I was raised on matinees on Saturday afternoons
Looking up at Hoppy, Gene, and Roy, oh boy
I grew up a thinking the best a man could do
Was to be a rootin-tootin straight-shooting
cowboy buckaroo…
Mason Williams
I knew we were in for a long evening when we showed up to interview cowboy singer Todd Fritsch at the Bonanza club and the manager refused to let us in. It was going to be a long evening anyway but the fun went out of it after our run-in with this Arschloch.
Driving east we followed the Rhine upstream, then along the shore of Lake Constance as far as Steckborn where we turned right, climbing through a range on hills and coming down into the Thur valley. Skirting Frauenfeld, we followed the river upstream, crossing it a couple of times. Described as the “breadbasket of Switzerland” in the Lonely Planet guide, Canton Thurgau is also known for dairy, apple, and wine production. A patchwork of farms, villages, and twisting roads, this looks nothing like the alpine Heidiland Switzerland, but it is pretty country all the same. We found the place, on the far side of a village called Bissegg, a tall barn-like building. The sign had western-style lettering and featured a bigger-than-life black and white mural of the Bonanza cowboys. I vaguely remembered the television series, tried to recall their names: Hoss and Curley, something like that. I remembered the theme song that sounded like galloping horses, and I dum-da-de-lum-da-de-lum-da-dum’ed the intro as we pulled into the drive.
We found two doors in front, both locked and tried knocking. Hans-Ruedi pressed his ear to the door. “I hear music, they must be inside.”
“Let’s go around to the back.”
We found a kitchen-delivery door in the back and Edith knocked. A man came to the door, blond with sharp features. Later he would be wearing a bright red western shirt with white yoke. He was not friendly. “We are not open until seven o’clock.”
“We have an appointment to meet Todd Fritsch here at five o’clock for an interview.”
“He is not here.”
“What do you mean he’s not here? We know the band is sound-checking. We can hear them.”
“He is not here.”
“Where can we find him?”
“He is at the hotel.”
Following directions, we drove back the way we had come. We found the hotel, a Gasthaus in the next village. “That SOB is lying.”
“He is the same person I talked to on the telephone in March. Lügen haben kurze Beine; lies have short legs. ”
“I thought so; he’s a liar twice over. So or so, we have to wait until seven. Maybe the band will come back to the hotel after soundcheck to change before the show.”
Edith and I ordered coffee and Hans-Ruedi a beer. A girl behind the bar told us there were rooms booked for the band but that they weren’t there; they were at the Bonanza club, she said. We returned to our seats. I finished my coffee and after awhile ordered a beer, watching the parking lot through the window. One wouldn’t hurt. “This is not the only way into the hotel; they can come in by another door, Edith said.”
“I’ll go check.” I had to go to the men’s room anyway. Returning from the toilet, I walked out to the other door and saw two guys with bags and instrument cases approaching on foot. One looked slightly familiar. “Are you with the Todd Fritsch band?”
“We just came on the train from Munich. I think I know you, aren’t you Richard Dobson?”
“You look familiar.”
“Scot Shipley, I met you at Merlischachen when I was touring with Gail Davies and Sergio Webb.”
“Right, I remember. The rest of your guys are sound-checking at the club. We’re waiting to do an interview with Todd.” We shook hands. Scot introduced me to the other musician, a large man carrying a violin case, whose name was Aaron. I went back to my seat, rejoining Edith and Hans-Ruedi. After a time a short, breathless woman came in whom I recognized as the Swiss promoter for the show, Amalee, who also went by the name of “DJ Röteli.” She was giddy, starstruck, and nervous. It was almost seven o’clock. We explained our difficulties, and that we had not been able to get into the Bonanza. “Don’t worry; you will get your interview.”
“Please make sure we’re on the guest list. There are three of us.”
“No problem, I will arrange this.”
The doors were open at the club when we returned, a man and a woman at the desk by the entrance. But when we tried to enter the main hall the manager blocked the way. “Have you reservations?”
“DJ Röteli said she would make arrangements for us.”
“She can say what she likes; all the places are taken. We are full.”
“Never mind, we can wait back stage.” I didn’t catch all of the conversation but I picked up the drift.
“Danke fur ihre grossen hilfe,” Edith said, “Thanks for your big help.”
There was no back stage; only a bar and restaurant across a hall. We sat down again at a table opposite the service bar. The place was decorated theme park western, with American flags, and pictures of Indians; and band posters, some of them of Jonny Hill, a German country singer who had made a career out of a Deutsch version of “Teddy Bear,” a treacly, maudlin truck-driving song. Rumor had it Jonny Hill, who lived in Switzerland, was owner of the Bonanza.
Again we sat down to wait. Scot and Aaron came and ordered dinner. The others had already eaten. Several band members wandered in and out. None of them looked like Todd Fritsch. In the main hall we could hear DJ Röteli spinning platters for the line-dancers. Hans-Ruedi ordered two beers. When they had finished eating I asked Scott, “Where is the singer? I’m still waiting to do an interview.”
“I don’t know where he is, he’s supposed to be here. We gotta go on right now.” It was already after nine o’clock.
It was getting late, by Swiss standards, for a show advertised to begin at eight. We hadn’t seen DJ Röteli since we came in. We heard the band start up in the main room. The manager came and went in his red cowboy shirt. Years of meditation and hewing to the mandate of compassion went out the window as I fantasized on the satisfaction it would bring to stuff his head in the toilet. The waitresses came and went from the bar with food and trays of drinks. I walked to the front door where the ticket takers were sitting, and seeing two of my posters that had been there since March, ripped them from the wall. Returning to the table, I tore the posters into bits. We had been waiting four-and-a-half hours, and I was about to lose it. I wasn’t even making any money for this.
The sight of a frantic D.J. Röteli allowed me to recover some composure. Not that I took pleasure in her discomfit, but I sensed that things were going wrong generally, and not just with us. The star was missing, the band finishing their first set without him. Hans-Ruedi and I speculated on his whereabouts… kidnapped? Lost? Hans-Ruedi ordered another beer and a hamburger plate. A tall guy introduced himself, Doug DeForest, Todd’s manager-producer-bass player. “Did you find Todd?”
“There was a mix up. He’s back at the hotel. Someone’s gone to pick him up. You’re still waiting to do your interview.”
“We were here to interview at five, but we couldn’t get in.”
“Sorry about that; you’ll get your interview, I promise.”
“That’s okay, it wasn’t your fault.”
Todd Fritch, when we finally caught up, was young, sincere, polite, and looked just like his photos. He had a working man’s handshake. A real cowboy from a Texas ranching family it said in his press kit, and I judged this to be true. Knowing the crowd was impatient, I kept it as brief as possible, working from a short list of questions. I had never done an interview before where I was asking the questions, though I had done it the other way often enough. This turned out to be the easiest part of the evening. The tension seemed to slack off a notch as the band started up.
“Schätzli, you like a drink?”
“I guess I can drink another beer. That will only make three in more than five hours.”
“You like to eat something?”
“Thanks, I’ll have a snack when we get home.”
Todd Fritsch and band played a long set, and we could still hear fairly well from the other room. They played straight country, a full band of six pieces with pedal steel and fiddle. We stayed until the end of the final encore. I drove carefully on the way back while Hans-Ruedi and Edith carried on a palaver in Swiss German. I had the interview on mini-disc. It would take a day to transcribe and get it ready, but I thought it had come out okay, considering the circumstances.