Ian Fisher’s account of life as a rock star
On Aug. 26, 1984, Ian Fisher wrote for The Seattle Times about his life as a local rock star. Mr. Fisher liked to write in stream-of-consciousness. He chose to write in the third person:
The phone rings and rings and rings. It’s Saturday afternoon and Ian is still fast asleep after last night’s gig. Totally incoherent and unsure of where he’s at, he answers the phone, “Hello, who? Yeah sure.” Another pest for the guest list. He slams down the phone and goes back to sleep.
Fifteen minutes later the phone rings again. It’s Ian’s manager screaming, “Hey, Ian, ya gotta get up, the boys are here and yer late for the band meeting!”
Ian crawls out of bed still dressed from the night before. Blurry-eyed, he finds his shoes, puts on his coat and shades and walks four blocks in the pouring rain to the manager’s house. Arriving soaking wet and half asleep, he starts his workday.
The meeting takes an hour, and there is a lot of howling and laughing and sordid stories about band members’ latest sexual escapades. Nothing gets settled except that they’ll have another meeting on Monday.
Then it’s off to The Doghouse for breakfast. It’s 3 in the afternoon. The manager and Ian eat the rib-eye steak and eggs (”tenderness not guaranteed”) and watch the ball game in the bar in complete darkness with the regulars. With breakfast over, an argument erupts over who’s going to pay the check.
It seems that they’re both low on cash and can’t pay the bill when suddenly in walks a couple of girls the manager knows. He makes some of flattering remark about their shoes and borrows some money and promises they’ll get on the lifetime guest list.
Then it’s back home for Ian to start the daily ritual of washing his stage gear. This usually takes two hours. This is a good time to drink coffee, do s stretching exercises and vocal warm-ups or play backgammon with his manager.
With this done, it’s time to shower and shave and dress for the show. By 9:15 it’s a mad rush for the Metro bus. Making it by seconds, Ian boards and is whisked away ready for a night of rock ‘n’ roll.
Tonight’s gig is at a club owned and operated by an extremely emotional man who can go from happy and outgoing to violently abusive. At the door Ian is accosted by more guest-list enthusiasts. He sidesteps them like Curt Warner dodging the Oakland Raiders. He finds refuge in the kitchen with the dishwasher and the waitresses.
The opening band out front is getting a mauling. Just inside the bar, Ian sees the usual assortment of loose dudes and fast chicks, businessmen, tourists, want-to-be rock stars and nondescript local vermin. No wonder Ian is so defensive: Playing to these crazies 45 to 50 weeks a year can turn anyone into a basket case.
It’s time to hit the stage. The band wades through the house primed to play. The first song is pounded out and the dance floor fills, “Wow, look at these yahoos go!” Then, halfway through the song the sound system breaks down, people start booing and screaming all sorts of things: “ROCK ‘N’ ROLL ROCK ‘N’ ROLL”
The band members are pacing back and forth, nervous, embarrassed. Ian retorts, “We can’t rock ‘n’ roll the p.a. is busted.” But those crazies keep screaming like it’s gonna do some good. Ian starts telling jokes, monologues, sports quiz, anything, but just keep these crazies amused until the p.a. is fixed.
With no music and dancing going on, the club owner comes running out of the bar screaming obscenities at everyone in his way like some looney. The hecklers are getting louder, Ian keeps rappin’, the roadies are flying around checking wires and circuit breakers, the band’s manager is slugging down scotch and sodas, saying, “It’s cool, man, it’s cool.” It’s complete chaos.
Then wham the p.a. squeals and the Cowboys pump out some kinda hell. The mass chaos turns to sweating and dancing. The night has been saved by a 10-inch piece of duct tape and some loose wires.
Now, at the end of a grueling gig there are two things musicians can do: go home and crash from exhaustion or go to a party in what is known as after hours.
Usually it’s after hours at a friend’s house. After hours is a gathering of those people still looking for sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll and a chance to be part of the in crowd. Ian chooses to attend after hours. He’s lost about 5 pounds of water weight, his muscles are sore, voice hoarse and he’s still a bit amped by adrenaline. He knows he needs a few drinks and a bit of herb to relax. Can’t sleep. Now it’s time to PAR-TAY!
The band gets together in some back bedroom and the manager pays the band, but the band just wants to party. It turns into an impromptu meeting, everybody starts yelling and people come into see what all the ruckus is about.
They see all this money on the bed, the band’s payment for the week, and hear band members yell, “You jerk, you’re stoned, I don’t wanna hear anymore, just gimme my share!” It sounds like a drug deal going down.
Outside the bedroom the party is in full tilt. The stereo’s blasting, people feeling good, the night owls are hooting ‘n’ tootin’. Somewhere in that house of fun you’ll find Ian stoned, exhausted and completely satisfied. Yes, this is the capper to a long week. Drinking with his buddies, getting his ego stroked and poked.
Here’s how it sounds: “You guys are the best group in town.” “Yeah, yeah, you should be on MTV or something.” Or it sounds like this: “You guys think yer so hot, I think ya sold out.” “Sold out for what, to who?” “To the club scene.” “Oh, I see, right.”
It gets a little hot in the kitchen so Ian wanders around the house, drink in hand, looking a bit damaged. It’s time for some softer words and I don’t mean a good book to cuddle up with, either.
At after hours there’s always enough . . . action for an up-and-coming rock star. You know, lead singer cruises cool chick, chick flirting with what she thinks is the next Mick Jagger. Completely hilarious and at the same time desperate.
It goes like this: “How’d ya like to split and go to my place?” “But I came with a friend. How will I get home?” “No sweat. My manager’s driving, get yer friend and we’ll have a private PAR-TAY.”
So the manager, Ian and the bola-bola sisters exit said party, completely stoned, trying to be discreet, but everybody’s watching. Girls are talking in hushed voices, scowling as they get out the door. Like it’s a crime to want to spend the night with someone.
They pile into the car and drive to the manager’s house, stopping for smokes and munchies. The car conversation is easy and silly, the feeling is of anticipation. They arrive at the manager’s house just before sun-up, the birds are chirping, it’s time to crash.
The two couples share a bottle of Dickel whiskey to take the edge off the night’s frolicking. They wander off to the bedroom as the night is spent and the sun is encroaching on the living room.
The day begins for Ian with a jolt. He wakes to a throbbing head and a complete stranger lying next to him in bed, snoring loudly with smudged make-up, bird’s-nest hair, totally zonked and talking in her sleep.
He lies there wondering who this woman could be, trying to recall her name. Oh, well, maybe she didn’t give it.
All he knows is he had a good time and nobody got hurt, and isn’t that the essence of rock ‘n’ roll?