STATE COLLEGE -- Some evening soon, violins and horns will sweeten the air within the State Theatre.
But a symphony on this day? Try a cacophony instead.
Inside the lobby, drills whined and hammers clanked. A Shop-Vac whooshed from somewhere unseen. Chatter among workers competed with the drawl of a country singer on the radio.
Mike Negra, State Theatre's executive director, probably registered little of it. In the hectic preparations before the State College theater's grand opening on Thursday, he either had a cell phone pressed to his ear or was engrossed in conversation, attending to enough last-minute headaches to drain a jumbo Advil bottle.
Once, though, Negra stopped to listen.
Music boomed from stage speakers, just a routine check, but the sound heralded a new era like a squad of trumpeters.
"That was as excited as I have been in this theater, to hear music being played in here and to get an idea of the audio," Negra said. "It was becoming a real theater.
"
After almost a decade of fundraising and building, it's almost there. Today and Monday, private concerts for staff and volunteers who led the transformation of a faded movie palace into a community arts center will take place -- dress rehearsals for singer Mike Reid's inaugural performance Thursday.
But the curtain can't open unless it's raised.
Nobody can sit back in unbolted seats. Plumbing, paint, outlets, carpets, door handles, soda coolers -- everything came together in a whirlwind as the clock ticked down to showtime.
"It's crazy," said Susan Shedd, theater operations manager.
"It's going well, but it's crazy."
To open your doors to the community, you first need to have doors. Mike Stout was ready at the lobby entrance to the theater, but he had to wait.
"They have to put on a coat of polyurethane before I can put them on," he said.
Stout and others at Poole Anderson Construction, the main builders, have been pressing the entire fall, ever since the grand opening was set. William Leiby, the site supervisor, paused for a second and surveyed the theater.
The walls were painted in "graham cracker" yellow, but teal seat cushions rested neatly but unattached against their frames. Handcarts and boxes cluttered aisles lined with cardboard.
Beneath the balcony, wires curled from fixtures along the wall.
"We're waiting on the arrival of speakers," Leiby said.
Meanwhile, Ed O'Brien, a Maryland-based theater technician, hunched over an open panel in the film projector, hooking up wires for the 4,000-watt lamp.
"These are state-of-the-art projectors," he said.
"They spared no expense."
Far below, the expert behind many of the theater's features sat at a folding table on the plywood-covered stage. Reviewing plans and other paperwork, Ken Graham, a theatrical consultant who has toured with the Rolling Stones, David Bowie and other rock legends, said it's always a rush before opening night.
"I've seen it worse," he said.
The lobby doors in place, Stout turned his attention to the brass handles.
"I'm working on it," he said.
So were stagehands aligning a towering red scaffold to begin a two-day job of erecting the teal curtain, the "main rag" in theater parlance. Also waiting in plastic bags on stage were the "scrim," the translucent screen before the movie screen, as well as secondary curtains for the wings.
With piercing screeches, two workers drilled metal beams, trying to align their holes.
Doug Maxfield had a quieter time among the seats placing caps on exposed bolts.
"So people sitting down don't get their clothes snagged," he said.
But after five caps a seat, plus the dozens of number tags he had placed on cushions, Maxfield looked as though he was ready for quitting time.
"I'm worn out," he said. "My knees are killing me."
The teal curtain hung majestically, each half's almost 300 pounds hoisted up with a fair amount of sweat.
"Once we got past that first curtain, everything was smooth sailing," said Mike Fischer, an installer from Pittsburgh.
Below stage, in a dressing room still adorned with dropcloths, Nick Doroschenk, a local cabinet installer, showed a visitor his handiwork, a row of small wooden storage cubicles and a wardrobe. It had been a busy day.
Earlier, he finished the cabinets and counter in a small catering kitchen, though gaping holes remained for appliances arriving the next day.
Doroschenk also had built the portable cashier's counter for the concession area, but as he left for home, it rested on its side in the lobby, redolent with fresh stain. Nearby, the missing wall speakers waited under an Art Deco chandelier still sheathed in clear plastic.
The curtains were up. The movie screen was down.
"Woodstock," minus the sound, had played earlier as a test.
Now, as technicians in the projection booth fine-tuned settings, a black-and-white test screen flickered, all checkered squares and cryptic numbers.
Paul Wagner wasn't paying attention. Hidden in the balcony, he soldered jacks into one of the 21 intercom outlets scattered throughout the theater for production staff to communicate through headphones.
"Tomorrow, we'll be testing them to make sure everything works properly," he said.
Back in the lobby, a delivery man wheeled in cases of soda, even though tools, paint cans, a filing cabinet and assorted debris filled the concession area and the coolers, unplugged, were warm.
"I didn't know they were coming today," Shedd said, directing the stacks next to the coolers.
"That's a surprise."
As the speaker emitted a steady thump, like a house-music beat, Steve Guttag held aloft a small box at the end of a pole.
"Right side balcony, all in phase," he muttered into a walkie-talkie to his partner upstairs.
Repeating the process, he moved throughout the theater, making sure the speakers were synchronized. Three days were left to wrap it all up, three days for all the drills, caulking guns, extension cords and Mountain Dew bottles to disappear.
Progress showed in the concession area, now clear save for empty black shelves and the coolers, humming but still empty.
The lobby also looked closer to completion, the wall speakers finally mounted, the cover off the chandelier.
Workers knelt and brushed the last coats of stain on the concession counters. Johnny Paycheck's "Take This Job and Shove It" came on the radio, and one painter looked up and briefly smiled.
Then he got back to work.
Chris Rosenblum can be reached at 231-4620.
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