Yes, I have an Eddie Fisher story.
In 1989, I was asked to stage manage a fundraising show. The event benefitted a beautiful old church in the New York suburbs that both time and the diocese had forgotten. There were holes in the roof, and on rainy days there were puddles in front of the altar and down the center aisle.
I was asked by a friend to help pull off the event. He had called everyone he knew to ask them to reach out to anyone even remotely connected to anyone of note who might volunteer their talents. This call to charity was answered by radio, TV and film entertainers. Most had a connection with the area or a friend who did. One of the people who said, “Yes, how can I help?” was Eddie Fisher.
This show differed from your typical theatrical performance in many ways, the first of which was its staging before the altar of a needy church. More importantly, there was no rehearsal at all.
That evening, I met the entertainers upon their arrival, walked them to the “stage" and asked them about their needs, “Podium? Music stand? Microphone?” When I met Mr. Fisher, I introduced myself and took him though the paces. The "microphone" question was answered with a response that suggested he thought I was insane. “Yes, of course I want a microphone.”
Once the show began, I stayed off to the side. In between acts, when the lights went down, I would move whatever equipment the previous entertainer used while setting up for the next performer as each found their mark on stage in the dark.
Mr. Fisher was scheduled to sing "Ave Maria." The performer before him, a former Miss America, was to sing "God Bless America."
Her rendition of the song that Kate Smith made famous was stirring. No microphone, no accompaniment--only her voice filling the church. The audience, as well as those waiting to perform, had tears in their eyes. When she finished and the lights went down, I moved in the dark to the center of the stage to set up the microphone at the height that was prearranged for Mr. Fisher, who then met me frantically screaming in a whisper, “Get it out, take it off, take it off!”
I stopped dead in my tracks and turned, still holding the microphone stand, and moved back to where I began. Even in the eye-adusting half-light, it surely looked comical because there was a slight chuckle from the audience. The last face I saw as I moved out of view was my wife's, as she mouthed to me the question on everyone’s mind: “What are you doing?!”
Mr. Fisher sang and the rest of the show concluded without a hitch. The performers exited down the aisle to applause, followed by the audience. They were going into the first of two post-performance receptions. I was the last to leave the church.
I was anxious to find my wife and explain what happened. As I turned the corner to enter the reception, I was grabbed by the shoulders and turned to find an apologetic Eddie Fisher. “You have to forgive me, that was so unprofessional. I cannot believe I put you in that position, I am so sorry. But how could I use a microphone following that girl? I would have just looked stupid. Instead, I embarrassed you. I’m sorry.”
We shook hands. “Don’t worry about it, thanks for coming tonight,” I told him as we walked into the reception together.
When I heard about his passing, I thought it was time to add this tale to my story book.
In 1989, I was asked to stage manage a fundraising show. The event benefitted a beautiful old church in the New York suburbs that both time and the diocese had forgotten. There were holes in the roof, and on rainy days there were puddles in front of the altar and down the center aisle.
I was asked by a friend to help pull off the event. He had called everyone he knew to ask them to reach out to anyone even remotely connected to anyone of note who might volunteer their talents. This call to charity was answered by radio, TV and film entertainers. Most had a connection with the area or a friend who did. One of the people who said, “Yes, how can I help?” was Eddie Fisher.
This show differed from your typical theatrical performance in many ways, the first of which was its staging before the altar of a needy church. More importantly, there was no rehearsal at all.
That evening, I met the entertainers upon their arrival, walked them to the “stage" and asked them about their needs, “Podium? Music stand? Microphone?” When I met Mr. Fisher, I introduced myself and took him though the paces. The "microphone" question was answered with a response that suggested he thought I was insane. “Yes, of course I want a microphone.”
Once the show began, I stayed off to the side. In between acts, when the lights went down, I would move whatever equipment the previous entertainer used while setting up for the next performer as each found their mark on stage in the dark.
Mr. Fisher was scheduled to sing "Ave Maria." The performer before him, a former Miss America, was to sing "God Bless America."
Her rendition of the song that Kate Smith made famous was stirring. No microphone, no accompaniment--only her voice filling the church. The audience, as well as those waiting to perform, had tears in their eyes. When she finished and the lights went down, I moved in the dark to the center of the stage to set up the microphone at the height that was prearranged for Mr. Fisher, who then met me frantically screaming in a whisper, “Get it out, take it off, take it off!”
I stopped dead in my tracks and turned, still holding the microphone stand, and moved back to where I began. Even in the eye-adusting half-light, it surely looked comical because there was a slight chuckle from the audience. The last face I saw as I moved out of view was my wife's, as she mouthed to me the question on everyone’s mind: “What are you doing?!”
Mr. Fisher sang and the rest of the show concluded without a hitch. The performers exited down the aisle to applause, followed by the audience. They were going into the first of two post-performance receptions. I was the last to leave the church.
I was anxious to find my wife and explain what happened. As I turned the corner to enter the reception, I was grabbed by the shoulders and turned to find an apologetic Eddie Fisher. “You have to forgive me, that was so unprofessional. I cannot believe I put you in that position, I am so sorry. But how could I use a microphone following that girl? I would have just looked stupid. Instead, I embarrassed you. I’m sorry.”
We shook hands. “Don’t worry about it, thanks for coming tonight,” I told him as we walked into the reception together.
When I heard about his passing, I thought it was time to add this tale to my story book.
