Until February 20 of last year, Jack Russell was best known for one song -- a cover of Mott the Hoople's "Once Bitten, Twice Shy," performed with a big-haired bravado that made his band, Great White, a momentary star of the '80s hard-rock firmament. What a difference a year makes. Russell may now be the most notorious middle-aged '80s relic this side of the state-fair circuit. He was standing center stage when the Station nightclub in Rhode Island ignited, killing 100 people and variously maiming, disfiguring, blinding and crippling hundreds more.
Russell and his bandmates were not among those indicted by a Rhode Island grand jury last December; the Station's two owners and Great White's former tour manager, 26-year-old Dan Biechele, were each charged with 200 counts of involuntary manslaughter and could face up to thirty years in prison. Russell and the band will probably be named as defendants in a round of civil lawsuits expected this spring. In the meantime, he remains the most reviled man in Rhode Island, a state that's been left to absorb much of the financial aftershocks of the fire; recent estimates place the damages at more than $100 million. Potential lawsuits against local officials could bankrupt the tiny working-class hamlet of West Warwick.
Yet Great White rocks on. Three months after the inferno, the band was back on the road, to the astonishment of many in Rhode Island and the music industry. Russell described the tour as a fundraiser for the Station Family Fund (www.stationfamilyfund.org), an organization formed by a survivor of the fire. This month, he kicks off a new spring tour, raising anger and suspicion as well as money.
Westword: It's hard to imagine how you could ever get on a stage again after what happened. Why are you still touring?
Russell: It was very difficult, and I asked myself the same question: How can I ever get out there again when so many people lost their lives? But the only thing that got me off my couch and off my psychiatrist's couch was the support of my fans. We got tens of thousands of e-mails from people supporting the band and asking for help. What was I going to do -- sit around and mope for the rest of my life, feel sorry for myself? No. I had to get out there and do what I could.
Many people in Rhode Island say they don't want your help.
I understand that. People want to blame the band. That's okay. My only problem with those people is that when we started to tour, they were trying to stop us. I'm saying, "Wait a minute. You've got hundreds of people saying, 'Thank you. We need the help. Our kids need school clothes. I need to pay my doctor bills.'" Why would you want to stand in the way of that? If you don't want our help, don't take it, but don't stop us from helping someone else.
You've been accused of benefiting from what happened.
The only way I know how to raise money is to sing. People say, 'Oh, they're just doing this so they don't get indicted.' Well, the indictment's already come down, and we're still doing the tour. It's not to enhance Great White's future. Great White's going to be a club band forever, and that's just the way it is. No matter what we do, for the rest of our lives, we will always be associated with a nightclub fire that killed 100 people. They say, 'Oh, they're just trying to make their career come back.' Give me a break -- I'm not that stupid. The '80s aren't coming back. I wouldn't want them to.
You did 41 dates last year and raised more than $70,000. This time out, a smaller percentage of your profits will go to the fund.
Seventy thousand's not bad for a band playing nightclubs. On the last tour, we committed to give 100 percent of the profits to the fund. After we paid expenses, we gave to the fund. We went basically all last year without making a living. Obviously, we can't continue to do that for the rest of our lives; we've got families to feed as well. We need to make a living. We're taking a small percentage, and whatever is left over, we're giving away. We're in a van; we stay at the cheapest hotels. This stuff helps us give more to the fund.
You're expected to be named in several civil suits. Is any of the money that you're raising going toward your own legal defense?
Were you surprised that the band wasn't indicted?
I'm a singer, not an attorney general. We didn't know from one minute whether they were going to indict the band or not; it wasn't that important. We had other things to think about -- like the tour, helping these people out. The justice system is going to follow its own course.
Dan Biechele is facing a possible thirty-year prison sentence. You would have been looking at the same thing.
I've been in prison before, for a year and a half on a drug charge. I was a little kid; it was all involved with drugs. That was a whole lifetime ago. If that was what happened, I would have dealt with it.
You've shied away from saying whether you think Great White has any responsibility for what happened.
I feel badly about what happened. I feel terrible every fuckin' minute of my life. I lost three very close friends and 97 other friends. But there was nothing I could have done to prevent it. There was nothing that Jack Russell or Great White could have done to prevent this from happening.
So who is responsible?
There were so many things that were missed. The place was over capacity, and the amount that it was over was almost equal to the number of people who died. There's a computer model that was done in Rhode Island; they determined that if the place had been at capacity, people would have been able to get out. I'm not saying it's the inspector's fault or the club owners' fault, but you have to wonder about certain things: Why didn't the fire marshal notice the cheap foam? Lots of other bands had played there with pyro; it's just a miracle that this hadn't happened earlier.
You got out with no injuries. Some victims resent you for it.
I lived because somebody pulled me out the back door. I kept trying to go back in. Finally, this guy's like, 'No. If you go in there you're going to die.' Here's how not serious we thought this was at first: A minute after I got out the back door, I went to the bus, grabbed my cell phone and called my fiancé. I said, 'Honey, there's a fire. I think we might lose the equipment.' We all thought that somebody would come with a fire extinguisher, they'd put it out. But there was no fire extinguisher.
When did it become clear to you that it was more than a little fire?
About a minute after I hung up the phone. That place literally went up in like three minutes. It was from a little fire on the wall to a roaring inferno in a matter of minutes.
When you took a look at the Station, wasn't there a moment when you thought,'Damn, this ceiling's pretty low'?
I don't set the pyro up. That wasn't my job. The way I look at it is, if I'm a chef in a restaurant and somebody hires me to come in and cook, am I going to go back there and check the gas lines behind the stove to make sure they're hooked up properly? I'm going to expect that the club owners or whoever's running the business, if they say we're safe to use pyro, then it's going to be safe.
But it wasn't safe. It seems like it would have been obvious.
There were a lot of mistakes made that night, and it's not for me to point the finger at anybody. Nobody wanted 100 people to die. I don't think the fire marshal, when he inspected the club and didn't notice the foam, wanted 100 people to die. But what do you do now? You've gotta say, 'Okay, what can we do to make sure this doesn't happen again?' That's why I'm really adamant about tougher laws and tougher codes and tougher fire codes. And I think people need to be more proactive as individuals. I go to a restaurant, I'm looking for the exit doors. I've got fire extinguishers in my house now. I don't expect the fire department to be here in two minutes if something happens. What if they're not? What if they're here in twenty minutes? Anything can happen at any time.
'People outside of the hard-rock world have a hard time understanding pyro. What is it for?
It's just a visual effect. It's like 'Ooh, aah.' It's like seeing fireworks. It wasn't a big deal to us. We were never like, 'Omigod, we have to have that pyro.' We're not KISS. If a club owner said we couldn't use it, it was never a big deal to us -- which is why I will say to my dying day that Dan had permission to use it that night. We used a cold spark; it's not hot. You could put your hands in it. But the material on the roof was so flammable; in one report, they said it was equivalent to thirteen gallons of gasoline.
Do you experience any survivor guilt?
I think I did. I was lucky enough to escape with my life, and I thank God for that every day. But it wasn't like I didn't lose anything. I lost 100 friends -- three of them very close friends. Not one person came out of there unscathed. You might have walked out not burned or unharmed, but you didn't come out without some kind of emotional scar. There are always questions: Why did this happen to me? Then I realized it's not about me. What can I do with this lesson here? How come I lived? How come my guitar player died?
Ty Longley lived in Boulder before joining your band in 2000. Was it hard to find someone to take his spot?
It's impossible to replace Ty. I look at it as, 'There's another guy sitting in for him.' That was one of the hardest things about playing again: I look to my right, he's not there. He was my good friend, and I miss him more than you will ever know.
One of the greatest burdens on the state of Rhode Island is mental-health care for people with psychological problems stemming from the fire. You mentioned the psychiatrist's couch earlier. Are you in therapy?
I was in the psychiatrist's/psychologist's office for several months. I finally said, 'I can't do this anymore.' The most therapeutic thing for me has been talking with Pat Longley, Ty's dad. And I talk with a lot of the survivors. Being involved with the fund and doing something positive with my music is probably the greatest therapy for me.
Critics have been pretty harsh about your music when writing about what happened. Rolling Stone recently called you a "washed-up boogie band."
I've never played for critics. I don't know a single music critic that's ever paid for an album or a ticket in their life.
The perception is that the music industry doesn't want to come anywhere near you. Do you feel formally shunned?
I've felt shunned by the industry for twenty years. I had my heyday, and I'm comfortable with that. I've been comfortable with that for a decade.
There are a lot of really horrible stories about some of the survivors -- people who will forever be confined to beds, or have their eyes sewn shut, or have burns over 90 percent of their bodies. Life is different for a lot of people now. How is it different for you?
It's made me look at everything in my life. It's like a second chance. I've made some changes in my personality, my relationships. It's not like, 'Whoopee, I'm alive.' Because so many people weren't so lucky, and I wouldn't wish what I've been through on anyone. But by the same token, I'm here and I'm whole, and I'd better do what I can.
The first line of your bio reads: 'Great White knows something about survival of the fittest.' Does that seem appropriate to you considering so many people didn't survive a Great White show?
I think you're looking way too deep into a cliche.
Yeah, but it's a cliche that's representing you.
This band has gone through a lot of things. We've been counted out more times than Muhammad Ali. People don't realize that we were victims, too.
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