John Denver can kick your ass

Two weeks ago after I posted the column "Letterman has no act," Bob Stane -- the former owner of the Pasadena Ice House (who now owns the Coffee Gallery Backstage in Altadena) -- wrote me an e-mail to clarify his relationship with David Letterman.

"The truth is, I booked him all the time. But Letterman was different. He refused to enter through the tunnel. Instead, he liked to walk down to the stage from the back of the audience and talk to people before he went on. It's true, he didn't have many jokes, but he always did a great job."

Hell, I knew that. I was just setting things up dramatically. The truth is Letterman only told two jokes and I remember them both. The first: "Lose weight without eating! Sound too good to be true? Well..." The second joke: "I stopped at a red light in front of the Oral Institute of Love and before the light could change, some lady came out and sucked my tires bald."

That's it. Those were his two jokes. From there, he'd wing it with the audience. If you think about, he hasn't really changed much. Usually his so-called monologue only contains two jokes, and from there he introduces Paul, gives away a canned ham or goes into the Top Ten list. I'm not complaining, mind you, I love Letterman. I'm just not so sure I love jokes.

But this story isn't about Letterman, it's about Bob Stane and my experiences at the Pasadena Ice House in the early 70s. Along with Letterman, I met a lot of comedians before they became stars. One of them was Gallagher, the most morose comedian I've ever met. The first time I saw him headline at the Ice House was during Easter week, and he wasn't too happy about it.

Before the show, he hung out with me in the light booth, which was strange because most of the acts didn't. They'd hang out with groupies back stage or talk to fans in the lobby. But Gallagher decided to hang with me, and no, he's not gay. Who knows? Maybe I was the only one who would put up with him.

"God, I'm gonna suck," he'd say. "Look, there's nobody out there. What? Twelve people on a Wednesday night? God, why am I even booked here?"

He'd bitch, he'd moan and then he'd go out and kick ass. If you haven't seen Gallagher, his famous bit is the Sledge-a-Matic, where he takes a sledge hammer and smashes a watermelon to bits. Yeah, he's a little low-brow, (he once performed his act at half-time of a Destruction Derby. Maybe.) but he executes.

Bob Stane told me one night Gallagher was doing his act and when he came to the grand finale where he was going to smash the watermelon, his fans cleared the first three rows and stood off to the side (watermelon splatters a bit, you know). But one woman, dressed in an all-white pants suit, didn't budge from the front row. Gallagher put off smashing the watermelon as long as possible and finally warned her, "You better move, or your nice white clothes are going to be splattered."

She said, "Aw, you wouldn't do that to me." Sunshine, the head waitress, knew otherwise, and told the woman she better move. When she refused, Sunshine (there was always a woman named Sunshine in the 70s, by the way) summoned Bob Stane, who also warned the woman to move. She still refused to budge, so Gallagher shrugged his shoulders, lifted his mighty mallet into the air, swung down hard and smashed the watermelon. The exact amount is still in dispute, but it's safe to say a quarter of the watermelon landed on the woman's lap. She came unglued and made a scene. Bob Stane offered to pay for her dry cleaning bill, but when she threatened to sue the club, he withdrew his offer and the woman left in a huff.

Gallagher was immediately booked for three more engagements during the year.

I didn't mean to write so much about Gallagher, but I will add that two of his jokes were good enough for me to rip-off as soon as I heard them. One was, "Thank god for handicapped people or I'd never have a place to park." The second joke involved audience participation. He'd say, "I know a little bit about astrology. If someone wants to yell out his sign I'll tell you about yourself." Invariably, one sucker would yell out. "Capricorn!" Then Gallagher would say, "Capricorn, sign of the loud mouth, first to call out in any group." (Trust me, you'll try this joke out at happy hour tonight.)

So much for Gallagher. Let's rag on Jimmy Walker for awhile (or J.J. Walker as he was known then.) You remember. The guy from Good Times. He was already a celebrity when I met him (as opposed to now) and he came to the Ice House to try out some new material. I guess he didn't like the way I did the lights during rehearsal.

"Don't blast those lights in my eyes, god dammit! I don't need that. Just give me some red and some blue. And I want more sound in the monitor. Damn! Can you do that? Can you?"

Yeah, sure. I gave him what he wanted and, to his credit, after his show he came back and apologized. "Sorry, I just get real nervous before I go on." This struck me as odd. He starred in a weekly TV show, so why was he nervous? It wasn't like he was doing an audition.

Speaking of which, every Sunday night the Ice House held an open mike for new acts to try to impress Bob Stane and earn a gig. Bob Stane would watch every single act every Sunday - until such point when he decided they sucked, then he'd leave for ten minutes and come back to watch the next act. Musicians and comedians stood in line for hours to sign-up for open mike, unless they were lucky enough to be pre-signed. One night, I pre-signed a friend of mine, Robert Skull. He was a Jackson Browne wannabe, but he was a fairly good Jackson Browne wanna-be. He took the stage, sat at the piano and the first words out of his mouth were, "Well, I'm not really prepared tonight." Bob Stane muttered to me, "I'll watch him when he comes prepared," and split.

One night I asked him, "How do you pick acts, anyway?" He said, "It's easy to spot talent. They're head and shoulders better than everyone else." He knew what he was talking about. The Association, Steve Martin, Cheech and Chong, and Tom Waits had all been discovered, more or less, by Bob Stane.

And those stars he hadn't discovered loved him anyway. Lilly Tomlin used to try out new material at the Ice House, just because she liked the environment there. None of the hipper-than-thou, jaded show-biz crowd came to the Ice House, only real people -- unlike the Comedy Store or the Improv, where you performed for unemployed actors, musicians and comedians who only came in hopes to see you bomb. I was lucky enough to do sound and lights for Tomlin one night, and she was as gracious and warm a human being as I ever met. I'd like to think that's why she remains a star, while J.J. Walker has become the answer to a trivia question.

But it's all simpler than that, I guess. The truth is, Tomlin's great and Walker sucks. Dynamite!

Here's one of the more surprising things I learned at the Ice House. The Modern Folk Quartet headlined one night and being more professional than most, the guys finished their sound and light checks well ahead of schedule so they could entertain their friends back stage. They asked me to come back and join them. I sat next to this young blond kid and figured he was some Pasadena Junior College student. He turned out to be a huge fan of the Ice House and the Modern Folk Quartet. He was also interested in what it was like to do sound and lights for so many acts on a weekly basis. We talked for awhile about various subjects (his name was Sean) and then I told the quartet it was five minutes to show time and headed back to the light booth. The bartender, Dick, stopped me and said, "Do you know who you were talking to?" I said, "Yeah, I guess. Sean. Is he a friend of yours?" The bartender said, "No, man. That's Sean Cassidy."

You have to understand: Sean Cassidy was big in those days, as measured by hits on the radio. Who knew he'd be cool as well? Hell, who knew he'd be normal? His brother sure wasn't.

I met a lot of celebrities at the Ice House, that's for sure, including Dr. Demento, Jay Leno, Dave Guard from the Kingston Trio and Kip Adotta (I know, but I like him).

One night at the light booth, Bob Stane came in and said, "Take a break and come to my office, there's someone I want you to meet." I walked in and there was John Denver, Mr. Rocky Mountain High himself. Bob Stane introduced me and I shook Denver's hand.

This is going to sound farfetched, but Denver scared the hell out of me. When I saw him on TV he came off like a goofy, smiling frog, but in person he came off like John Wayne. He stood nearly six feet tall, with massive shoulders, Popeye forearms and huge hands. He didn't smile once. Not once.

I then came to a disturbing realization: John Denver can kick my ass. Horrifying.

Damn this column! Is it funny? No. It's all about dropping names of celebrities and reminiscing about the old "Hollywood" days. True, it's somewhat informative and just inches from heartwarming, but what can I do? I wrote it for a friend. Kind of a snapshot I guess, a souvenir for a past well-spent, an obit for a guy still alive.
In other words, if you think this story sucks, don't blame me, blame Bob Stane. Send him an e-mail and tell him to knock it off. Send it to bstane@earthlink.net. Go ahead, he's probably expecting you. And if you're a musician or comedian, hell, hit him up for a gig while you're at it. Not too often though.

I figure three e-mails a day for the next four weeks should be enough.

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.