A manic depressive and somewhat of a recluse, Bill Fox was on the brink of success with his band The Mice in the 80s before he broke up the band on the eve of their first national tour. Following that he recorded two solo folk albums on a cassette 4-track in his home before once again retiring from music altogether.

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Fox first made a name for himself as the lead singer and guitarist for the Mice, one of Cleveland's best indie-rock bands in the 1980s.

Interest in the Mice was rekindled when a compilation album, "For Almost Ever Scooter," was released five years ago by Scat Records, the St. Louis-based label run by ex-Clevelander Robert Griffin.

"The Mice weren't really a punk band, but they played fast, so lots of people liked them," Griffin says.

"They had great songs, too. Their name itself -- and I think this was very purposeful on their part -- it was like, 'No, we're not threatening. We're not scary. We just play music.' They weren't trying to put forward any kind of intense antihero image."

Fox's younger brother, Tommy, played drums in the Mice. He's now a member of Broke by Monday, sharing the bill next weekend with Fox (and Tourist Union) at the Beachland.

Tommy Fox declined to be interviewed for this story.

After the Mice broke up, Bill Fox reinvented himself in a folk-rock vein and released two solo albums in the late 1990s, "Shelter from the Smoke" and "Transit Byzantium." He made them at home on a four-track recorder. The projects drew national attention and rave reviews that hailed Fox as a lo-fi Bob Dylan.

Then everything changed, seemingly overnight. Fox all but dropped off the face of the earth, abruptly ditching his music career and making ends meet as a telemarketer.

Why? Only Fox can say for sure. And he isn't talking.

"I didn't know what to make of it," Griffin says of Fox's lost years.

"I heard stories," Griffin says. "I didn't know what to believe. I didn't know Bill that well -- not that I do now, but more so than then. I tend to try to reserve judgment and not speculate when I don't have all the facts."

Ironically, the more low-profile Fox sought to become, the more his fame grew. Quasi-mythological status was bestowed upon him via a 2007 profile in The Believer, a hip magazine put out by novelist Dave Eggers' McSweeney's publishing house. The article was penned by New York City writer Joe Hagan, whose wife turned him on to Fox's albums.

"They're completely beautiful and have some moments of real genius,"

Hagan says. "I was scratching my head, asking why I hadn't heard of this guy if this is so good. Hagan traveled to Cleveland in hopes of meeting Fox, to no avail. After the story ran, word got back to Hagan that Fox was less than thrilled with the piece.

His exact quote? "It's not printable in a family newspaper," Hagan says. Still, the exposure may have done some good. "I was told there were so many downloads of his albums on iTunes that he received a lot of royalties as a result," Hagan says.

"Now he seems to be coming out of the woodwork again. My wildest hope had been to draw him out and see if he might want to play, because I wanted him to know that people liked his music and that it deserves to be heard.

"There's a groundswell of interest in him. Whether it continues is in some ways up to Bill. If he's interested in meeting that interest halfway, there could be more in store for him."

Fox's albums are no longer available on iTunes, although you can find them on Rhapsody. Griffin plans to reissue "Shelter from the Smoke" and "Transit Byzantium" this year, with Fox's blessing.

"He doesn't like things being over-romanticized or painted as something that they weren't, from his perspective," Griffin says.

"I think his only concern is just not to make more out of it than it was. To him, the Mice and his solo records are things he did. He doesn't think they're genius."

Laughing, Griffin adds: "He just thinks they're music, and God, if some of these weird people still want to buy 'em, OK, let's print some more up."

'I DON'T WANT THE ATTENTION'

Several weeks after my brief encounter with Fox, I get an e-mail from Rossiter. He says Fox will be in touch with me, but he isn't up for an interview.

More time passes, with no contact from Fox. Given his reputation, I haven't been holding my breath. My follow-up e-mails and phone calls to Rossiter go unanswered, too.

The night before my deadline, I receive a tip: Fox recently landed a new job -- at The Plain Dealer, of all places.

Needless to say, I haven't bumped into him in the hallway. Turns out he works the late shift on a different floor, in the telemarketing department.

On a cold and rainy afternoon, I spot Fox outside the building, having a smoke. A cap is pulled low over his head. He appears surprised to see me.

"I don't want the attention," he says.

I tell him that while I respect his desire for privacy, I'm obliged to write about him anyway, with or without an interview.

"I don't want a story," he says. "With utmost respect, I don't want you to write anything."

I tell him that's not really an option. I can't just sit on my hands and pretend he's not performing in public again.

I understand Fox's position. I try to get him to understand mine.

"You gotta do what you gotta do," he says eventually.

We make some awkward small talk about the newspaper cafeteria and vending-machine coffee, then go our separate ways. My thoughts flash back to the Beachland. I picture Fox doing "Song of a Drunken Nightingale." It's not only my favorite song of his, but one of my favorite songs, period. With eyes closed, he sings:

Every time I turn

Someone trying to make somebody burn

Everywhere you look around

Someone trying to screw you into the ground

Roses are blue, violets are red

I'm waking up in a shadowy bed

And oh far away, far away is my love

Oh far away, far away is my love

He's just some guy with a guitar. And a haunting voice. And even if he'd rather not discuss it, a remarkable gift.