He squatted in the back of the truck, dilapidated flannel flapping valiantly in the wind. And he said out loud to no one in particular, “How the mighty have fallen.”
Thirty years ago Evan Brisbane was the biggest, most sought-after act in grunge music. He was a Generation X icon and the toast of underground Seattle. And now here he was in the middle of Tacoma’s windiest and most violent rainstorm in years, crouched in the back of his Ford F-150 pick-up, parked on a side street off Division Avenue, hawking memorabilia from his days on top: Cassettes of his best-selling album, Spike the Fever; lavishly illustrated programs from his concert dates; t-shirts from 1991 with the name of every city on that year’s tour; and, of course, a half-dozen of his genuine concert-worn flannel shirts that set a generational fashion trend throughout the Pacific Northwest and beyond. As a metaphor for his career, they were now rain-drenched and blown sideways by the gale.
This was not the first time Evan had fallen on hard times. But in the past, he had been able to pick himself up and make something positive out of his negative circumstances: The DUI that landed him in jail and spawned the megahit single Cruisin’ for a Bruisin’; the nine-month marriage to reality TV star Lolita, that brought lovely baby Fatima into his world; the rehab stint that was the basis of his best-selling memoir When One’s Too Many and Ten’s Not Enough: One Star’s Struggle for Sobriety.
But this was different. Time and trends had passed him by and Evan found himself to be less a contender for a place in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame and more a curiosity––an afterthought––the mention of whose name came only during Sunday’s Golden Oldies Hour on KNKX.
“Hey, man. Are you Kurt Cobain?”
Evan rolled his eyes and turned toward his questioner. He had been fielding that one for more years than he cared to remember, and now it came from a millennial hipster who should have known better.
“No, man. Kurt Cobain’s dead. He’s been dead for like twenty-some years.”
“Are you sure, man?”
“Are you serious right now?”
The two men stood staring quizzically at each other, silent as the pelting of raindrops on the truck and the flapping of flannel in the wind played in the background. They were at a conversational impasse.
“Look,” said Evan, breaking the tension as he reached into his treasure trove of days gone by. “Here’s a tape of my second album.” He shoved it into the young man’s hands. “It features Shaq Curtis on drums and––”
“Who?”
Evan was incredulous.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“And how am I supposed to play this?”
He had a point. This bearded child of the ’90s had never owned a tape player and didn’t know how to operate one if he had. Evan’s magnanimous gesture was lost on him.
“Well, how about this shirt? I wore it at Wembley Stadium when I––”
“Where?”
Clearly this young hipster in skinny jeans had some trick up the sleeve of his Che Guevara sweatshirt. Why else would he be standing in the wind and rain talking to someone he’d never heard of going on about glory days that happened before he had awareness of his own being?
“Wait a minute.” Evan squinted his eyes and drew closer to his would-be customer for a better look. “I know you.”
An awkward pause came next as the young man stared down at his Birkenstocks.
“You’re that writer from the Weekly Volcano. Your name’s Jason or Josh or something like that.”
It was all coming back to him now. Evan had met the young man during a book-signing tour two years ago when Tacoma’s alternative newspaper sent him to profile the local legend and review his most recent recording. The only reason Evan remembered him was because of the scathing screed this kid had written about him after that seemingly harmless encounter.
“Jared Cole! Yeah, that’s who you are. You called me, let’s see, how did you put it? ‘An anachronism whose cloying excuse for a musical repertoire is leading his tractable audience of acolytes down the primrose path of meaningless messages and tired tropes.’”
Jared stood stunned. “You still remember word for word what I wrote two years ago? I’m––”
“You’re what? Flummoxed? Flabbergasted? Fart-faced? How long did you spend with a thesaurus in your hand searching for just the right combination of words that would put me out of business?”
“I didn’t put you out of business. You were already––”
“Words matter, Jared! You made me look out of touch, and that’s the last thing a cutting edge artist needs.”
Evan was inches from Jared’s face when he ran out of things to say. He stopped ranting and stepped back and shook his head.
“I’m here today because of you. I was doing just fine. And then you and your mindless article came out.”
Jared gathered himself and spoke.
“I’m not the one who turned you into this,” he said, pointing to the truck with the raft of memorabilia getting soaked in the rain.
“You did this to yourself. All I did was state the obvious. Okay, so maybe I didn’t write as well as you did, couldn’t play the guitar or sing like you. But I had some integrity.”
Evan sat down on the soggy tailgate.
“Dude. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Integrity, man.” Jared had found his voice now and began to say what he came to say. “I loved your music. It was raw and honest and spoke to your generation but it also spoke to mine. So I overlooked the time you showed up as the special musical guest on The Muppets. Or the time you sang the National Anthem at the Mariners game after 9/11. But when you signed autographs at the opening of the Blockbuster store in Skookumchuck––seriously, man. What were you thinking?”
Evan listened to Jared rail about trading on his name for glory and a quick buck and he remembered exactly what he was thinking. He wasn’t thinking about fortune or fame of any kind. He was thinking about the alimony payments and child support he had to keep up with, the agents and managers who misappropriated his finances, and the house on Elliott Bay that he was upside down in. And he thought about how hard it was to keep up appearances. Yes, he’d had reservations about the direction his career had taken him and the lengths he had gone to in an effort to stay relevant. He remembered the constant battle to stay in the public eye when record sales dipped and his living expenses rose and the fickle public’s thirst for musical teen angst dried up.
A small group of curious onlookers began to surround the verbal combatants. Among them was a young mother in yoga pants who had stopped pushing her double stroller, a middle aged man in business casual who paused on his way to work to see what all the shouting was about, and a 26 year-old guy in a flannel shirt and a woolen tuque on his head. He carried an iPhone and was overtly recording the whole encounter. Emboldened by the growing crowd and the presence of a camera, Jared continued.
“And then they named a cologne after you: Evan’s Scent? Seriously? But even that wasn’t the final straw. When you let them use Nothin’ Will Stop Us to sell Chevys when you don’t even drive a Chevy––that’s when you killed me. That’s when you killed yourself.”
A smattering of applause rose from among the observers. Jared nodded in solidarity with the crowd and muttered an almost inaudible thank you at their response.
“Hey, Evan!” shouted a 33 year-old man carrying a bag from Trader Joe’s. “I drive a Chevy cause of you. Thanks, man!”
“I named our twins Lolita and Evan!” said the young mom in yoga pants. “I play your music for them every day! Oh, and my husband loves when I wear Evan’s Scent!”
The rain abated and the wind died down as the young man with the iPhone approached his subject, shooting video all the while as he spoke.
“Evan, man, this is an honor,” he said. “I’ve got a YouTube channel in Portland and I heard you were out here. Saw it online somewhere. Can you say something for all your fans out there? They still love you. We all do.”
A wry smile appeared on Evan’s face.
“Um, I guess, just thank you for your support. It means a lot, man.” Evan looked directly into the phone. “It means so much to me that my music still touches you where you live.”
He paused to collect his thoughts and come up with the best way to say how he really felt.
“I don’t want this opportunity to pass without saying––” Evan looked out at the crowd that had grown to a couple dozen smiling and wide-eyed onlookers, and then to the truck loaded with his past, and then to Jared who stood in stunned silence.
“I’m only going to be here for another two hours, so come on down to Division Avenue and South Sheridan right down from Wright Park. Grab a record, get you a shirt I actually wore in one of my concerts, and I’ll be signing pictures for the first fifty fans who show up. But you gotta hurry! Get a piece of musical history before it’s all sold out.”
Jared laughed softly to himself and shook his head. Sold out. And on that ironic note, he tossed the cassette back onto the truck and walked away. It started to rain again.