Flaming Strat

My first professional gig in a band was at a wedding in Cranbrook, B.C. It was the night of the first Russia-Canada Summit Series in September 1972. The band was called "Kootenai North" and we only knew about a dozen songs. And most of the guests had last names that used to haunt us in our dreams when we were in our early teens. These familes had multi-generational affiliations with reform schools and the like and we didn't know this until we got to the hall. As well, we were from Kimberley and we were in "enemy territory."

The wedding reception was a success and on breaks we would duck out to hear the hockey game on the radio in Doug Rausch's '61 Biscayne. Russia had pulled ahead and we couldn't believe it. Nonetheless we finished the night, packed up and headed back to Kimberley with a successful first gig under our belts.

Early in the afternoon Doug's car had demonstrated trouble with the brakes and the smell of hydraulic fluid was everywhere. But, old car smells weren't unknown to us so we ignored it. At about 2:00am on Wycliffe prairie Doug exclaimed, "We're on fire!" I was half-asleep and lazily turned my head to see the bright mass behind us. I suddenly realized what it was - probably - like to be on the head of a comet looking back. Doug steered the car over to the side of the road and we jumped out just in time to see flames on both wheels. The tires were now on fire. We got down on our knees and scooped up dirt and gravel but the flames were soon around the back of the car. "She's gonna blow!" Doug yelled and we jumped back a respectable distance and waited. Ten minutes later the gas tank let go and the whole car was engulfed.

With our mouths wide open one us - not sure who - bellowed, "That was close!" It really wasn't but staring at a mass of flames that once was a car is disconcerting at best.

But the worst words were yet to come. "Kim, your Strat!" Yes my 1971 Fender Stratocaster had been lovingly placed on the back seat - which was now a crematorium. The Natural Resources tanker truck showed up and they hosed down the car and the terrific bonfire was reduced to the still night again.

Days later I went out to the autowreckers to look at the carnage and saw the remnants of the guitar. The rusty car springs supported six wires that were once guitar strings. At one end of the wires were the machine heads, bravely holding onto the strings. On the other end was the bridge piece with the tremelo arm and a charred piece of wood stuck to it. The guitar case was gone except for the latches on the floor of the car. I should have saved the pieces for posterity sake but I didn't need a reminder of how dimwitted I was.

To make matters worse, Russia beat us and our three week war on communism had suffered a severe setback.

6 and 12 String

In the summer 1978 I was making my rounds of the Vancouver bars as a solo entertainer. This was my summer job while going to U.B.C. I wasn't very good with mainstream music and depended on folk and standards. You know, "Mr. Bojangles," "The Breeze," and anything by Neil Young and Gordon Lightfoot. The crowds usually ignored me and that was fine by me. Being ignored meant that heckling was kept to a minimum.

The Mr. Sport Hotel was on Kingsway, almost out to Burnaby, and there was a lounge, bar and cabaret. I played in the lounge and various bar bands plowed through the tavern. The cabaret was saved for weekends and featured traveling showbands. Many of these were good American bands and I enjoyed listening to them after I finished. And many of these band guys came in the lounge and supported me, as well.

One group, called "Steppin' Stones," was a disco band whose worst-played song was better than anything I ever heard in any of my bands. They were that good. They could cover anything to perfection; Gerry Rafferty, Chuck Mangione, Boz Scaggs and other contemporaries, along with Mowtown greats. And they wore gold outfits with purple polka-dots (They looked better than my description).

The local rednecks, however, didn't appreciate the band and some even made comments bout their African-American descent. One of the band guys confided in me that he couldn't believe this was Canada.

The best heckle I ever experienced was in this lounge. I played both a Yamaki 12-string and Gibson Hummingbird 6-string that traded back-and-forth during the night. These were amplified by Barcus Berry pickups plugged into the small PS system. When I switched guitars I would say something like this, "I'm just going to take a minute to change from the 6 to the 12 string guitar and I'll be right back."

This night one drunk at the back piped up, "Hey, Mr. Guitar-Playin'-Man." At this he stood up. He had a longish hair and a scruffy beard. His table of friends and he might have had a set of teeth in total. But he wasn't rude-sounding.

"Tell me," he continued, "if you can't play a 6-string, how in hell are you going to play 12?"

Well, he had me. All I could do is concede defeat and say, "I'll be back in 20 minutes." The good news was, there was a new group of customers in the lounge when I came back."

Venues & Sound

Bands played at every conceivable opportunity: weddings, Legions, dance halls, malls, rodeos and fairs. If you watch "Walk the Line" and "The Buddy Holly Story" you'll see that bands even played in bowling alleys and roller rinks. When I used to hang around the "Hall" (McDougall Hall to be precise) early to help pack in equipment I would watch the revelers show up in every conceivable conveyance from dad's Studebaker to jalopies. Later, as many guys quit school to go to work, the cars became newer and more powerful. Motorcycles were few and far between although a "chainsaw on wheels" called a Honda was making inroads and pushing away the Italian Vespa as the mode of transportation for the automobile-challenged few. (The people that rode on these were, as my father used to call them, "Beatniks.") So the parking lot of the mid-60's was a potpourri of automotive technologies.

Once I did stay late because the bouncer let me hide in the cloak room to watch the band. Your see the Mounties checked these dances on a regular basis and my being 13 would have constituted a major faux pas and put put a blight on future dances. After the music ended I walked out with the multitude into the glare of headlights and thrashing bodies and the inevitable sweeping cherry-red beam of the Mountie's car. The fights had started. The fact that the combatants had taken it outside was as a direct result of the reputation of the doorman, who never tolerated such action inside.

The sound still had not caught up with the music and bands used everything from a spare amplifier to bull horns for vocal amplification. But no one expected to hear hi-fidelity. As long as the band threw in the odd slow song like "Hey Joe" for "bum-clutching" the night went well.

Except for the guitar players' trebly addition it was a bass player's game all the way. Because of the laws of physics - especially to do with lower frequencies - the bass was the loudest. It rumbled the floors of the old wooden band halls turning whole buildings into shaking bass bins. There were, in some cases, duels between the bass and the guitar players and they both would turn up their amps in response to each other's sound. Soon the vocals were completely lost and the un-miked drummers could only hammer mercilessly on their chrome snares and smash their cymbals to provide some semblance of a beat. Sometimes, in rare occasions, the drums and bass were out of sync because the drummer was guessing and the bass player, usually a novice, had not learned the fine art of following the drummers' bass drum - or kick - beat.

The only other noticeable sound from a dance of this sort was feedback. Most of the PA stuff - anything that a microphone was plugged into - was behind the singer which caused the annoying audio loop and the resulting noise even had the bass player shaking. Also, a yelp from whomever was singing usually meant that his mike was not grounded and his lips were a good conduit for a nice smack of DC from the amp. Depending on the power of the amplifier the singer could end up on his back on the stage. Flipping the ground switch on the back of the amp usually solved this.

More Band Guy Threads

When 1969 hit the clothes took a real turn for the bizarre. The loud limes, purples and oranges of the Camaros and other hot cars were transformed to shirts and everyone (everyone whose parents were the slightest hip) had bell-bottoms. As I was not a band guy during this time I just wore the clothes they did (Fake it 'til you make it). I did, however, shed my pea-jacket and neckers and bought hip huggers with a macrome belt that tied and the ends hung down over my white chenille bell-bottoms. Addidas shoes and a "underwear shirt" completed the ensemble. This all ended suddenly when Harvey Broster came back from Vancouver with tie-dyed jeans (Except for the Addidas. These I wore for 15 more years . . . not the same ones!) Harvey also had long hair but that would not come for me until I left for university.

Back to band guy stuff: My first introduction to band uniforms was in 1975, a full ten years after I made my debut with my Kent bass. Our band, Station House, landed a full-time job at the Four Brothers cabaret in Cranbrook, B.C. and the owners, nice fellows of Chinese descent, wanted us to look professional on the weekends. So, we went down to the local haberdashery and got our "Pumpkin Outfits." These so named after the dull orange, acetate (napalm again) shirt. The pants were a cream color not conducive to spilled drinks. During the week, we experimented with various clothing matches and our guitar player, George Plant, came in one day wearing a denim jumpsuit. So, I got a corduroy pair and then he got denim bib overalls (all the rage) and I proceeded to buy white ones (again, not spilled-drink-friendly).

But I witnessed the peak of uniforms when I joined Sensation, a showband featuring a friend of mine from Kimberley, Randy Marchi. Our "Banana Outfits" were : yellow polyester jacket, matching yellow pants, matching yellow waist coat and black (napalm) shirt. We inherited this apparel from various other sidemen who had played with the band over the past few years. Me, being tall, naturally got the shortest waist coat and no one would trade with me. This made me look rather "giraffish." So I created my own "wardrobe malfunction" and another band member finally traded with me after some great pursuasion. I think it had to do with me trading my single room to the drummer who had a hot date. (We took turns having a room to ourselves because the clubs only gave us 4 for 5 guys and the band leaders had their own rooms all then time) When he, a short fellow, passed out the long item I gave him the short waist coat and the key to my room.

The band guys in 1965? Colored jackets, white shirts, black pants and Beatle Boots. Brylcreem lasted until 1971 then "the wet head was dead." Young band guys today still sport swatches of acne.

Lately, I just wear what people give to me (and beer companies, etc.).

What Band Guys Wore

Beatle boots. No question about it. If you were a band guy you wore Beatle Boots. These boots were much like black cowboy boots cut off above the ankle and there was usually a zipper on the side. Like long hair, many parents - including mine - associated these kind of boots with "greaseballs" and forbade their kids to have them. The Simpsons - or Eaton's - catalogue had a version called "Mustang Boots" which had a small, chromed version of the vaunted Ford pony logo on the side. They were still taboo to my folks. I would have to be happy with suede shoes that went shiny on the toes after three months.

The early band guys - 1962 to 1967 - wore suites with ties. There was no getting around it. For their dances the Legions and other service clubs demanded this attire and, until late 1965, the British bands did too. Paul Revere and the Raiders were one of the first "theme" bands, even before Brian Jones of The Rolling Stones bought his first frilly shirt and velvet jacket. Even the Beach Boys and Jan and Dean had the surfer look to go with their image. Although, when you think of it, this was probably the everyday dress in California only multiplied for each band member - red candy-stripes, white pants and white crew shoes. Whereas, I bet the boys in the Raiders never wore their tri-corned hats to a drive-in movie.

Around the time of Sergeant Pepper bands were completely rid of their uniforms - with the exception of the showbands. Page-boy hair caused a stir and led to the demise of many a barber shop and bands sported the latest in Carnaby Street wear, which was a lucrative rip-off of the second-hand stores where Mick, Brian and Keith used to buy their wardrobes. Hell, I even had a "Monkee Shirt," a velour pull-over with a double-breasted patch whihc was buttoned down like Roy Roger's shirt. Check out an early Monkees album. (My paisley necker is still in one of my drawers.)

In the '70's, higher-classed clubs began to demand the uniform look again and in one of our bands wore these light, crepe-material shirts with ballon sleeves and cuff with so many buttons it took you five minuest to do up each one. The front took ten minutes. I called them "Neil Diamond shirts" 'cause he wore them. And I found out later that the chemical composition of these shirts was very close to that of napalm. Then Richard Pryor was almost roasted to death while trying to execute a "speedball." His butane lighter got too close and his shirt went up like a torch. So ended this style. I bet if you analyzed one of these shirts today it's composition would resemble toxic waste.

Band Guys

When I was 11 the guys in bands were gods. And up until I was in my teens my friends and I would get to the intended dance early to help the boys pack in the equipment. For this effort we received two perks: First, the door man would usually let us stay for the first set - until the 10:00pm curfew horn blew. And, second, we got to manhandle the totems of great desire. There were names like Rogers, Slingerland, Bogen and, the Holy Grail of all names, Fender.

Most of the band guys smoked and that was readily accepted. I had Beatle bubble gum cards which showed the Fab Four smoking so these stars could surely follow that lead. Of course, I would have been drawn and quartered by my father for partaking of an Export A or Number 7.
They also wore band outfits on stage like all the big recording bands and practiced a crude form of choreographics where they moved in unison. This was especially noticeable in instrumental songs like "Let's Go!" where they even yelled the title at certain parts of the song. Singing was usually not their forte and many of them only had two mikes between four guys. The drummer almost never sang, usually because, at the time, there was no boom attachments to the stands.

In 1965 most band guys did not have "Beatle Haircuts." They had the Brylcreemed, swept-back style of Franki Valli or Bobby Rydell's pompadour but stopped short of the "ducktail" and jellyrolls of the "greaseballs." The first band guy I knew that had hair down past his upper earlobe was a friend of the family named Dennis Davies, a flashy drummer with a Stewart kit whom my father used to remind to "get a haircut, Davies!" He even got kicked out of school for a while until he got a trim. (Today, at almost 58, he is doing four shows a day at the Calgary Stampede, drumming with all sorts of bands from country to tribute. He just turned down a 2 year tour with Uriah Heap because he is looking after his granddaughter.)

Bands had great neams too: The Epics; The Henchmen; The Playboys; The Stolen Lords; The Nocturnals; The Ticons; The B.C. Chevelles; The Piltdown Men; The Fugitives. In Februray of 1966 there was a "Battle of the Bands" at our own Selkirk High School featuring these groups. There was an A and a B category, the latter for younger bands. The Fugitives won the B and, I believe, The Epics won the A even though they pulled a Who and knocked down their equipment after the show. They stopped short of destroying it. Dennis Davies played with The Epics and his mother gave him what-for after the display. I thought it tied the theme together nicely. And I went home afterward and sang into my Armaco crystal mike perched on the broomstick - which was screwed to the piece of plywood - and pretended I won as best singer.

Learning Songs

Because the "Golden Half-Hour" was just that, a half hour, you only heard five to seven songs and a mess of commercials. So, you'd hear it only once every few days and then it was gone. So if you didn't own the record it made learning a song a very difficult endeavor.

Another way to hear a song was at the local diner. If the place was popular (we had both types) then it might take a while to hear your particular song because the queue for the jukebox could be an hour or more. The joke was that if you put your quarter in at high noon you could go back to school and return at four o'clock just in time to hear it. I spent many nights with pen and paper writing down what snippets I could hear; verses, parts of verses, and words to fill in for the ones that went by too fast or we couldn't understand because the singer drawled - like Mick Jagger. The Beatles, for the most part, were very easy to understand.

The best way to learn a song was to buy the record, a 45rpm disk, for 79 cents + tax. If you had a birthday you could ask for the LP, or long-play "album," so named because the old, heavy 78 speed disks came in a photo-album-like package with paper sleeves. (I still have Al Jolson's, 'The Jazz Singer' in that format) The regular, monophonic ones were $4.95+ tax and the "Full Stereophonic" versions were $5.95. However, unless you got the ones that stated on the cover "can be played on monophonic phonographs" you could miss out on some parts like harmonies, etc. Still, whatever mode of playing the song, you still had to play it over and over again to get words and the chords and the lead solos (or as close as you could for the level of playing. My 3-note bass lines didn't require much inovation especially since I couldn't make out the bass parts anyway.)

I still have the words to "Little Honda" and they start like this: "I'm gonna wack-it-up-girly-'cause-I'm-gonna take-a-ride-with-you." The the proper start is, "I'm gonna wake you up early. . ." Still, I don't feel so bad when John Prine talked about the fan who wanted the "Happy Enchilada Song." Confused Prine asked, "Sorry, what song?" The fan yelled out, "You know, 'It's a happy enchilada and I think I'm gonna drown!'" The actual words are, "It's half an inch of water. . ."