute his work with endless care, enthusiasm, and confidence.

“I understood that if you're doing production for a theater company, the chaotic energy that's behind the scenes of a play or a musical is still kind of the same energy as when you go in and people are setting up and sound checking and everything. So I was familiar with that kind of environment,” Jordan says. “But instead of having to mic up a bunch of people or do a sound check, it's more hospitality.”

Holistically, the job of a venue security person extends far beyond hospitality though. In fact, it reaches many places that some readers might not expect. 

“I used to be an all night janitor at a Planet Fitness. I don't think there is a single person on earth who is above cleaning a toilet,” Jordan says.

Indeed, it can be a dirty and labor intensive job, far beyond the obvious responsibilities of breaking up fights, policing drunk people, and checking ID’s at the door. Depending on the shift he works during a show, Jordan’s job typically entails a mix of hospitality work, crowd control, arbitration, and so many other duties. 

“I usually get there about a half hour before. We set up the patio. We do the trash cans, make sure the bathrooms are set up, make sure the bars are all stocked and everything,” Jordan says. “During the show, I'm doing one of two things. If I'm inside, it's basic security stuff. I’m making sure there's no underage drinking… People aren't breaking out into fights… People aren't climbing onto the stage and ruining everything. But if I'm outside of the venue, I'm checking IDs, putting the wristbands on people; making sure that people who are showing up and who are underage have the right markings so other security guards inside know what to look out for; And also handling people who show up already inebriated, and telling them, ‘I don't think you should come in tonight.’”

When it comes time to close, depending on the shift, Jordan might get to leave at the end of the show, or help close down. Either way, a single night can take a lot out of any person, let alone back-to-back-to-back nights in many instances. Yet all these duties remain among the most crucial elements of ensuring a successful, enjoyable, and safe live show. And Jordan relishes the challenges alongside the fulfillment he gets from ensuring people have a good time in a space he cares about personally. 

“You do have to kind of be an asshole in this position. But no one coming through that door is worth losing this job over. I'm not making excuses or treating anyone special,” Jordan says.

One might expect that moral quandaries abound with the line of work that Jordan is in. But at least in his experience, it’s not as bad as expected. In fact, Jordan’s work allows him to see the good in countless people every night. Nevertheless, the very reason venue security is needed rears its ugly head from time to time.

“The biggest one is that there's a back patio at the Broadberry, and especially at Grateful Dead cover bands, people are smoking weed,” Jordan says. “Nine times out of ten people are like, ‘yep, heard, we got you.’ And every time I go out afterwards, I don't see anything. Everyone's smoking cigarettes or whatever. There's only been one instance where me and a coworker were checking and a guy was doing the whole ‘well, it's legal,’ thing. And we were like, ‘we understand that. It is the rules. We own this building. You agreed to these terms when you bought a ticket.’”

Performance art, and thusly any form of art that is capable of and demands to be observed and scrutinized by a general public, is inherently a form of space-making. One of the crucial elements to space-making is ensuring it is a safe and comfortable space, otherwise the whole purpose of the art is for naught. But ensuring the safety of people in an ethical and well intentioned way is a tricky balancing act. It requires constant healthy suspicion, but it also requires constant empathy. 

“No one who I work with wants to be the venue who has the asshole security guards. But also, if you give us attitude and are shit-talking us, we are not just gonna put on a customer service face and be like, ‘Oh, sure, whatever you want,’” Jordan says.

And what is even more curious, within each attempt at balancing suspicion with empathy, Jordan admits that sometimes he can only do but so much if the show attendees fail to uphold their end of the social contract. He recalls a time when a highly unruly show attendee became offended upon having her ID checked at the door.

“She got very mad at me and was threatening to leave a review about me. She was cussing me out and she said that I was treating her like a prisoner and all this stuff,” Jordan says. “And the irony of this was her main job: She was a bar owner.”

The woman later ended up coming back out to apologize to Jordan, revealing to him that on the night prior, the woman’s mother was slowly dying.

“I felt bad genuinely. Like if I was going through that, my emotions would probably be a little short too,” Jordan says. “But also, if you're in that state and you can't keep yourself in check, I don't know, maybe don't go to a rock and roll show. Maybe go somewhere kind of quiet.”

This is where rubber meets road for Jordan’s line of work. Jordan makes a good point, furthermore highlighting the awkward spot that venue security personnel are often forced into. It is a job that requires constantly listening to one’s gut and following instincts, both of which require trust in oneself.

“Even if I'm just sitting and overlooking the crowd, I'm not just sitting there on my phone the whole time,” Jordan says. “You have to be always attentive to everything that's going on. And that's a little bit more overwhelming, because what if I miss something, and someone gets hurt?”

If someone wants to do something stupid and dangerous, they’re going to do it, and all Jordan can ultimately do is be ready to respond. Compare this to the commonly accepted “four pillars” of emergency management: Mitigation, Preparedness, Response, and Recovery. None of these core concepts posit that hurricanes, tornados, earthquakes and floods can be prevented –– just like drunk people at a live show, they are all naturally occurring. The four pillars simply posit that any emergency should be approached with the goals of mitigating as much fallout as possible, being prepared for as many possible scenarios as one is able, responding quickly and effectively, and properly recovering from the incident. 

The reality, however, is that the main function of Jordan’s job is damage control, and to do that successfully, it also requires placing trust in the very people Jordan is keeping safe. And that dichotomy is ultimately the source of Jordan’s motivation to gleefully work such a difficult and sometimes dangerous job. Jordan and his coworkers understand perfectly well how important it is to have someone to absorb any fallout. He recalls a time when he did see a show-goer become violent with his coworkers.

“None of us are ever alone, especially in a situation like that, because we all have eyes on each other,” Jordan says. “So as soon as this guy shoved my coworker, four dudes just come out of nowhere and are surrounding this guy and are like, ‘Hey, you're done, get out.’ And at that point, it just becomes a point of getting that person out… don't let them do anything else. If anything, we should be the ones to take a hit than some person just trying to enjoy their night.” 

Bad apples be damned. Jordan’s job and the lessons he’s learned from it shows that one jerk shouldn’t be able to ruin things for the rest of us. But in order for that to happen, someone with Jordan’s job has to be there, underscoring the tricky dichotomy between true freedom and community safety. Some of us accept that venue security is a needed thing. Others might struggle to agree and will thusly resist its power over them. But even fewer of us stop to consider the dilemmas a bouncer faces with each and every interaction they have. It’s an implicitly thankless job in many ways.

“I do feel like a lot of the time, the people not saying that aren’t dicks or anything. They probably just don't think about it, which I think is kind of the point of the job. My job is I hide in the shadows, and when something happens, I come out, take care of it, and disappear again,” Jordan says.

What Jordan does is labor, and it’s a damn important form of labor in the arts too, especially at this time in the U.S. when seemingly any public gathering can quickly turn into an annual day of remembrance for gun violence victims. Just like sketching, sculplting, singing, songwriting, filmmaking, or poetry are not for everyone, so too is the job of  venue security. But someone’s got to do it. And for Jordan, it helps that he does so in an environment that he is familiar with and highly fond of –– a live performance space with a strong punk and hardcore contingency.

“Get involved in your local scene, whatever music genre it is,” Jordan advises. “Make genuine connections with people who you have similar interests with. Clean up after yourself before you leave. And don't treat people like a stepping stone the minute you get what you want.”

To be sure, not every security guard is as cordial, mature, and thoughtful as Jordan. Some certainly let their assumed power go to their heads. But regardless, they are fellow workers, and ought to be treated as such. So, the next time you, dear reader, attend a live show, try to treat your bouncer as you would a coworker. They’re doing an important job, even if your own personal values might not see it that way.

“If you're going to a venue and you're on your way out and you see a security guard or another person picking up the trash, don't get in their way, but just throw out a small ‘Hey, man, thanks, this was a great day. Thanks for all the hard work.’ It does go a long way. Even if some people might be in the moment and are probably stressed and maybe a little grumpy, for me, at least, I'll still remember that, and I'll still think it was really cool that someone recognized me and took the time to just say ‘Yo, I see what you do. Thanks,’” Jordan says.