SirRobertAnderson
08-04-2009, 11:27 AM
When You Perform in a Firecracker Suit, Every Show Ends With a Bang
'Ghengis John' Endures 12,000 Explosions For Charity; 'I Can't Do This Much Longer'
By CARRIE PORTER
FOWLERVILLE, Mich. -- At the Fowlerville Family Fair here, John Fletcher wrapped himself in more than 12,000 firecrackers and got ready to set them all off.
He tucked his ponytail under his protective suit, grasped a cigarette lighter with his left hand and planted his feet in a hydraulic bucket crane. As about a hundred people looked on, he gave the order to raise the bucket. "I started to cry a little bit when I put my goggles on and saw the crowd," Mr. Fletcher recalls. He admits he was scared.
Mr. Fletcher, who is 47 years old, has performed his act as "Ghengis [sic] John the Human Firecracker" dozens of times over more than 10 years. He estimates that he has ignited more than 300,000 firecrackers attached to the get-ups he creates to protect himself. Each year, he tries to make the act a bit more exciting for the crowd -- using more firecrackers or, as he did this year, more powerful ones.
Some people come back to see Mr. Fletcher's performance year after year. "I've never seen anything like it. It makes me very tense and nervous," says Stacey Lundgren, 60, who was in the crowd. "He gets hurt every time, and he just keeps on doing it."
Mr. Fletcher's motivation is complex. His performances raise money for charities like Cell Phones for Soldiers and local food banks. A former drug abuser and alcoholic who has been clean for 17 years, Mr. Fletcher says his affinity for pyrotechnics could be a new form of addiction. "I guess my firecracker suit is my drug, and it's a drug I can do that's going to help people," he says.
John Fletcher has performed his act as "Ghengis John the Human Firecracker" dozens of times over more than 10 years.
Mr. Fletcher is a short, skinny man of 47 with wavy hair that hangs nearly to his waist and a tuft of beard that juts from beneath his lower lip. When he isn't playing bass guitar with his rock band or preparing to turn himself into a stick of dynamite, he works at the Hell Survivors paintball field and at a gas station in Pinckney, Mich., about 50 miles west of Detroit.
A photo of Béla Lugosi dressed as Dracula sits on a shelf in the house trailer where Mr. Fletcher lives. Mr. Fletcher says the actor and the rock star Alice Cooper are his lifelong heroes. Mr. Fletcher grew up in Garden City, a Detroit suburb, the adopted son of an electrician who worked at General Motors and an Internal Revenue Service employee. One day, out of curiosity, he let a firecracker explode in his hand. "I was 10 or 11 years old, and it stung and left a red mark," he recalls, tracing a circle in the palm of his left hand.
About 25 years later, Mr. Fletcher was living in Pinckney and playing in a rock band. He had recently kicked drinking and cocaine and was throwing himself into his music. He was experimenting with guillotines and electric chairs as stage props when he thought firecrackers might be a worthy addition.
Practicing his act at a band mate's house one day, Mr. Fletcher attached about 100 firecrackers to a strip of light brown leather, wrapped it around his chest and lighted a fuse with a flick of his cigarette lighter.
"That was pretty much a walk in the park," he says. "So I just kept adding more firecrackers."
For his first major public performance at the 1999 Howellstock Music Festival in Fowlerville, Mr. Fletcher donned a black leather jacket he bought at the Salvation Army for $2 and matching leather chaps decorated with 6,000 firecrackers.
John Fletcher readies for his star turn.
The chaps failed to provide enough protection, and his pants caught fire. "Safety personnel were right by me, and they took care of it quickly," he says, but his legs were bruised and burned. He has had other problems over the years, including a bruised kidney and five fractured ribs. He tries to hold his breath as the firecrackers go off, but it is hard amid the pummeling. "Everything tastes like firecrackers for a week."
Although people don't pay to see him perform, Mr. Fletcher sets up donation boxes around the community before his performances. This year, he collected the equivalent of 1,000 meals in a combination of food and cash for Gleaners Community Food Bank of Southeastern Michigan.
Last month in Fowlerville, about 20 miles northwest of Pinckney, the smell of fresh manure and hay was mixed with the aromas of fried dough and sausage links at the Family Fair. As Mr. Fletcher waited for his band, Southpaw, to perform, he struggled to stay calm. "The butterflies are really kicking me in the stomach," he said, rapping a pack of cigarettes against his leg.
After the band's last song, he told the audience it was time for "ignition."
Before putting on his exploding suit, Mr. Fletcher strapped on his body armor, made of five layers of compressed leather, and took a swig from a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. Four friends draped the $200 suit on Mr. Fletcher's scarecrow frame. He had forgotten to put in his earplugs. "I've done it so many times, it's not going to make a difference," he said.
Last year, Mr. Fowler set off 13,000 firecrackers and broke his own record. This year, he went with fewer, slightly more powerful firecrackers. He spent weeks duct-taping 12,000 firecrackers onto a new black leather vest with matching chaps.
The crowd formed a semicircle along a line of yellow police tape around the crane. The amusement rides cast a garish light on the scene, as the crane began to lift Mr. Fletcher.
"I love you all," he yelled to the cheering crowd.
Once the crane had reached its full height of 36 feet, Mr. Fletcher held the blue Bic lighter to the fuse, and watched the flame run up his chest.
A series of explosions rippled up his torso, and sparks ricocheted off his armor. Smoke obscured his face. After about 30 seconds, Mr. Fletcher had to relight one of the fuses to keep the explosions coming. Onlookers whistled and yelled as the pops shot down one leg, then the other and finally on his back. With the final pop, the crowd grew quiet. Mr. Fletcher leaned over the bucket's railing, pulling off the shredded remains of his suit as he descended and tossed them to the ground.
Mr. Fletcher walked into the crowd with a whoop of relief, and then limped to the bleachers. "This takes a lot out of me," he said, surveying the powder burns and bruises on his arms. "I can't do this much longer."
'Ghengis John' Endures 12,000 Explosions For Charity; 'I Can't Do This Much Longer'
By CARRIE PORTER
FOWLERVILLE, Mich. -- At the Fowlerville Family Fair here, John Fletcher wrapped himself in more than 12,000 firecrackers and got ready to set them all off.
He tucked his ponytail under his protective suit, grasped a cigarette lighter with his left hand and planted his feet in a hydraulic bucket crane. As about a hundred people looked on, he gave the order to raise the bucket. "I started to cry a little bit when I put my goggles on and saw the crowd," Mr. Fletcher recalls. He admits he was scared.
Mr. Fletcher, who is 47 years old, has performed his act as "Ghengis [sic] John the Human Firecracker" dozens of times over more than 10 years. He estimates that he has ignited more than 300,000 firecrackers attached to the get-ups he creates to protect himself. Each year, he tries to make the act a bit more exciting for the crowd -- using more firecrackers or, as he did this year, more powerful ones.
Some people come back to see Mr. Fletcher's performance year after year. "I've never seen anything like it. It makes me very tense and nervous," says Stacey Lundgren, 60, who was in the crowd. "He gets hurt every time, and he just keeps on doing it."
Mr. Fletcher's motivation is complex. His performances raise money for charities like Cell Phones for Soldiers and local food banks. A former drug abuser and alcoholic who has been clean for 17 years, Mr. Fletcher says his affinity for pyrotechnics could be a new form of addiction. "I guess my firecracker suit is my drug, and it's a drug I can do that's going to help people," he says.
John Fletcher has performed his act as "Ghengis John the Human Firecracker" dozens of times over more than 10 years.
Mr. Fletcher is a short, skinny man of 47 with wavy hair that hangs nearly to his waist and a tuft of beard that juts from beneath his lower lip. When he isn't playing bass guitar with his rock band or preparing to turn himself into a stick of dynamite, he works at the Hell Survivors paintball field and at a gas station in Pinckney, Mich., about 50 miles west of Detroit.
A photo of Béla Lugosi dressed as Dracula sits on a shelf in the house trailer where Mr. Fletcher lives. Mr. Fletcher says the actor and the rock star Alice Cooper are his lifelong heroes. Mr. Fletcher grew up in Garden City, a Detroit suburb, the adopted son of an electrician who worked at General Motors and an Internal Revenue Service employee. One day, out of curiosity, he let a firecracker explode in his hand. "I was 10 or 11 years old, and it stung and left a red mark," he recalls, tracing a circle in the palm of his left hand.
About 25 years later, Mr. Fletcher was living in Pinckney and playing in a rock band. He had recently kicked drinking and cocaine and was throwing himself into his music. He was experimenting with guillotines and electric chairs as stage props when he thought firecrackers might be a worthy addition.
Practicing his act at a band mate's house one day, Mr. Fletcher attached about 100 firecrackers to a strip of light brown leather, wrapped it around his chest and lighted a fuse with a flick of his cigarette lighter.
"That was pretty much a walk in the park," he says. "So I just kept adding more firecrackers."
For his first major public performance at the 1999 Howellstock Music Festival in Fowlerville, Mr. Fletcher donned a black leather jacket he bought at the Salvation Army for $2 and matching leather chaps decorated with 6,000 firecrackers.
John Fletcher readies for his star turn.
The chaps failed to provide enough protection, and his pants caught fire. "Safety personnel were right by me, and they took care of it quickly," he says, but his legs were bruised and burned. He has had other problems over the years, including a bruised kidney and five fractured ribs. He tries to hold his breath as the firecrackers go off, but it is hard amid the pummeling. "Everything tastes like firecrackers for a week."
Although people don't pay to see him perform, Mr. Fletcher sets up donation boxes around the community before his performances. This year, he collected the equivalent of 1,000 meals in a combination of food and cash for Gleaners Community Food Bank of Southeastern Michigan.
Last month in Fowlerville, about 20 miles northwest of Pinckney, the smell of fresh manure and hay was mixed with the aromas of fried dough and sausage links at the Family Fair. As Mr. Fletcher waited for his band, Southpaw, to perform, he struggled to stay calm. "The butterflies are really kicking me in the stomach," he said, rapping a pack of cigarettes against his leg.
After the band's last song, he told the audience it was time for "ignition."
Before putting on his exploding suit, Mr. Fletcher strapped on his body armor, made of five layers of compressed leather, and took a swig from a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. Four friends draped the $200 suit on Mr. Fletcher's scarecrow frame. He had forgotten to put in his earplugs. "I've done it so many times, it's not going to make a difference," he said.
Last year, Mr. Fowler set off 13,000 firecrackers and broke his own record. This year, he went with fewer, slightly more powerful firecrackers. He spent weeks duct-taping 12,000 firecrackers onto a new black leather vest with matching chaps.
The crowd formed a semicircle along a line of yellow police tape around the crane. The amusement rides cast a garish light on the scene, as the crane began to lift Mr. Fletcher.
"I love you all," he yelled to the cheering crowd.
Once the crane had reached its full height of 36 feet, Mr. Fletcher held the blue Bic lighter to the fuse, and watched the flame run up his chest.
A series of explosions rippled up his torso, and sparks ricocheted off his armor. Smoke obscured his face. After about 30 seconds, Mr. Fletcher had to relight one of the fuses to keep the explosions coming. Onlookers whistled and yelled as the pops shot down one leg, then the other and finally on his back. With the final pop, the crowd grew quiet. Mr. Fletcher leaned over the bucket's railing, pulling off the shredded remains of his suit as he descended and tossed them to the ground.
Mr. Fletcher walked into the crowd with a whoop of relief, and then limped to the bleachers. "This takes a lot out of me," he said, surveying the powder burns and bruises on his arms. "I can't do this much longer."