The Glamour Of Being A Musician

Winter 1998

Okay kids; get out you map of Ontario. Take your index finger and trace the steps I began in late 1998. Start with your finger in the heart of the province, Toronto. Begin moving toward the north. Barrie? You are only mere steps from home. Keep going. Pass "nature lovers favourite retreat": Algonquin Park. You, my friend, are headed for the real nature of Ontario. Keep going past Perry Sound. Continue through North Bay and the nickel mines of Sudbury. Hang in there; you’re almost half way. Wave hello as you pass the retirement community in Elliot Lake and the nice folks in Blind River. When you get to Sault Ste. Marie, stop at "Tim Horton’s Donuts" because it will be the last beacon of civilization you’ll see for a while. Once you pass Wawa, start looking for a town called White River. It’s easy to recognize. There is a giant thermometer erected at the side of the road when you first pull into to town that serves as a proud reminder that this town was, at one point, the coldest place in Canada.

I don’t remember the exact temperature these poor people had to endure, but it was cold. They have actually erected this sign to show how proud they are of staying in a town that got colder than anywhere else in the country once. Absurd.

White River’s other claim to fame is that it is the "birthplace of Winnie The Pooh". There is a long and convoluted story attached to that claim that is far too boring to write here.

It was in White River that we began what was to be a three-week tour of Ontario’s nether regions.

Our trusty friend and agent Pete sent us on the trip with two contracted dates, promising to get more in the area when we got up there. The band was an early version of The Beat Heathens called Big Sister Laura (named after an inflatable sex doll). We were to do gigs as Big Sister Laura and Mr. Soul, a tribute band we had formed to perform the music of Neil Young (with me playing the role of Neil).

At the time I was driving a Chevette with a noisy muffler. All I really wanted was to make enough money to put an exhaust on my car.

The band consisted of myself, Scott Apted, Mike Montgomery (the current Heathens) and Paul Giamarco on second guitar. We took Paul’s Chevy Blazer and rented a trailer from my dear friend Ward to carry our gear.

The drive to White River took us 15 hours. It may have been much less if it wasn’t for Paul’s faulty fuel gauge that left us out of gas on the side of the road 10 kilometers south of Sudbury. It was about 3 in the morning. After some fumbling with an expired auto club membership and standing on the roadside waiting for assistance for an hour we were off (we decided it was far too risky to sit in the Blazer to wait…trucks were speeding by and we were parked on a tight corner).
During the trip I discovered a multitude of information. On the list:

· It only took 4 hours on the road before an argument broke out

· 1990 Chevy Blazers, contrary to what their sales brochures likely said, do not seat four comfortably

· When we figured out our porno names (your first pet’s name followed by your mother’s maiden name) Mike’s, by far, was the best: Blue Van Tassle.

· The wool sweater that my girlfriend-at-the-time knitted me, besides being the best sweater in the world, made a great pillow, blanket and air filter against male flatulence when placed over your face

· Instead of being labelled with the word "Heat", the heater control panel in Paul’s truck should have actually read "Heat-except in the back seat"

· Paul’s poor taste in music was graphically illustrated by his tape collection. I met my lifetime quota for Whitesnake and Bad Company songs on that drive (I later discreetly "dropped" the Whitesnake tape out the window)

We played in White River’s Legion hall for a group of lumber workers. There was something uniquely "Northern Ontario" about it. After lugging our equipment through a snowy field enduring freezing rain, we went to the motel to divvy up the money. It was quickly becoming apparent that we needed many more than the two gigs we had booked to make a profit. Although the panic was starting to set in, we felt confident that Pete would come through and find us work.

With that in mind, we hit the road again. Next stop: Geroldton (still following on your maps?).

I should have known it would get ugly. The club we were playing in Geroldton was called "The Country Club". That name alone should have been enough to warrant us packing up and going home. What’s more, the owner, upon our arrival, waved our song list in our faces. He had strategically checked off all of the songs that he wanted us to play from it. The problem came when we realized that the list he had was fabricated by Pete to secure the gig and was made up, primarily, of songs we’d never played in our lives.

The Country Club used to be a movie theatre. The conversion from movie house to bar was a wise move. It became apparent that the people in town were more interested in drinking than seeing "Shindler’s List". One might even consider converting the library into a snowmobile repair shop, I thought. Or maybe combine the two. It would see more traffic than any other library in the country.

The two exclusive means of transportation in Geroldton were snowmobiles and pick-up trucks. A Chevy Cavalier would be a dead giveaway that you were from out of town. Way out of town.

We were booked to play there from Wednesday to Saturday. Rather than staying in a hotel, the club owned a house that was close-by where the bands would stay. We arrived two days early and immediately rented a VCR. The VCR was the easy part; finding good movies to rent in "Nicole’s Variety" however, was much more difficult. There is no such thing as "Blockbuster" in a town of 2600 people.

I, foolishly, took the couch as my sleeping quarters while everyone else had a room. My favourite Mike Montgomery moment happened there one morning when sleep was eluding me.

I had pulled out my CD player and hooked it up to the TV so I could listen to music without using the headphones. I had just put on "Kind Of Blue" by Miles Davis to relax. It always takes the edge off.
Mike came downstairs, also unable to sleep, rubbing his eyes. He made his way into the living room. Upon hearing the jazz coming from the TV speaker (Mike is not the biggest jazz fan) asked "What the $#@* are you listening to?"

"Miles Davis. Kind Of Blue" I said, proudly.

"Well, he still does" Mike replied.

After a few days in Geroldton, it was becoming apparent that we would not get any more gigs from Pete after our engagement was over at the Country Club. That’s when we took it upon ourselves to source out our own tour. Pete was not returning our calls, and we were nervous.

Mike, after much negotiation, managed to get a commitment from an agent in Thunder Bay for enough gigs to be in the clear, fiscally speaking. The problem was that the tour would keep us on the road over Christmas. Mike and I were both in the process of messy break-ups (Mike was leaving his wife and I was leaving my girlfriend) so we were all for it. However, Paul and Scott had families that loved them and wanted them home so that plan was not even considered.
We would go home when the week was over, with our tails between our legs.

Part of the deal we had with Bill, the owner of the Country Club, was that we would perform four nights as Big Sister Laura doing classic rock songs, and reserve one night to play as Mr. Soul, our Neil Young tribute.

The night we did the Neil Young show, the club was adorned with posters. Bill was very excited. Everywhere you looked was a poster advertising the evening’s event. There was a buzz in the place created by the all Neil Young show.

I approached the bar and was met by a flyer on the bar’s surface that read "Tonight-All Neil Young with Mr. Soul". When I raised my head to order a beer, I was met head-on by a poster that read "Mr. Soul-Canada’s Best Neil Young Tribute-Playing all your favourite Neil Young hits-Tonight Only!". Just then a Indian gentleman beside me tapped me on the shoulder.

"You playin’ in the band tonight…this band here" he said, gesturing toward the poster.

"Yep" I said. "Anything you want us to play?"

"Yeah. You guys know ‘You Are My Sunshine?’"

To my knowledge, Neil Young has never done a version of it to this day.

That night, I stayed in the bar after it closed and drank with the locals. I must admit that I had a very good time.
When the last night was over, we packed up and made our way back to the band house, dejected and broke. We made plans to wake as early as possible and get home.

After a breakfast in Longlac (check your map), the wheel was handed over to Mike who proceeded to drive the 18 hours all the way home (minus a stop in Sault Ste. Marie for dinner). I crawled into bed at 6:30am and stayed there for two days.

I drove my Chevette, with its noisy exhaust, for another 6 months before I saved enough money to fix it.