The brashness of Rick Danko, such a rebel and tough as nails. The softness of Richard Manuel, a deep and soothing soul who got lost in his darkness. The genius of Garth Hudson, the epitome of what a teacher should be. The cunning of Robbie Robertson, the barnacle on what’s cool and hip, scheming and manipulating like a comic book villain. And of course, Levon Helm, the wise sage who knew everything, the how-to master. He was the leader and the man who steered the ship into the most important waters. Shit, he even quit the band when he got booed during the Dylan electric tour of 1965. He went and worked on an oil rig! Talk about getting away. When he came back, he directed them into the “Brown Album.” That Civil War–feeling rock, the halftime ruggedness. So good. So Levon. Maybe the bahd of bahds in my opinion.
The Band was huge and had major internal strife that eventually ended it. What a run, though. Canadianity at its finest. Thank you, Ronnie Hawkins, for putting these guys together. You created a monster!
1.The Tragically Hip
When I was a teenager, I spent a lot of time in a small brick room at Rumble Fish Studios by myself, skipping school to practise drumming. Eventually I was thrust out of Emery Collegiate and ended up writing my correspondence-course assignments in that grey, empty space while taking breaks from practice, playing along with tons of old records by bands like Zeppelin, Cream and the Who. The Tragically Hip was one of those bands I was into. I played along with all of their records.
When I got to see them at the Ontario Place Forum in 1989, I really thought they were incredible. I have so much fun watching them. So many songs that pound you with great memories for hours. It was an honour to do shows and eventually become friends with all of them. I respect them immensely and love how they do business in music.
When I heard about Gord’s cancer, it was a real gut punch. It was like hearing about a family member getting sick. You feel the weight of all those memories from so many different points in your life, growing up with the person. The way those shows on their last tour went down and the love that was created is something that no Canadian will ever forget. The way they’ve been through it all together as a band from day one, all the ups and downs without anybody getting canned or leaving, the Tragically Hip is the best Canadian-true-and-true band ever.
REALtor or FAKEtor
Torrens
As I mentioned, my dad owned Torrens Real Estate on PEI. It’s not just the listings I’m low-key obsessed with, it’s Realtor photos too. Like, who told him to wear that sweater, or why is her neck straining at that odd angle? On Taggart & Torrens, we play silly games all the time—including this one, REALtor or FAKEtor.
See if your bahds can figure out whether these are real real estate agents or fake real estate agents.
1.Cash Sales, HomeLife Realty
2.Kyle and Kendra Killkenny, Killkenny’s Kuality Homes
3.Sherlock Homes, Century 21
4.Judy Ball and Greg Ball, Bowes & Cocks Limited
5.Mac Meanoffer, Royal LePage
6.Gary Lake, Lake’s Lakefront Estates
7.Lee Jeans, RE/MAX
8.Mort Gage
9.Su Casa, ERA Real Estate
REALtors: 3, 4, 7 and 9. FAKEtors: 1, 2, 5, 6 and 8.
Y2K? Y Not!
Torrens
In 1999, the CBC asked me to be a correspondent in Charlottetown for their Y2K coverage. As someone who’s always had a secret fascination with news and news anchors (remember Stone Phillips?), I was psyched! To get to be on the roster for what was technically a news production in my hometown on this big occasion was a dream come true.
Peter Mansbridge is one of the original bahds. He’s razor sharp, charming and funny. Still, when any major event breaks out in the world, there’s no one else’s calm, informed voice I’d rather listen to. So, naturally, he was helming the CBC’s coverage of such a monumental event.
Remember, they weren’t sure if bank machines would work or if the world would end as 1999 rolled over to 2000. The Atlantic Time Zone was one of the first in Canada to cross over, so this PEI post was prime real estate.
I debated what to wear. It was New Year’s Eve, but it was also news. I wanted to look competent but informative, classy but casual, so I opted for a navy turtleneck (class) with a Helly Hansen foul-weather reflective parka (news). In hindsight, the parka might’ve made me look more like an airport baggage handler than a news guy, but whatever.
In my head I’d scripted a lyrical love letter to my home province and planned to blow people away with just how articulate and newsy I could be right out of the gate.
“Colleen, come look at Jonovision on the news. Ever good!”
The day arrived, and it was gloriously sunny. My first hit was to be with Mansbridge, in midafternoon in front of Province House, where the country was formed. Kind of a “set the scene of what we can expect” double-ender.
In my mind, my hit would go like this: Peter would tee it up from the studio in Toronto and throw it to me, nodding and smiling confidently from Charlottetown. Then I’d say my piece.
“Peter, tonight the eyes of the country turn to its birthplace, PEI, the little island with the big heart cradled in the waves of the Atlantic Ocean, where tonight some fifteen thousand people are expected to descend in the downtown core to ring in this new year and, indeed, new millennium.”
How newsy does that sound? Instead, here’s what happened.
As expected, Peter threw it to me by saying something like, “We go now to Charlottetown, where Jonathan Torrens is standing by. How are things looking there, Jonathan?”
And I said this: “Petel . . .”
That’s right. I called him “Petel.” I choked on Peter Mansbridge’s name. He laughed, as you would. I was rattled, but I forged on.
It ended up being a great day, for Canada and for budding correspondents. Bank machines still worked after midnight. Peter was, as always, incredible in both stamina and wit, and even I had my moments. A highlight was interviewing a 103-year-old woman who’d been alive for the turn of the last century. When I asked what she hoped to do that evening, with a twinkle in her eye she said, “I wouldn’t mind meeting a man.”
Mansbridge . . . now that would’ve been a good name for the fixed link.
PEI Gotta Do’s
POUND a Beach Chair Lager frosty soldier at Prince Edward Island Brewing Company.
CRUSH an egg roll and some monkey nuts (sweet-and-sour chicken balls) at Canton Cafe. (Torrens: A mainstay of my life since I can remember. Anyone who’s going to the Island, I tell them to have an egg roll there, and they scoff. Then they call me—while it’s still in their mouth—to thank me.)
DESTROY a bowl of chowder at the Merchantman. Chef Loo’s game is tight.
NAIL a quick lunch-and-shop combo at the Dunes Studio Gallery.
PASS OUT at the Great George Hotel.
CRASH a play at the Victoria Playhouse. A charming little theatre in an even charminger (that’s a word, right?) little town by the sea. Drill some chocolate from Island Chocolates a few doors down.
JAM at Harmony House Theatre in Hunter River. Beautiful venue, run by a couple of bahds, Kris and Melanie Taylor.
WHEEL some road rockets on the patio at Peakes Quay in the summer.
KILL some baked goods at Leonhard’s, a great breakfast spot in Charlottetown.
DEMOLISH some raspberry pie from Prince Edward Island Preserve Company in New Glasgow. But save room to . . .
SHOVE your way into New Glasgow Lobster Suppers! Crowded and touristy, yes. But you get a bib and fresh homemade rolls with your buttery crustacean companion. Go late to avoid the blue-hair bus rush!
JUMP off the bridge with the locals in Stanley Bridge, a short drive from the madness of the Cavendish Boardwalk. Bridge jumping is kind of a tradition on the Island. Deep water and a sandy bottom make for ideal conditions. Hey, Sandy Bottom is a pretty good name for a cross-dresser too!
HOOVER some fine dining with the inn crowd. Inn at Bay Fortune (Chef Michael Smith) or Inn
at St. Peters—can’t go wrong with either. The food is rivalled only by their respective views.
Ontario: Lakes, Rivers and Bahds That Give ’Er
Bahd Bands
The Arkells (not just because drummer Tim Oxford pieces together the poddy but because they rock harder and better than just about any other band in Canada right now)
Blue Rodeo
Russell DeCarle/Prairie Oyster
Donovan Woods
The Tragically Hip
Barenaked Ladies
Triumph
Metric
The Parachute Club
Rheostatics
Steppenwolf
The Darcys
Five Notable Bahds
Given the size and population of Ontario, this could easily be fifty.
Graham Greene. We know what you’re thinking—not another “audio technician turned Academy Award nominee story”—but Graham’s Oscar recognition for his work in Dances with Wolves was nothing short of historic.
Phil Hartman. Arguably the most versatile utility player in the history of Saturday Night Live. A man of many voices, faces and impressions. Crushed it on The Simpsons and NewsRadio too.
Samantha Bee. Took her stint as the longest-serving correspondent on The Daily Show during Jon Stewart’s reign and parlayed it into a sitcom deal and talk show at TBS. Almost impossible to believe she wasn’t even considered for the desk after Jon Stewart left. Smart, saucy and not afraid to call it how she sees it.
Rachel McAdams. Has obviously achieved international acclaim for roles in movies like The Notebook and Wedding Crashers, but keeping it Canadian with her performance in the critically acclaimed Slings & Arrows = bahd.
Trish Stratus. This bahd-ass retired wrestler has parlayed her fitness-model beginnings into a whole other business: Stratusphere.
The Good Ol’ Days
Taggart
Being a young kid in Canada was pretty cool for me. I spent my first five years in Toronto, but the next nine (the important ones) spotted around southern Ontario. The most special place being Mansfield. It’s a tiny town. Imagine rivers and swimming holes, lush hills and valleys that mimic nursery rhymes. It was a magical place to grow up. A place where outside beats the shit out of TV and video games. I still remember how strong the urge to get up and out of bed was. The mad singing of the cicadas in the trees hypnotically summoned my brother Jetsun and me outside. Hide and seek crushed, while tag took on a whole new level of fun with all the trees and hills. We would catch crayfish and get snipped by snapping turtles in the Boyne River. We would go swimming in Greer’s pond, not before hearing Mrs. Greer throwing out the cynical “You can go swimming, but don’t get wet!”
Winters were incredible there. My eyes hurt thinking about the bright sun blasting off the snow. Snowbanks became small buildings that bordered the subdivision we lived in. Snow days were often—pretty much every time a reasonable storm blew through. We got at least one or two a month in winter. I loved hearing about big storms. I knew I’d be off the next day, partying hard outside all day. The only bummer was my dad had to drive to Toronto for seven thirty every morning, so that meant he had to shovel out and drive slow, and would be late coming home from the rough roads. Seven thirty is early for anyone, but especially for drummers like Ronnie and me. On the upside, he used to bring home toys that were damaged from Sears—he worked in the maintenance department of their Rexdale warehouse. I loved it when he came through the door with a box full of slightly broken trucks and other goodies in his arms.
Willie Nelson aptly recalled these moments of his own youth as “Good Times.” Mansfield was all about these. Four TV channels were all we had—we grew up on CKVR in Barrie, TVOntario (now TVO), CBC and a slightly fuzzy CTV. Shows like Leave It to Beaver, The Andy Griffith Show and The Beachcombers. And on TVO, kids shows like Readalong, Passe-Partout and the classic Sol on Parlez-Moi. So much Canadianity on TVO. We got our sense of humour from SCTV. How lucky were we to have such a great group of hilarious people? I remember staying up and watching Brian Johns (Eugene Levy) talk about money, and still remember seeing Levon Helm play “Summertime Blues” on SCTV like it was yesterday.
It’s funny. We only had a few channels, but there was always something worth watching on TV then. Now I have two hundred channels and I’m taping Seinfeld reruns because there’s nothing else to watch! I’m not sure if my brain is too stimulated, or if TV is just full of formulated whatnot. Maybe I just miss the simple and stupid shows like The Silver Basketball and Harrigan. You can’t recreate that numbness you’d feel after watching shows that seemed like everyone involved was just winging it, hoping the sets and costumes would save the script. Canadian TV was better when it had shades of embarrassment, in my opinion. Or perhaps it was just a more acceptable type of embarrassment. Less ego and more of a humble fail.
Whatever it was, I sure do miss it.
Ontari-OMG, This Place Is Huge
Torrens
Ontario is a sumbitch. Almost too big to comprehend. It’s bigger than Texas and bigger than France and Spain combined. To understand how big it is, you really have to drive it.
It’s vast, yet dense. Like Fox News.
When I first went “up to Toronto” to work on Jonovision, I felt like a combination of Barney the Big Purple Dinosaur and Crocodile Dundee. I’d smile at everyone I passed on the street and say good morning to commuters sitting across from me on the subway. It turns out that’s not how most people act in the Big Smoke.
Remember, I grew up in Charlottetown, where there was a Subway gang, but it was only called that because they hung out at the Subway sandwich shop.
Here’s the thing, though: the people I met and worked with who were from there were so nice. Exceptionally so. It’s almost like the people who move there from smaller towns act the way they think you’re supposed to act in a city, versus the way city people actually do. As if new Torontonians are trying on Big City the way kids try on their dad’s ill-fitting sports coat.
Sometimes I think Toronto gets a bad rap, and I feel like I too never gave it a proper shot. Whenever I was there for work, I always had a house back east and would head home the second I was finished whatever I was doing. So I never really lived there so much as I just stayed there.
Every weekend, I’d get in my truck and drive as far as time would allow. Didn’t matter which direction—Orangeville, Omemee, Orillia. I’d go as far as I had to for a Tim Hortons drive-thru. I’d crank Gord’s Gold and take in some farmland. Brick bungalows and farmhouses, which I hadn’t really seen much before. I loved those drives. Wide-open spaces always left me feeling recharged. Still do.
Growing Up with Ronnie
Taggart
When I was four, we lived in subsidized housing in Rexdale, Ontario. It was a pretty rough neighbourhood and there were plenty of “warmongers”—the term Dad used for any wrongdoer over a certain level of decent human etiquette. A person only looking to cause harm or get into trouble.
My dad loathed these types; they would get his blood boiling and cause him to erupt to a Pompeii-like circumstance.
Dad used to take the bus to the bicycle shop where he worked at that time. He was quietly waiting alone for the morning bus when a group of kids with hockey sticks ran up to him and beat him to the ground, bloodying him up. They continued to hit him all over his body before running off. Dad collected himself and stumbled home. He had open gashes all over his head, bruises and cuts on his arms, legs and torso. Just shit-kicked. He went to the hospital for stitches and bandages.
What an ordeal for a man with four young kids and a shitty job. This was a new low for my dad’s confidence. He felt these kids had taken away all his dignity as he walked to the bus stop the next day, his body covered in all these bumps and bandages.
Alone again, waiting for the bus, and the fucking kids come back again! Sticks in hand, running in for round 2 with Ronnie, except this time Dad’s gasket was blown before he heard the second footstep of the warmongers. He
reached into the garbage, fished out a pop bottle and smashed it onto the sidewalk, reached down with both hands and swooped up a pile of glass. He threw it into his mouth and proceeded to chew it up whilst screaming about warmongers and how he’d been waiting all his life for them, and this was a time they wouldn’t ever forget. They all scattered away like my dad was a sign of the apocalypse.
Dad went to work happy that day, knowing he had regained some control of the situation. All those stupid tricks, like breaking glass in your mouth without getting cut, he picked up in the Bronx with his gang, the Junior Bacooches. A handy little trick, I’d say.
He ended up using it again ten years later in Mansfield. Some stupid neighbourhood warmongers were tearing up our grandparents’ lawn across the street and staring at my dad while he was mowing the lawn. Never stare at my dad. He walked over to the car—the kids were drinking from stubby beer bottles, so it was around 1983. They were all banged up and yelling at Dad. They threw a bottle at him from the back seat, it sailed just over Dad’s head and broke on the ground, and you can guess what happened next. The old double-handed swoop and rip into the mouth for a good chew. He then walked towards the car, not unlike the cop in Terminator 2, real easy and slow-like. The kids in the car were stunned and frozen. I should mention that this was a smaller Datsun-type shitbox, so Dad reached with both arms to the roof of the car and began to rock the car back and forth with these four kids in it like it was a Power Wheels toy. The thing was just bouncing and the punks turned into pussies, all crying and screaming. They screeched away, bouncing, almost running my dad over in the process. Dad came in the house like he had just been doing some extra chores. He had that same sense of accomplishment anyway.
Snow Business
Torrens
The first long gig I had in Toronto was for a CBC kids special called AIDScare/AIDsCare. It was a sketch comedy show about the myths surrounding AIDS. Think about how crazy that sounds. This was early on, when people still thought you could catch it from a toilet seat.
Canadianity Page 4
