Letterman's got no act

The Pasadena Ice House, circa 1975, still remains the toughest performing venue I ever worked. Before you'd go on, you'd stand in a pitch black corridor leading to the stage and wait for your name to be called. Then they'd turn down the house lights, you'd climb on stage, adjust your guitar and mikes (no direct box for the acoustic guitar, it was all live miked) while everything was still pitch black. Once you got the, "Are you ready?" from the sound and light man, he'd announce your name.

"AND NOW, THE PASADENA ICE HOUSE IS PROUD TO PRESENT... MIKE JASPER!" After your name was announced, the stage lights came up -- high wattage klieg lights really -- and you were zapped like the proverbial deer in the headlights.

The first time I went on stage for the Sunday open mike, I froze for 30 seconds. You couldn't see the faces of the audience, but if you were lucky you might hear them applaud. Or sneeze. You'd do your 15-minute, three-song Sunday night audition then skulk away like a sissy into the pitch-black corridor again. Tough room.

But I got used to it, so much so that one night the owner, Bob Stane, told me I'd be opening for renowned comedian Pat Paulsen. That was definitely a turning point for me, getting to do a thirty-minute opening act for someone famous. Real people would actually see me, as opposed to the other people who saw me on Sundays -- thirty or so competitive musicians who were all rooting for me to slip, fall and break my legs on stage.

Or so they told me. "Break a leg, Jasper." Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hell, I was only twenty-two. What did I know from leg breaking?

But I digress. I finished my thirty-minute opener to wild applause. Everything was working. They got the tunes, they got the jokes between the tunes, the voice sizzled and I didn't miss one chord on guitar. Great gig! With the applause still resounding throughout the room, I made my way down the corridor when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Paulsen.

"Thanks for getting rid of the audience for me," he said.

This was great praise. Believe it. If a performer thinks you suck, he just walks past you and looks the other way. Or he says, "Wow, it really looked like you were having fun up there," or some other non-committal remark. But sarcasm from Paulsen? That was the highest accolade you could get.

Of course, right after my show I had to hustle back to the sound and light booth to resume my job. That's right. I eventually became the sound and light man at the Ice House, where I was destroying young dreams of stardom with the flip of a light switch.

When I got to the booth, owner Bob Stane was there, covering for me while I was on stage.

"So, what did you think?" I asked. Bad question. Loser question. If you kick-ass on stage, people will let you know. But never, ever ask.

"Good job," he said. "Is that a new shirt, the one with the epaulets?"

Uh-oh, I thought. That's what I get for asking.

I met Bob Stane (and I always have to write out his full name, although I'm not sure why) through my then-girlfriend, Claire Ryan. Claire was an L.A. comedian and pretty much a regular at the Ice House. She always encouraged me to do the Sunday open mike auditions. But I always resisted.

"I always bomb there," I said. "Besides, he always wants people to talk between songs. I hate that. I just want to sing."

"It's the lights, isn't it."

"Yeah, and that's another thing, I hate those damn bright lights."

"You'll get used to it. Trust me."

I always trusted her. After all, she performed a lot, while I was in solo-artist purgatory ever since my punk-rock/lounge band (depending on the gig) The L.A. Flyers broke up. But what the hell, I'll do the Sunday night audition again if that's what she wants. Besides, she could get me pre-signed (i.e. I wouldn't have to stand in line with the rest of the cattle.)

This time I planned it. If Bob Stane wants a show, hell, I'll give him a show. I worked up a whole routine. First, I decided to bring a tape recorder on stage and sing my songs to a full production backup. Then I worked up some jokes. Not great jokes (I was a dead serious stoned rocker in those days), but jokes nevertheless. Then, just to show everyone I was serious, I rented a tux.

So I'm onstage, looking more like a magician than a musician, singing with a reel-to-reel as backup. Still, it was rock and roll, none of that weak acoustic stuff. And the crowd? They looked genuinely baffled, as if I would suddenly say, "For my next trick, I shall bite the head off a chicken!"

Still, the jokes worked, except for the one I rehearsed with my girlfriend. For some reason, she dunked me. The plan was this: I'd say, "I like to talk to members of the audience, but usually when I stick a mike in someone's face, they recoil as if it were a snake." Then I would point the mike to Claire, conveniently nestled in the first row, and say, "How are you doing tonight?"

Her line was simple. She was supposed to scream, "Snake!" She agreed to do it, and I figured since she was a comedian and all, she'd do it well. No such luck. Instead, she started giggling and said, "Yeah, yeah, snake." Isn't that wonderful? She tanked me. If she didn't like the joke she could have just told me so or backed out. But nooooooo. She made me look like a schmuck instead. Well, more of a schmuck then I already was. (Did I mention the tux?)

Of course, I think she agreed to go along with my snake joke before she found out I was going to wear a tux.

After the show, I slithered back to the light box to see if I could find Bob Stane. For some reason, he was working the sound and lights that night. I asked him the loser question.

"So... what did you think?"

He looked at me with his patented, dead-panned poker face and said, "Ten minutes into your act, I thought, 'I'm definitely going to book this guy.'"

My eyes lit up. But he continued.

"Then twenty minutes into your act I thought, 'No way am I going to book this guy.' It's a 15-minute audition. You went 22 minutes. That's unprofessional and inconsiderate of the other acts. You show up on time, do the best performance you can, and then you leave the stage."

As he mumbled some more show biz hyperbole -- leave them wanting more, or some such thing -- all I could think of was, "Damn... I spent fifty bucks on this tuxedo!" I nodded my head and apologized and assured him I would do better next time. Of course, I was thinking... ah, forget it. You don't want to know what I was thinking.

I left the light booth, dejected, and then spotted a friend of mine at the bar, Jerry Machen. Machen worked in Los Angeles as a model and sometimes as an actor. We had gone to high school together in Santa Rosa, California, and three of us Santa Rosa High graduates -- me, Machen and Barry Brown -- moved to L.A. to become stars. Not together, though. We all did this on our own. Brown enrolled at the University of Southern California and majored in communications. He went on to do radio and TV journalism. I hear he's still doing well in the Sacramento market, where he bills himself as "Downtown Barry Brown." I guess it was inevitable.

But Machen made it the easy way -- a gay photographer saw him working at a Santa Rosa supermarket and offered him a job. Pretty soon, Machen started doing advertising spreads for Macy's in the San Francisco Chronicle. After a year or two of working the Northern California market, he moved to L.A., even though he could make more money modeling in New York. But he chose Hollywood because he wanted to eventually become an actor. That was the thing about Machen: Despite looking like a cross between Cary Grant and Antonio Banderas, he was funny and personable beyond belief. Which, of course, made him all the more insufferable to real men. I secretly hoped he was gay. (No such luck. He married John Wayne's daughter. Then again, compared to The Duke...)

Fortunately, I surpassed both Machen and Brown in my pursuit of stardom. How? I won The Gong Show. But that was in 1976, and it was 1975 at the time of my Ice House debacle, so Machen still had hand.

"When are you going on?" Machen asked.

"Oh, you just missed me. Too bad, cause I killed." He wasn't there, so I could say whatever I wanted.

"We missed you? Sorry, I got stuck in traffic." He nodded toward the woman he was with, who was almost as tall as the six-foot Machen. "This is Plethora," he said. (Yeah, I'm making it up. I forget her real name, but there was a lot of her.) "And this is Mike Eagan."

That's what I always hated about running into friends from high school. They always used my former name. I was born Michael Thomas Eagan, but an L.A. agent told me I should change my last name for show biz purposes, so I came up with Jasper and it stuck. I got the name from another high school friend, Bill Driver, who changed his name to Bill Jasper. Everyone in high school accepted it, which surprised me, since Bill Driver is one hell of a name for a jock womanizer. But me? They still called me Eagan. Maybe it's because Jasper was already taken.

"Ahhh... it's Mike Jasper, but nice meeting you Plethora," I said to the Amazon.

About this time Claire came up to us and I introduced everyone. Then Claire said, "You need to talk to Bob. It's something about a job." I normally hate it when Claire rhymes, but I was grateful for the out.

"See, I told you I kicked ass. I'll talk to you soon Jerry. Plethora? Nice meeting you."

"I'll call you," Machen said. (He never did.)

Claire ushered me to Bob Stane's office door and split. I overheard him talking on the phone, likely to an agent. "Letterman's got no act. I love him, but he only does two jokes then he interviews the audience. He wings it completely." Bob Stane saw me and waved me into the office. "Look, I've got to go now, but I'll call you tomorrow." (Bob Stane probably did.)

"Have a seat, I want to talk to you," he said, and smiled at me. Oh no, he's not gay is he?

"I'm sorry I went on so long tonight," I said.

"That's not what I want to talk about. I want to talk to you about a job I think you might like. I'm impressed with your grasp of technology, you know, such as the tape recorder you used in your act. We need a new sound and light man. Our regular guy is quitting. Would you be interested in the job? It only pays five dollars an hour, but it would be a chance to get involved in the club on a day-to-day basis."

I was in a trance. First, Bob Stane was offering me a job. Second, he was talking to me. Longer than 30 seconds.

"I'd love the job," I said.

"Can you start training Wednesday? Our regular guy only has a week to go, but he can train you from Wednesday to Saturday. Can you be here at six?"

"Absolutely. I'll be there."

We shook hands and I left. Maybe the tuxedo rental paid off after all. For soon I would be hobnobbing with the likes of John Denver, Lily Tomlin, J.J. Walker, Gallagher, Dave Guard and the Kingston Trio, and Pat Paulsen. I was only 22 years old, but I finally had an in to the show biz world. This was a dream come true.

Of course, me being me and all, I was likely to shoot myself in the foot.

(To be continued...)

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 2000 by Mike Jasper.