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On Feb. 28, there was an explosion on the steps of the state capitol building in Nashville. It wasn’t terrorism; in fact, it was a politician who pushed the plunger. Rather, it was a wakeup call, a demonstration of the power—and the danger— of pyro, and it came almost three years to the day that nearly 100 patrons died in a pyro-induced fire at The Station nightclub in Warwick, R.I.
The demonstration was orchestrated by Melissa Bast, co-owner with husband Randy of High Tech Special Effects, a pyro design and display company based in Memphis. It was the denouément of Bast’s three-yearlong effort to get the state and the pyro industry to recognize the need for more intelligent regulation of pyrotechnical productions before another deadly event occurs.
“Tennessee had two fireworks-related accidents last year,” says Bast from her hotel room in Nashville, where she has been spending a lot of her time helping guide the proposed legislation, sponsored by state Rep. Curry Todd and state Sen. Tim Burchett, through the state legislature. “There were no deaths, fortunately, but that was two accidents too many. What needs to happen is that the training, testing and certification of pyro technicians needs to be better organized and codified, which is what this legislation is intended to do.”
More to the point, Bast adds, the legislation is an attempt by the industry itself to create meaningful regulation guided by the industry experts, and not uninformed measures tossed off by legislators instinctively reacting to a tragedy.
However, even reactionary measures might be better than nothing. According to Bast, Tennessee, along with more than a dozen other states, had not significantly updated their pyro ordinances and regulations in years, decades in some instances. The proposed legislation would increase license fees for exhibitors, distributors and manufacturers to $1,000 a year, up from the current $750, creating what Bast hopes will be a “self-sustaining” regulatory environment that would fund additional fire marshal training and enforcement.
The event that triggered Bast’s effort was the fire that engulfed The Station club on Feb. 20, 2003, after rock band Great White shot off “gerbs” whose fireballs ignited the acoustic foam in the club’s ceiling. The ensuing blaze killed 97 people and injured more than 180. The band’s manager, Daniel Biechele, pleaded guilty to involuntary manslaughter earlier this year. Litigation continues against the club’s owners, the band and the city of Warwick.
Three days earlier, a stampede after a fight at Chicago’s E2 club killed 21 people and injured more than 50. Together, these tragedies might have led to more stringent regulation of pyro, except that they occurred during the runup to the Iraq invasion, which quickly moved them off the front pages and the minds of legislators.
Bast’s efforts at getting legislation moving in Tennessee put the issue back on the front burner in that state and in several other Southern tier states that are also considering new regulatory legislation.
Bast’s work also indicates how an industry can move to channel intelligent reaction to events such as these. She included her biggest competitor in the region, Landsen Hill, owner of Pyro Shows, Inc. in Knoxville, in her efforts. “Once he saw the research I’d done, Landsen realized that we as industry professionals needed to lead the initiative for better regulation,” she says.
Plumbers and electricians need licenses in all states; pyro technicians rarely do. Bast notes that Tennessee, which already sees significant revenues from the entertainment industry, is gaining more from professional sports franchises whose games often use pyrotechnics.
Then there’s the culture of pyro in America, particularly in the Southern states where fireworks are not only legal but, along with guns, are considered a rite of passage. “People love to see things get blown up, and they love to blow things up,” says Bast. “But in the blasting industry, they move you back as far as possible before they detonate a building; in pyro, we say, ‘Come on down!’”
Bast says that industry organizations and companies have been cooperative and supportive of the legislative effort. Some of that might stem from her experience in 1995-1996, first as an intern, then as a staffer in the Capitol Hill office of Tennessee Rep. John Tanner, where her college government studies took her after graduation. (In fact, it was while working for Tanner that Bast, a KISS fanatic, refused a mid-show invitation in Washington, D.C. by band member Gene Simmons to join other girls from the audience on stage. Her steadfastness attracted the attention of Randy Bast, then KISS’ pyro technician. Simmons introduced them and Randy and Melissa ultimately married.)
Being fluent in the machinations of government certainly helps. But the key, Bast stresses, has been the fact that the effort has originated within the pyro industry itself. It also recognizes that it is a grass-roots business, rife with self-educated pyro technicians. Part of the legislation would allow individuals and organizations to pay a $100 biannual fee and affiliate themselves with a licensed pyro entity that would provide guidance, supervision and insurance.
Nonetheless, the demonstration on the Tennessee state capitol steps nearly didn’t come off. Officials, nervous about the event, questioned Bast’s permits the day before it was scheduled—the few necessary to pull the stunt in the first place. On the anniversary of the Rhode Island tragedy, they might have been more anxious about calling attention to that fact than they were about any possible damage to the front porch. Calls went all the way to the governor’s of- fice before they relented and allowed it to take place.
The event will likely encourage the bill’s passage. As Bast points out, “When you blow up stuff in the Capitol, people tend to notice.”
