born 8 March 1970

Andrea Parker, county of Monterey, California, actress

Ara Anton, Evanston, Illinois, extra

Christopher Binney, Toronto, Ontario, assistant director

David Sidoni, Los Angeles, California, real estate agent

Hafid Bouazza, Oujda, Morocco, Dutch-language novelist

India, San Juan, Puerto Rico, singer

Jaana Fomin, Stockholm, Sweden, costume designer

Jason Elam, Fort Walton Beach, Florida, NFL placekicker

Jed Rees, Vancouver, British Columbia, actor

Nikki Wilde, state of Texas, porn star

Robert Rotondo, Providence, Rhode Island, film runner

Rumi Kashahara, Itoigawa, Japan, voice talent

Tina Cannizzaro, Poughkeepsie, New York, script supervisor

Zoltán Nyári, birthplace unspecified, Hungarian tenor

IMDb synopsis:

Chris plays himself as a low-key, nebbishy rock star fumbling sincerely with mundane neighborhood & bizarre rock god situations.

That’s a pretty apt summation. “The Chris Isaak Show” was on the air, for short cable seasons, during the first half of the decade just past. But it belongs to an earlier era in TV, and celebrity culture generally. The storylines were very old-fashioned. The tales of a cut-down-to-life-size musician and his compatriots were always, at worst, a soothing and enjoyable way to spend the time. At its best, the show dealt brilliantly and truthfully with all manner of romantic misgivings.

At all times, the comic foil for the beatific “Chris Isaak” character was his band’s drummer, Anson, played by Today’s Winner. Anson was perpetually disheveled, and his drumsticks were prone to stray off to places where they did not rightfully belong. The other members Isaak’s band – sweet, amiable third, fourth, and fifth bananas – were portrayed by his actual fellow musicians. Rees was the only non-musician playing one in the show. I always wondered about that. Was it the Spinal Tap situation that so many real bands have, where capable drumming services were always too much of a hassle to retain over the long haul? Or was Isaak’s actual drummer too ungovernable a personality to deal with the dull and delicate business of shooting television comedy on a set?

The way Jed Rees plays it suggests the latter. He’s like a cuddly child’s toy animal with hard liquor on its breath. He’s always getting pantsed by unkind dominatrices in absurd positions. He can barely dress himself most mornings, but he shows up, and can keep the beat thumping, which forgives a great deal.

That show may never see the light of day on DVD. It’s a classic example of the clustercuss that's bound to occur any time music rights and movie intertwine. But it’s well worth seeking out if it ever does.