12 Step Program, part two, chapter twenty-eight
Where Are They Now: The Hi-Steppers.
Luke Mitchell was the first to notice something was wrong.
At first, it was assumed that Bob Jansen had made his own way back to the hotel, but nobody had seen him the next morning either. This isn’t like Bob, thought Luke.
Luke knew Bob best of all the band. Until recently, he’d roomed with him. No, something definitely was wrong.
He leads by example, so he makes a point of checking out early, settling up, then being ahead of everyone and being in the van first. He’s never been late.
“Maybe he went home with a girl last night, “suggested Ralph.
“Don’t think so,” Luke countered, remembering the last minutes at the Showbox.
They soon discovered Bob’s hotel room bed hadn’t been slept in, although the complimentary shampoo was gone.
Luke had the van wait, thinking Bob might have skipped off to a grocery store or had remembered he had to do some last minute shopping. He also phoned his mother, who hadn’t known of the gig and so was annoyed with Bob. She didn’t know where he might be.
Looking antsy, the soundman, the appointed first driver, wanted to go. Reluctantly, Luke and the two other Steps boarded the van, which left Seattle heading back for L.A.. Luke hoped Bob would meet them in Los Angeles, but didn’t know how he would do it.
Bob never did show. The band broke up after cancelling any other future engagements.
Luke Mitchell formed a new group, even played a few Hi-Steppers numbers, but grew disillusioned and went back to Seattle. There, he formed a small blues band, but worked mostly as a single at restaurants. He also taught guitar during the day. Somehow, the money came in, and he and his wife – a woman he’d met in Seattle after leaving L.A. – were contented.
Never saw nor heard from Bob Jansen again but never gave up hope he might show up. Maybe at his door with a gig or a song.
Michael Rosetti wasn’t trying to fool Selective Service; he really was homosexual.
The other Hi-Steppers should have known. Bob should have guessed. Michael never said anything, but occasionally his hand gestures or his walk or way of talking seemed effeminate and could have given him away. He never hooked up with any of the girls who came backstage. He’d excuse himself, retreat and he’d be found back at the hotel with a book rather than a woman. Now, he’d announce that he was gay, possibly flaunt his behaviour, but in the sixties he had to keep his sexuality secret.
Michael tried not to be a stereotype. Back in Seattle, he did lead a jazz band but it was at a restaurant date he met his future partner. Alan was a flight attendant and regularly out of town. That suited Michael, gave him space to adjust to a new and different environment. They would have lived happily ever after like in a fairy tale – ha ha – but on one trip, Alan came back with the news that he had AIDS. Michael was celibate from that point. After Alan got too sick to fly and died, he went on playing sax, practiced safe sex with his few one night stands.
Michael had lost track of Bob Jansen long before he disappeared. They’d become such different people.
Bob was aware of Terry Dombrowski but never tried to contact Terry. Similarly, Terry was too caught up in his problems to contact Bob.
The erstwhile drummer went back to Seattle, where his disturbed parents committed him to a veteran’s hospital, which transferred him to the Camarillo State Mental Hospital.
There, he’d wake up screaming, haunted by what he’d experienced in Vietnam.
Terry was put on a program of drugs, but the medication only steadied him. He didn’t always take it.
One afternoon, he slipped out of his room, found his way up to the roof, and threw himself over the edge of the building.
As he flew, Terry yelled,“I’m a gook! I’m a gook!”
Greg Atwood could have rejoined The Steppers, but he didn’t want to.
He liked the carpentry demanded of him on the film set, the painting, the crews. The routines meant a lack of tension, or the rude surprises of being in a travelling band. Club owners that could be tightfisted bullies. Riding in a van could take its toll on his patience or relations with the other guys.
He didn’t envy Bob and didn’t seem surprised at Bob’s sudden, unexplained disappearance. Too much responsibility, too much to juggle.
Occasionally, he’d strap on his bass and sit in with a band. Occasionally he’d participate in an afternoon jam. That was a reminder of how much music still meant to him, but it also reinforced the idea that he was free of the commitments required of him in a band.
Peter Lear overdosed in 1980.
His sudden death caught Jansen off guard. He knew Peter liked his drugs and, if he saw him, would warn Peter of the danger of taking too many to excess.
Peter would counter, pointing to Bob’s ever-present beer, You’re a fine one to talk.
That stung. That was too close to home for Bob, who let Peter drift further out of his life.
Peter wanted to concentrate on developing a solo career. He’d a taste of going solo with the release of his first album. He was an instrumentalist first, a singer when necessary, a composer third. There were strains of soft jazz and light classical in his pieces but that made him difficult to classify. In retrospect, he was new age, akin to Andreas Vollenweider, Yanni or John Tesh, but, in the 70s, hard to market.
Peter would compose on the side, record when he could.
He was no stranger to pot, acid or coke, liked the feeling of being high.
But he was no addict. He was a dabbler, who kept his works tucked away. It didn’t come out from under the bed very often.
The night he died, the band that hired him did the unheard of and paid him a bonus. It was New Year’s Eve. All bands who work New Year’s get paid more. With the extra money Peter bought a small bag of junk from a smarmy backstage hanger-on. He felt the need to get away for a while.
What the smarmy hanger-on didn’t tell Peter was that this junk was strong, nearly pure.
He was used to buying junk from dealers who had stomped on the drug, cutting it considerably.
At home, the stuff he cooked up and injected overpowered him. His body couldn’t take it.
The secretive Eric Matthews might have gone back to Colorado or he might have investigated Silicon Valley. Nobody knew for certain. Like Bob, he just disappeared. At first, Eric seemed to thrive as a drummer for hire who occasionally did sessions. He was smart and versatile, so maybe he was too talented to be a drummer only. It might be telling that when Eric did disappear, nobody seemed to care. Bob kept expecting Eric to show up as a multimillionare who’d made a fortune designing computer games.
