To hear Jason Frisbie sing is to see God hand you twenty dollars and tell you that everything is going to a-ok. It's like he ate a choir of angels and washed it down with sweet, honeyed wine. Metaphors were created for the sole purpose of describing how this wonderful, terrible man can work a melody.
A few weeks ago Frisbie and I went to this hole in the wall bar to meet some of our more desirable friends. I mean that these people often wore pants and a shirt and the same time, which isn't something I can say about everyone Frisbie knows. These people were hunched over a white binder when we walked in. Turns out it was karaoke night in that poorly lit place. One of our friends, a short guy with shocks of white hair shooting out of his cheeks and knuckles that looked like serrated blade, wound up singing a blistering, soulful version of Prince's “Let's Go Crazy”. It was insane. One girl started convulsing on the ground as if possessed.
Not everyone was happy, though. One guy in particular, a no-name with a torn Skid Row t-shirt got up in our friend's face, calling him a pansy, a faggot, a twinkle-toes and a bunch of other crap. Now, I said our friend had hands like a knife, but he was a peaceful death machine. He took the insults and looked the other way. Frisbie, though. Frisbie looked at the guy and right there I knew it was over. I've heard stories of people surviving hurricanes and earthquakes and a few who narrowly avoided death via volcano, but no one's survived an angry Jason Frisbie.
The poor drunk didn't even notice Frisbie. Just finished his insults and went back to his Milwaukee's Best. Our friend sat down and laughed it off. Frisbie went up to the DJ and leaned in close. I could see the DJ's eyes widen in horror? Ecstasy? I don't know. I just know that the woman struggling her way through both parts of the B-52s' “Loveshack” was surprised to find her song cut off before she even got to the chorus.
This is where things really got nasty. Jason took the mic and held it loosely between three fingers. He shifted his weight left, then right. He didn't look at the screen, but he cast a glance at me before the opening notes started playing. I was stunned. It wasn't until I heard him, in that voice from Olympus, sing “Ground control to Major Tom,” did my senses kick back in. In a flurry of desperate miming and forcing, I got our friends to cover their ears. Even through the flesh and blood mufflers, I could still hear Frisbie's voice, hitting notes that our feeble five senses weren't meant to fully realize. I dared to look around the bar. That was a mistake. People too unaware, too in awe, or too drunk to understand what was going on were being throttled, like a mix of “Scanners” and “Dogma”. What came next should be obvious.
Their heads exploded. It was insane. Blood and chunks of peoples faces were splattering everywhere while Frisbie asked, without a hint of irony, “Can you hear me, Major Tom?” Our friends were screaming, crying, or just frozen in a state of shock. The song ended, but the DJ was dead. He came to the table, put ten bucks on the table and tapped me on the shoulder, motioning towards the door. He stepped over a waitress surrounded by broken glass and spilled beer on the way out.
I've never mentioned it to him, never questioned it. Our friends were smart enough to do the same. The only thing I brought back from that night was a habit of tensing whenever he hums something on the radio.
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