by Steve Spill
The author in his natural habitat.
Sometimes (such as when Sting opens for me), I find it hard to believe that it was just over four decades ago that I was presenting magic tricks to open shows for the Eagles, Cheap Trick, the Spencer Davis Group, and other rock bands. In 1972, when eight-track tape players were the thing and before comedy clubs or open mic nights became popular nationwide, I was a senior at Taft High in Woodland Hills who practiced and polished his magic act as part of various showcases and talent contests all over Los Angeles. The experience was terrific. The money wasn’t. These were all non-pay, on-the-job training type of gigs, and I felt fortunate to do them.
Clubs ran these shows on off nights and people could see me, along with folk singers, angry poets, and comics. On Monday nights I did the hootenanny at Doug Weston’s Troubadour. On Tuesday nights I was at The Show Biz, owned by Murray, a guy who became famous for his appearances as the Unknown Comic on TV’s The Gong Show. Wednesday at The Palomino, a cowboy hangout. I performed my magic tricks anywhere possible, for zero.
When I wasn’t performing for free, it was my monotonous business to fold pants, and it was that drab drudgery that led to the creation of my Highdini act. I worked at the Tarzana branch of Pants Galore, a store that sold clothes that were rejects or severely flawed. We had bellbottoms where only one leg was flared, jeans with the back pockets sewn upside down, and belts with no holes for the buckle. The gimmick was that everything sold for five dollars.
In the store I developed a bunch of smart-ass answers to common questions. “Do your pants shrink?” “Only if you wash them.” “How do your pants run?” “They don’t.” And so on.
Pants Galore was a small chain that did a lot of radio advertising. The commercials were the typical ordinary-type radio spots of the day, hard-sell boring assaults by a screaming announcer. “Blue jeans five dollars, Pants Galore . . . Corduroys five dollars, Pants Galore . . . Khakis five dollars, Pants Galore . . .” I hated those commercials, and so did everyone else.
The owner, I’ll call him Barney because I think that was his name, was a nice guy who acted more like a buddy than a boss. One day he walked in just as one of his awful commercials was blasting at us from the radio. In a gentle sort of way I told him how dumb and boring I felt his advertising was. And suddenly I was given the opportunity to do something about it, to create my kind of commercial directed at my age group, who felt the same way I did and were the store’s primary customers.
My brainchild was the Pants Galore Answer Man. Barney decided to try it. “Could you possibly record day after tomorrow?” I said, “I think I could work it in.” The commercial included the same smart-ass answers to common questions I’d been using on the job. Now, not only was I the writer, but also I became the announcer. The commercial was recorded and aired on KWEST, the greatest rock radio station ever, and that’s where I met Kyle Emorian.
Kyle sold radio advertising and his was the first hand I shook when I went to the station to record the spot. I showed Kyle some card tricks, and asked him to come see my act in a hippie coffeehouse at the Whole Earth Marketplace in the Encino neighborhood. He laughed and applauded louder than anyone. We became fast friends and Kyle started acting as my manager, which was fine with me.
Besides selling advertising to all the big rock clubs in town, Kyle also started selling me to these clubs as well. By the time I graduated high school in June of 1973 I was opening for bands like the Spencer Davis Group at The Whisky on the Sunset Strip and Cheap Trick at Starwood in West Hollywood.
At first it was extremely tough holding a rock club crowd’s attention, but I learned how to make it work and audiences got off on me. Clubbers were watching, listening, and actually enjoying what I did. The process was slow but sure, and I felt myself improving each week, building my confidence as a rock magician.
I spent hour after hour, day after day, and month after month perfecting bits specifically suited to this niche audience, and my popularity continued to grow. That was cool. I made a ton of visits to Starwood and the Topanga Corral, among other clubs. I called myself “Highdini;” my act was inspired by Cheech & Chong, who had recently released their first comedy record album.
During the show, several big bouquets of marijuana appeared from nowhere then vanished in a puff of smoke. I snorted tablespoons of white powder, and as a finish to the bit I grabbed my nose and a long stream of salt-like stuff poured out. One by one eight smoking pipes magically appeared between my fingertips, which made me dry as a bone and “gave me cotton mouth,” causing me to spit out dozens of cotton balls. It looked like I drank a huge thirst-quenching pitcher of beer in a fraction of an instant. I pretended to be a little stoned while I did these drug-inspired tricks, in the same way I assumed Dean Martin “acted” drunk when he sang songs.
Highdini portrait that was reproduced on flyers, handbills, and DEA wanted posters.
Mastering these shows gave me a kind of power I had never felt before. At times I had total command of these crowds. I loved that these rock audiences were tough and I could actually entertain them. Every once in a while someone would come up to me and ask “How did you do that?” or say “You’re funny,” and it would make my night. Of course, they were always slurring their words, or on the verge of passing out, but that didn’t matter. Meeting girls was also a nice little perk that came from performing.
At the Corral in Topanga Canyon I opened for The Flying Burrito Brothers, The Eagles, Neil Young & Crazy Horse, and Little Feat, among other groups. Little Feat’s Lowell George kept asking me if I could teach him how to cheat at gambling, which I couldn’t.
For a couple years I was on the fringe of the LA rock club scene. My buddies treated me like a big shot, but I didn’t experience any feeling of monetary accomplishment. I was just an unimportant act and my salary was small. Most rock clubs didn’t budget for a magician, but I was a paid performer. I’d usually get $10 to $15 a show, which I guess in 1972 dollars wasn’t that bad.
What was bad was that discos started to replace live entertainment in general and rock clubs in particular, and I was on the way to nowhere. Fortunately, I was still earning $1.65 per hour at Pants Galore; by working overtime, and with my employee discount, I was able to put together a fine wardrobe. I was particularly fond of standing in a pair of Earth shoes while wearing my paisley corduroy elephant bellbottoms with the humongous chrome square pirate belt buckle and the open tie-dyed double-knit shirt with turtleneck dickie and Nehru jacket ensemble.
It was the perfect outfit to wear with an embroidered blue jean top hat when Kyle booked Highdini on few and far between plum gigs: A charity benefit for the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws at the Playboy Mansion, a party thrown by Elton John on the back lot at Universal Studios, and an appearance at the National Fashion & Boutique Show in New York for Glass Head, a bong manufacturer.
Those appearances made me feel seven feet tall, but after a couple of big venue concert shows I felt like I could walk under a wiener dog while wearing that embroidered blue jean top hat. The first, opening for the aforementioned band Flash Cadillac and the Continental Kids, was a gig that may not have been one of the most humiliating moments of my life, but it came close, at the Colorado Springs Municipal Auditorium, which was packed beyond legal capacity.
Eight o’clock was the hour appointed for the beginning of the ordeal called The Flash Cadillac Pig Stomp & Surf Rodeo. As early as six o’clock, a crowd began to assemble outside the auditorium. At six-thirty, an attendant, by mistake, opened the doors. The fifteen hundred seats were immediately occupied. Approximately two hundred standees also fought their way inside. The show was the major big-deal event in Colorado Springs that night, and evidently every man, woman, child, cat, dog, and goat in town wanted to go.
Belatedly it was announced that only ticket holders would be permitted to attend the show. The police arrived and began to clear the room, to an accompaniment of cries of injustice, and here and there, slanderous re
ferences to the amorous activities with animals allegedly performed by some patrolman’s mother. Once the herd was trimmed, those who waited nearly two hours for the show to begin were just as enraged as those who were forced to leave.
It was not a pleasant atmosphere, to say the least, especially for an unexpected opening act. When I was introduced, the rabid Flash fans’ boos reached my ears. The next thing I knew, I was standing in a glare of light. The spotlight was so blinding that I saw nothing but black, except for the exit signs and a few red emergency lights. I couldn’t see anyone, but the boos were getting louder. It was getting intense. I tried to cover the fact that my body was jolting, zapping, shaking . . . and continued to plow forward with my show.
I knew what I was doing wasn’t working, so I changed my approach. My hands began to tremble, and my lips quivered. The unruly crowd booed so loud, I couldn’t even hear myself speak. It felt like my throbbing heart was going to jump out of my chest, I was sweating profusely, and the floor felt like it was moving up and down. It was a disaster, and I was petrified.
Somehow, automatically I continued my routine, and, after some hesitation, I cut the act short. I did not bow my head in shame and slip out as might be expected of someone who had failed so miserably and publically. Instead, an automatic defense system seemed to kick in. That’s when I gave the audience the finger with both hands, held my head high, and walked off with pride, to the blasting chorus of cold stares and heckles. I’m not really sure where that macho bravado came from, since my ego was definitely crushed. I felt as if I’d been run over by a truck.
So, when offered, I was hesitant to take last night’s Sting gig, given that I was still somewhat pummeled by my most recent terrible rock audience rejection experience decades and decades ago. Just the thought of it gave me a flashback to my Flash Cadillac show. The strong sensation of the angry “booing” was more than a memory from forty years ago; it had left a footprint in my skull. I physically re-experienced the disaster that was.
Nevertheless, I’d agreed to this new assignment, mostly because of my wife, Bozena. She is a HUGE Sting fan who not only admires his poetic yoga meditative ways, but she also grew up in Poland listening to his music, yearning to one day attend one of his concerts, never dreaming she would actually get to meet him. I took this opportunity to make my wife happy. You know the old saying: “Happy wife, happy life.” How could I refuse?
It all came together on November 4, 2013. An independent record label, Cherry Tree Records, engaged me, Sting, and Magicopolis, for an event designed to promote their newly signed unknown recording artists. Having Sting as the opener guaranteed an exclusive audience of everybody who was anybody when it comes to rock journalists and music insiders, who otherwise might not come out to hear the unknowns.
Sting was the draw, but the promoters also needed me. After Sting’s set, the curtains closed and while his band equipment was switched for the other artist’s gear, my job was to fill the time performing in front of the curtains. I, mostly unknown to the assembled guests, was there to keep the crowd engaged and amused so they wouldn’t leave before the other widely unknowns took the stage.
I must do this. Tonight. Now. I had an attack of diarrhea. By the time I walked onto the stage, I did not have the confidence to do a stellar job. But I was in a thoroughly professional mood and did do a stellar job . . . the audience was in the palm of my hand. Nobody left or booed. I’m pleased to report that my comedy and magic was greeted with a roar of laughter and an outburst of cheering.
After the show Bozena and I were invited to share some time and be photographed with Sting. He charmed us when he said what a great theater we have, how he appreciated being able to actually see everyone’s face in the audience from the stage, how he read that I had designed and built the venue myself.
With my backup singers, from left, Sting, and Bozena.
Bozena told him that in our full evening show she levitates to his song “Desert Rose.” I chimed in with, “We heard you wrote and recorded it specifically for that purpose.” Sting cracked a gracious smile and with great courtesy and kindness professed his fondness for magic, magicians, and all that is Magicopolis.
PART ONE
FIRST BEST JOBS
THE JOLLY JESTER
Aspen, at the top of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, is an internationally famous ski resort and glitzy playground for the affluent. But in 1976 the Aspen vibe was not unlike the frat boy atmosphere depicted in the film Animal House and we would really come alive just after the moon came up. Everybody drank, did drugs, smoked, and made love, with no fear of addiction or disease or death. It seemed we all had permanent erections, hangovers, and everything was carefree and raucous and unplanned. In those days, we had all the fun we could each and every day.
I was twenty-one years old when I started a four-year tour of duty working for Bob Sheets as a magician/bartender at The Jolly Jester. My fancy salary was thirty dollars before taxes per eight-hour shift plus tips. That was, of course, just a starting salary. In slightly over three years my superior talents were recognized and I was upped to thirty-five dollars before taxes per eight-hour shift plus tips. Actually I exaggerated about the eight-hour part, as it was usually longer. The shift started around 4:00 p.m., après-ski time, and went all night to the first hours of the morning till I was unconscious, subconscious, nauseous, or all three.
Bob has always been smart, talented, and inspiring, with a round face, thick neck, twinkly eyes, big moustache, and gap-toothed smile. Mr. Sheets has a sense of the whimsy, a sense of the absurd, and when his imagination takes off and he gets to the child part of himself, he giggles and carries on like a little kid. That’s how he became known as the Jolly Jester—hence the bar’s name. In 1975, Bob had been hired as a bartender just outside Aspen, in Snowmass, at country-pop singer John Denver’s Tower Restaurant.
Sheets quickly became a successful local legend behind the bar, mixing drinks and merriment with his comedy and magic. So much so, that the following winter a patron sponsored Bob and he opened his own bar in Aspen. He knew he couldn’t do it alone—eight hours a day, seven days a week, was too much time for one magician to fill, no matter how talented they were, and would only lead to burnout. As it turned out, we both burned out. But it was a wild ride for the handful of tourist seasons that it lasted.
Bob was a consummate professional who became a valued lifelong friend, and I learned more from him, and the job he gave me, than I realized at the time. One of the great educational benefits from the work was a practical understanding of the art and science of audience management. People who are oiling their throats with alcohol are generally not shy when they see how a trick is done, and it’s a great help to know where corrections are needed. Most of the bar-hopping crowd changed five times a night, which enabled me to perfect tricks by doing them over and over and over, forty or fifty times a week. By trial and error my sleight of hand, timing, presentation, and other elements improved.
I absorbed much of what I know about comedy from the bar crowd. I learned to not work too hard at being funny, not to imitate myself from the night before, to try to make each performance as if it were the first time I’d ever done it, how to improvise, how to take advantage of a situation with a quick ad lib—like when a guy was at the bar for several hours, drinking continuously, hurling shot after shot against his tonsils, and then, without a word, would fall over backwards onto the floor, out cold. I might say something like “I like a man who knows when to stop.”
Bob also trained me as a bartender and taught me how to use magic to sell more cocktails. “The more you drink, the better the tricks look.” One key strategy that I learned is to never perform a trick until all the drinks are half full. That way, when the trick is over, everyone is ready for a new round. Patrons were unconsciously trained—now it’s time to watch a trick, now it’s time to buy a drink—and Pavlov would have loved it. “Don’t applaud, keep on drinking,” was a motto I learned quickly.
Bo
b was, and is, also an amazing street magician. In the early days, Bob stood in front of The Jester and performed his street act. Instead of passing the hat, he pied pipered folks into the bar. Once inside, Bob introduced me. I sold drinks and did tricks, while Bob went outside and gathered another group. In an hour, a big crowd pressed around the bar. Word got around, and after a few days Bob no longer needed to work the street; from then on things just exploded.
Bob Sheets and me at The Jester, dressed like real men.
The bar was long; that shelf could support at least thirty pairs of elbows. Four feet behind the bar were long benches to sit on with a ledge that ran atop the benches that was just wide enough, if you were young and a little athletic, to stand on. People were sitting at the bar, standing on the floor, sitting on the benches, and standing on top of the benches from one end to the other. And the crowd was wired. Crazed. Insane.
The lights were low, the rock and roll was loud, and we would announce “We’re about to do some magic and there’ll be no drinks for ten minutes, so get ’em now.” To serve everyone would take twenty to thirty minutes. Nobody ever died of thirst at The Jester; even competent drinkers were over-served, and mixing the drinks was a big part of the show.
“Want a lime in that gin & tonic?” I pretended to take a lime out of the wastebasket, washed it off, and dropped it in the drink. “Don’t worry, the alcohol will kill any germs.” When someone ordered a beer we didn’t have, such as Moosehead Ale, Bob responded, “No problemo.” He opened and poured a bottle of Budweiser, and then, with a felt tip pen, crossed out the word “Bud” and wrote “Moosehead.” “One Moosehead, drink up,” he’d say.