LET US NOW PRAISE FAMOUS WILD MEN

I hope Wild Man Fischer never has to grow up. I hope he can just go on doing his thing. Just exactly what that ‘thing’ is, I can’t say. Certainly it lives inside him, down in the heart of all things. His career began, I believe, at Sorrento Beach, a littered piece of beach in Santa Monica. Larry Fischer was trying to make it with the pretty, sun-bronzed high school kids. He was shy and he sang. It was what he did, and he grunted and groaned louder than anybody, and made everybody take notice of him. He was committed to a mental institution twice. He just wanted to sing. He sang for change on the streets of Hollywood and made a double album for Frank Zappa. The record (‘An Evening With Wild ' Man Fischer’) is a razor-edged, flipped-out, beautiful document of the times when rock music was the great dream, and when Larry Fischer -lived it. He wanted to make music and be liked by people. He’s taken a lot of shit. For his story, listen to the record. This is just to tell everybody that Wild Man’s still around and dreaming. Wild Man Fischer is one of the complete originals of rock ‘n ’ roll. He isn ’t just another pretty face.

At a little before noon, on a muddy January day, the door banged open without having been knocked on. There was a fiery, wiry, wild-eyed young man standing in the door. “What do you want?” he asked. “Why do you want to interview me?” He whirled around, on guard. HQ shook his head, blew a long sigh, until he was nearly breathless. “Come in, Larry,” I said. He smiled, and said, “All right.” Wild Man Fischer came in, sat down, and faced me sleepily.

I put two or three questions to him. Wild Man answered them cooly. Something was wrong. I forgot the interview and immediately things loosened up. You can’t prepare any questions for Wild Man. You don’t interview him. You experience him. So I experienced him.

“You want to know the truth about me?” he demanded.

I nodded; I told him I didn’t know much about his early life.

“Fuck it,” said Wild Man.

His face changed while we talked; there was a sort of eternal moonlight in it.

“WMt’s important is that I’m managing myself.” He spoke impatiently. “There’s no one managing me. Herbie Cohen gave me a written release. I lost it but that’s cool.” He looked at me fiercely. “You don’t know him, do you?” I shook my head. “You sure?” I shook my head again. Larry calmed down. “He thinks I’m crazy. And he doesn’t like me. I’m afraid of him.”

He started whispering to himself. Then he shrugged his shoulders, stroked his wide chin, and his thoughts drifted back slowly.

“I’ll tell you how I got started,” he said suddenly. “I was trying to sing in nightclubs. The Trip, The Whisky. They threw me out, wouldn’t hire me. Zappa was going around town, trying to make it. I met him at the Hollywood Ranch Market and he tried to get me on MGM Records. They turned me down too.”

He sat in the sunshine that fell through the window. “How did I get started?” he asked. “Zappa saw me around five years later. He gave me $20 and I walked over to the Whisky and did a gig and Frank told me to come over his house the next day. He made an album with me.”

Larry closed his eyes. When he opened them, he asked me, “Did you ever hear my album?”

“Yes.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes ” I said.

“It was a good album,” he agreed. “I could have made a better album if I made it myself. It had too much talking. Otherwise it was all right. People don’t want to hear talking; they want to hear music.”

“Do you think that Zappa was trying to exploit you?”

“I’m not sure. Sure Zappa was trying to exploit me for his own benefit. But he did like what I was doing, or he wouldn’t have done it. Would he’ve?”

I shrugged. Larry got up and jerked his leather vest for emphasis. “I mean—he wanted me to do it because he thought I was good, but then he ripped me off. What do you mean—exploit me?” he asked suddenly. “What do you mean by that?”

“Trying to take advantage of your reputation around town,” I suggested.

“Yeah, he was taking advantage of that.” Larry changed his mind. “Oh, I didn’t have that much of a reputation before I signed with Zappa.” He changed his mind again. “Yeah, I guess I had a reputation.” He laughed at himself. “But also Frank liked me, or he wouldn’t have done it. He was nice to me. His wife said it was too bad that I had to do that for a living—singing for dimes and quarters. She said that it was too bad that people laughed at me. Frank said he thought I was a very good songwriter. That was good, because I didn’t think I was a very good songwriter. He also thought I was a good singer.”

I looked at Larry, noticing he was all limbs and feet and eyes. It was hard to keep his attention. Suddenly he pointed to his heart.

“Frank gave me a lot of confidence. I already had a lot of confidence, but I guess Frank put an extra confidence in me. After that, I thought I was going to be bigger than the Beatles., Really. I thought I was going to be the biggest act in the world after my album came out. In about three or four months, the Beatles would have to worry about me. Dylan would have to worry. I really thought I was good.”

He seized my arm, and almost shouted. “I’m really good live. There’s very few people that are as good as me live. I thought I’d just be the fucking biggest act in the world. From singing for dimes and quarters.”

Larry looked at me. His face was bright and open. “Did you ever pay a dime or a quarter?”

“No,” I confessed. I felt bad the moment I said it.

“I’m sure you paid a dime.”

“Yeah, I think I did.”

“I was worth it sometimes,” Wild Man said. “There were a lot of people who liked it. I was trying to get on a label. It was hard getting on a label doing what I was doing.

“But I was really good,” he cried faintly. “So I guess I’d have to thank Zappa for that. I mean—how many people would’ve recorded me? He wanted to call the album, God Bless Wild Man Fischer. He was going along the Tiny Tim line. He wanted me to do a take-off on that. I said, fuck that trip, Frank. Yeah,” Wild Man finally conceeded, “he was exploiting me.”

“Were you unhappy after the album didn’t make it?”

“Yeah, I was pretty unhappy.” His heart leaped and then sank with a sense of what he had lost. He forced a smile, and said, “I blame it all on a lack of promotion. I could have been big.” He coughed, and added impatiently. “But now it’s 1971.

I started out the new year with four concerts in Washington and Oregon and Idaho.” He touched his boots and then his nose. “I went over tremendously in two of them. One concert I did in Moscow, people were cheering. They just wouldn’t let me go.”

I asked Wild Man if he ever saw Zappa any more. “Well, not too often. Fuck, he made promises to me. I’ll make you a star. I’ll make you a million. I won’t burn you. He made it sound like he wasn’t going to be like most of these other companies.

A lot of them kre trying to burn you. And he turns out to be just as bad as some of them.” Larry did a perfect imitation of Zappa. “He says: I feel sorry for artists. I don’t want to see artists back on the Strip singing for dimes and quarters.” Larry shook his head. “He doesn’t really believe that. He said I wasn’t going to be singing on the street anymore. And that’s how I wound up. I wanted to quit. I didn t like the music anymore.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said, I meant it.

“But now I’d like to do all different kinds of concerts, anywhere I could work. All over the fucking world. Wild Man stood up and began jumping in the air. Quickly exhausted, he sat down again. “I would like to cause Wild Man Fischer mania—the dream I’ve always wanted. I figure I could cause it in the state of Oregon or Washington or Idaho. They knew my songs there. They knew ‘Merry-Go-Round.’ I m so good live. Larry spoke in a loud clipped voice, purposely audible for the whole world. “I’m so good. I can make people laugh, right? Make people feel good. I mean-it’s like a change because I’m so original. They come down and just laugh and laugh and laugh. That’s the main thing of my trip.”

An irresistible smile broke through and he laughed, saying, “I poke fun at rock 'n’ roll a lot. That’s my trip. I tell jokes a lot. Because of my originality and creativity, it’s hard for me to get work. People figure I’m nuts. Wild Man sang to us for dimes and quarters, they say. Now lie wants to sing in our nightclubs."

Larry looked out of the window, and said. “I don't write music. I just do it at random. I used to write down lyrics. 1 don’t do that no more. I’m lazy. I never rehearse. 1 11 just do a show. I’m always ready. Any given minute. You can laugh all night. I don’t think audience’s have ever .seen anything like me.”

He grunted, then said something to himself. He gripped at his own reasoning, and continued, “I’m really a comedian. I m not even a rock ‘n’ roll singer. I’m funnier than Bob Hope and I sing better than

“Bob Hope,” I suggested.

“Than Frank Sinatra,” he said, correcting me. “You ever see me?” He ignored my affirmative response. “I don’t think Warner Bros, had any faith in me. I was promoted wrong. I wasn’t even promoted.” He winked at me. “Was I?”

Larry walked to the door and then sat down again.

“I had made a name for myself at Sorrento Beach,” he said meditatively. “After singing for all these years out here-and all the parties I sang at and stuff—and I was on Laugh-In once. You figure I did my own promotion.” He surveyed the room and put on my coat. “Will you give me this?” I shook my head. Wild Man removed my coat and set it down. “Fuck, I don’t care if Warners don’t record me anymore, cause I’m going to be the biggest concert performer in the world.”

He straightened his back and put his hand on the top of his head.

“I’ve had a lot of experience in the music business.” He grinned. “A lot of experience getting burned. If you don’t make the bucks, agents try to rip you off. And producers. And promoters. Everybody’s trying to rip off everbody else and it sort of gets in the way of the music. It gets in the way of the fun.”

Larry sneered, and got philosophical.

“It should be like everybody should get their fair share. Everybody should have a good time. I can remember when the Doors were fun to watch. And the Grateful Dead. Even Zappa used to be fun. Fuck, when I perform everybody has a good time. I think that probably everybody does. I’m the greatest performer in the world.” He laughed like a little boy. “Jesus, I think I’m even better than Little Richard!”

“How do audiences react to you?”

“Sometimes they really get on me. They say, get off the stage, you fucking creep. Get off the stage, you creep. Get off the stage, booooo.”

Larry grunted. It was a sad grunt.

“They start yelling at me. When audiences like me, it’s usually half-and-half. The people up front, clapping. And all the drunkards in the back giving me a hard time.” He grunted again. It was questioning this time.

“How would you like to be up there with only a guitar?” he demanded.

“Not very much,” I admitted.

“Fuck, I don’t even need a guitar, but it’s hard to get hired without one. It looks right. The promoter up north gave me a guitar and a guitar strap that says, WILD MAN.”

“Did Solomon Burke really give you that name?”

“Sure, but I think I’ll change it.”

“To what?”

“Wild Man stared right through me; his face was red. He drew a long breath and ignoring me, said, “One day, I think I’d like to challenge rock bands to have a Bum-of-the-Month club. Have rock bands fight each other.” He laughed pleasantly: “For teenagers, rock is good. ‘Light my fire,’ and all that shit. And the Beatles. And I think everybody’s gonna like me,” he said, getting back to his one and only subject. “Young people are gonna like me. Old people. Not many young kids like me,”

he admitted. “They like good-looking groups with long hair. Manufactured groups like Three Dog Night.”

“But they draw,” he insisted. “I bet Three Dog Night would out-draw me.”

There were no takers; Wild Man looked disappointed.

“One of these days,” he giggled. “One of these days, they’re gonna go downhill and everybody’s gonna pay to see me live, because they’re gonna want to see something good. I’m gonna try to become popular without records. Hit it from another angle. Hit it on my own popularity. Have people come out and see me and decide. Instead of being such a hype. Just have them come and see me and say, well he is the greatest. They’re gonna be talking for months after that Moscow concert.”

He held up his hand and announced he was the greatest in Moscow. “Now I want to go away for a while,” he told me. “Back to the Northwest. Stay away from California. I can’t play California, because of those fucking hungry agents and the hungry promoters and the hungry other people. If they just didn’t rip me off all the time, I’d do gigs. I am good. I know it’s hard for some to believe it.”

Larry believed it. “Wasn’t I entertaining?” he asked. “You were.” “Where did you see me?” “First, on the beach. Then, at the Shrine Auditorium.”

“I’d like to make another record, if I could make it as good as my live act. Maybe I’ll release it on my own label. Maybe

with some amateur musicians. Fuck, I’ll just do it myself. Musicians argue too much, they do all kinds of shit. I’d rather do it single. This time, with a guitar.”

Larry jumped .up again, looking like an impatient child. I couldn’t keep him much longer. I tried to drag the afternoon together.

“After all you’ve been through, Wild Man, was it all worth it—the music and the performing?”

“I suppose, I wrote some good songs—not very good songs. Most of them are just about imaginary things.” His lips were chapped, but he did his best to wet them. “But was it worth it? I wish I knew.

“Man, I used to be real good singing on the beach. Those days were really good. I was fucking singing on the beach. No one else was involved. I was feeling fucking out of sight. But my mother sort of fucked that whole trip up by putting me in a nut house. I was singing for free. Having a good time. You know, I was on the track team in high school,” Larry admitted. “I ran the 440. And I was doing it good. I was going to go out for cross-country the next year, but the summer heat sort of got me—from the running, I guess. I kept running down to the beach. I was fast that summer. Remember how fast I was that summer? People would chase me and they couldn’t catch me.”

Wild Man made a funny face; it was indescribable.

“I would say those were some of the better memories of my life. Before I started getting involved with the business end of it. But I had to do something for a living, so I figured I ought to do this—now that I’m getting older and everything.”

Larry isn’t exactly a victim of the system, I remember thinking. Not a victim of the record industry. Or of Hollywood. Maybe it’s just his dreams. I don’t know exactly what makes me so fucking angry. About this place I live in. Anyway I asked him what’s next for him, where do you go after the beach is gone and you’re still Wild Man Fischer.

“I’ll probably last forever. See, I’m not limited. You’ll be buying my albums when you get those space cassettes. I’ll be the one that’s ahead, not Three Dog Night. It’ll be Wild Man Fischer. You’ll see. Fuck, I’m not a rock ‘n’ roll singer. Sometimes I sing rock ‘n’ roll melodies. You noticed that? I got blues songs too. Folk songs, jazz songs, calypso, country ‘n’ western songs. You name ’em; I got ’em.”

He felt his hair. “Did you hear my album?” I nodded. “Did you like it? Wouldn’t you agree that I am better alive?”

“What sort of person are you, Larry?” I asked him. I had all sorts of unresolved feelings about him.

His answer was delayed. When it came, it was in spurts.

“I’d say I’m a relaxed sort of person. I would say I’m a normal person. It’s just our society under capitalism says you cannot do that shit all the time. Arid I do it all the time.” He grunted again. This time, it was nearly a sigh. “Most of the time anyway. Not all the time since I’m getting older and you can’t do it all the time.”

“Are you happy?”

“I’m not unhappy. Wouldn’t you be happy, if you were doing more work. Admit it.” Yes, Larry. “Wouldn’t you be happy if you’d just done four gigs with people laughing. Staying on farms. Farms. Wouldn’t you like that?” Yes, Wild Man. I was thinking of all the lost kids who had come to the Strip in search of a dream. All the innocent children, now growing old. “Tell me you wouldn’t like that. You’d think about going back, wouldn’t you?” Yes. “So I’m going back.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”