PROFILE : Star Clients Sing the Praises of ‘Dr. Buzz,’ the Vocal Hero

The Mile High City’s dry, oxygen-deprived and often polluted air is the bane of many singers who have strutted on stage only to have their voices wheeze to near extinction.

For relief, entertainers from opera divas to rock ‘n’ roll screamers turn to William (Buzz) Riefman, a 320-pound physician’s assistant who never leaves home without a black bag bulging with gadgets and potions designed to lubricate parched vocal passages--and save the show.

B. B. King, the Grateful Dead, Bonnie Raitt, Johnny Cash, Sting, David Bowie, Sheryl Crow and Carol Channing are a few of the performers who have had their voices salvaged by the man known as “Rock Doc” or “Dr. Buzz.”

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“I keep my equipment in my car, and I’m ready to scramble at a moment’s notice,” said Riefman, 48.

Some otolaryngologists begin treatment by peering down their patient’s throat and commanding him or her to say “aah.” But Riefman asks that his stars “sing a few bars” before he delivers advice or a remedy tailored to “clear their passages for enough time to get back on stage and give the show of our lives.”

For ailments from postnasal drip to lack of oxygen, Riefman is waiting offstage with his bag full of intravenous hydration units, inhalers, sprays, lozenges and vitamin concoctions.

“Let’s say a rock ‘n’ roller runs offstage during the break complaining of hoarseness,” Riefman said. “If dryness is the problem, I put them on my special nebulizer machine or give them a spray I call entertainer’s secret, which is a mixture of glycerin and aloe vera juice.”

Then, he said, “I pat them on the back and say: ‘You got it big guy. Get out there and rock ‘n’ roll ‘em!’ ”

Among his staunchest supporters is the lead singer for the Denver blues band Hazel Miller and the Caucasians.

“The most frightening thing in life is having your voice zapped on stage,” said Miller, who has made many late-night emergency calls to Riefman. “But the next thing you know, there’s a teddy bear of a guy at your side saying, ‘Don’t worry ‘bout it. I can fix it.’ ”

Barry Fey, who heads a company that books acts for some of the largest venues in the Southwest, claims credit for launching Riefman’s unusual sideline. In 1980, Fey said, a physician whom he summoned to rescue a performer’s faltering vocal cords had another commitment, and Riefman was sent instead. “The problem with a lot of his patients is attitude,” Fey said. “They don’t take care of themselves.”

Alcohol, Riefman said, dehydrates the esophagus and vocal cords. Cigarette smoke hits the throat at temperatures hot enough to fry an egg. Combine the ravages of those vices with Denver’s dry, dusty air and a full-throttle solo is sometimes reduced to a whisper.

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That risk explains why even the most thin-skinned entertainers find comfort in Riefman’s often-blunt advice: “Your voice is an instrument--like Elton John’s piano. You wouldn’t throw sludge on Elton’s keyboard, would you?”

Beyond his medical skills, there are other reasons why Riefman receives backstage passes to at least five concerts a week at venues ranging from stadiums to neighborhood churches: His fees are reasonable, and he never breaches a patient’s confidence.

“I have millions of secrets locked away in my head,” he said. “But these are mostly wonderful, talented people who only want to do their best. And if I can’t help them, I refer them to someone who can.”

For example, he said, “we had a performer at the outdoor Red Rock Amphitheater who was so afraid of chipmunks that we had to cover all the vents with cheesecloth to make sure the critters didn’t attack him.”

“I assured him that he was 100 times bigger than a chipmunk and had nothing to fear,” Riefman said, laughing.