Canadianity

by Jeremy Taggart

  That wasn’t the only misadventure that week.

  I was driving Paul Brandt and his band back to the hotel after their dress rehearsal, and one of the guys asked what the plan was for the night. I told them my mom was a lady of the evening in town and I could make arrangements if need be. I thought I was being funny, but they did not. Things were very quiet and uncomfortable for the rest of the drive. In hindsight, without the proper context, I can see why that might’ve been off-putting, but discomfort has always been something I’ve found pretty funny.

  And I got lost with Buffy Sainte-Marie. Like, sweat trickling down the back of my neck lost. Buffy had exactly one hour to get from the Hill to the recording studio, lay down two lines of a song and get back in time for rehearsal. The studio was eleven minutes away. Tight, but doable.

  She hopped in my seven-passenger Windstar, sweet and chatty. I started driving. And kept driving. Twenty minutes. Twenty-seven minutes. There was forest, and water, but no studio. No GPS—only one-way streets taking me farther and farther from civilization. It got to the point where there wasn’t even a way I could have her back to the Hill in time. I had a stomach ache from the sinking feeling that I’d really screwed up.

  At one point, Buffy stop talking and turned to me with a furrowed brow. “Uh, can I ask you a question?”

  Here it comes. “Sure.”

  “What astrological sign is your cat?”

  Phew. She couldn’t have been more of a total pro. That seems to be the case, though. The ones that have been around for a while are generally pretty cool. It’s the insta-stars that can go from zero to dicksty in a hurry.

  Want me to blow your #Canadianity mind? Tom Green was a story producer on Street Cents. We met when he was producing a story I shot in Ottawa. Can’t remember what it was about now, but I do remember that it ended with my mother pelting me with tomatoes while I was dressed in a garbage bag.

  I maintain that Tom’s only problem is that he’s way ahead of his time. Always has been. I remember when he was outfitting his entire house with cameras to live-stream a TV show on the internet several years ago. It seemed so crazy. But he was right.

  From Nowhere to Everywhere with the Drums

  Taggart

  After a couple of years of getting heavily into drumming, I was looking to find a real gig. I felt that I needed to get some firsthand experience playing drums professionally after taking lessons from a variety of incredible drummers, like Rick Gratton, Paul DeLong and Vito Rezza. Those guys were already making their mark in a huge way as drummers in Canada, and I wanted to be like them so badly.

  I was already hunting for gigs at sixteen, taking any audition or jam opportunity there was. I was hanging in greasy clubs, learning the ropes of the true pro musician. I would sneak around with my friend Joe Iannuzzi, an outcast like me whom I met at Emery Collegiate. I met him in a loner stairwell. I think I had a Zildjian T-shirt, and he was tapping his knee with a set of sticks. We hung out together a lot, both aspiring to become jobbers in drumming. We were heavy drum nerds.

  I ended up being out most nights and skipping school for practice, eventually getting booted out of Emery for missing class. I would hide in my parents’ closet until everyone was gone, then roll over to my rehearsal spot and play drums ’til midnight. When I had no school left to attend, I opted for correspondence courses. I had a small room with a drum set and stacks of essays. Play all day, hang with all the working drummers, like Mike Siracusa, a protege of Vito Rezza’s. Mike would let me watch his various gigs and occasionally let me sit in. I learned a lot from him. He’s a total bahd.

  I would always pay attention to the local musicians-wanted ads, looking for auditions, and would frequently try out for bands or cover gigs. I was completely cognizant of the fact that if you want to be a professional musician, you shouldn’t expect the stars, you should know that it might just be pubs, hotels and cruise ships, which is the reality for most musicians.

  I was prepared for the grind. My dad knew it all too well, having been a Toronto jazz musician in the ’60s and ’70s. He wasn’t very pleased with my new life path and goal of following in his footsteps. He told me of the hardships of choosing music as a way of feeding your family. Long hours and little pay. He looked at it as a waste of time, but he also knew of the urge to follow your instincts and respected my choice.

  One day I came across an ad in the back pages of Now magazine for a band that was looking for a drummer. It was near my house, too, in the Weston and Finch neighbourhood. My mom drove me to the studio space on Toryork Drive, an area more noted for chop shops and Sicilian neckties than music. A pretty greasy neck of the woods. When I finally got into the studio, I saw a bunch of dudes coming in and out and it seemed like it was gonna be a quick audition. I took quite some time to set up my kit, which gave us a chance to talk a bit. Mike (Raine hadn’t adopted the new handle quite yet), Chris and Mike were all in their mid to late twenties, so I felt a bit stupid at seventeen, with my baseball windbreaker and, likely, bad shorts or cords from the ’80s.

  I finally got my kit set up and we just started jamming feels. It felt very easy and interesting. I knew there was a pretty good chance they would ask me to join. It wasn’t just that we had good communication through our instruments; my being young and so eager to play drums was obvious to them. They asked me to join a week or two later, and we started work on Naveed right away. It was hard work and a lot of play, hours of working up parts and hours of Wiffle ball.

  I really enjoyed the early days, not just because of the early success and fantastic tours, but because I was just growing up at the same time. Being in buses and planes, ripping around all these crazy shows with Page and Plant, the Ramones, Faith No More. That was my high school. Picking brains of other drummers, learning and offering information. I remember seeing Trilok Gurtu in New York City in the hotel lobby. Trilok is a legend! Such an incredible drummer and percussive genius. I was talking to him about his work with John McLaughlin and Joe Zawinul and telling him how he was a badass. A great chat.

  I felt I probably would never see him again. Then I happened to run into him twice more. Both times in Los Angeles. The last time, he even threw out a “Hey Jeremy! How are you?” and when I said I was great and asked him the same, he responded with “Slammin’!” Such a bahd!

  It was great to see all these people who had been my heroes growing up, being so nice and down to earth. I learned so much about how to be a positive person by seeing these legends spending hours of extra time with fans or anyone that came into their space. Being a bahd goes a long way.

  Once OLP started to get serious traction, I think my parents and family enjoyed it even more than I did. My dad was super-happy that I got off on such a strong foot. He’s always been awesomely proud. My mom used to track our radio and MuchMusic play. She knew all the charts. She’d call into stations and request us. Just classic. She’d call me, all pissed off, saying, “Aw Jer, they’re tryin’ to keep ya down on 102! I only heard you once today!” So great. They got into my music career the same way they wanted me playing baseball. They were happy just for the reason that I too was happy.

  The Perfect Storm

  Torrens

  During Jonovision I was on a date with a girl who worked at the CBC. I suggested we go for Greek food on the Danforth. I’m sure that, to a kid growing up in Toronto, foods from other countries aren’t that exotic. But growing up outside of Charlottetown, food from anywhere other than China or the sea still felt so exotic to me.

  We met at the restaurant. She looked cute in the candlelight and we chatted easily while we ate several dishes.

  She drank wine.

  And I drank milk.

  I’m not sure why. Milk isn’t something I drank a lot of as an adult. But on this night I drank a lot of it. I’m going to guess, conservatively, two litres.

  Hummus.

  Milk.

  Taramasalata.

  Milk.

  Spanakopita.

  Milk.
>
  We stopped at Blockbuster to rent a movie on the way back to her place. She really wanted to see The Perfect Storm, with George Clooney and Mark Wahlberg. As we roamed the aisles, the perfect storm was beginning to form in my stomach. Turns out oil and milk go together like oil and water.

  By the time we got to her sea-monkey-sized basement apartment, tiny beads of sweat had formed on my forehead and I was really struggling.

  During the opening titles, I turned up the volume on the movie and excused myself.

  Her bathroom made an airplane bathroom look roomy. I had to do-si-do around the door to get it closed, and she was lying on the couch mere feet from me.

  During the first “outburst,” I coughed to try to drown it out. During the second one, I ran the tap. Then I turned on the shower. Then the tap as well.

  Then I ran out of toilet paper.

  After fifteen minutes or so, I was okay to leave, so I stood up, washed my hands and opened the door a crack.

  But I wasn’t quite finished after all.

  So I slammed the door and turned the tap back on. I was lightheaded from such a sudden and aggressive purging. All I could think was “Get me to my truck.” But what could I possibly say to her? It was already too late to save face, and I assumed a second date was out of the question.

  Forty-five minutes later, sweaty, exhausted and mortified, I opened the door and stood as tall as I could. She was lying on the couch, pretending to be asleep.

  “I guess something didn’t agree with me,” I casually mumbled under my breath, making a beeline for the door.

  I often imagine her telling that story to big groups of friends, and the punchline is “Guess who it was . . . friggin’ Jonovision!”

  Early-’80s TV and MuchMusic

  Taggart

  When I lived in Mansfield as a young kid in the early ’80s, you couldn’t get cable. You had the small handful of southern Ontario channels, and that was it. Unless you had one of those Sputnik-sized dishes in your backyard. My grandparents, who had recently moved in across from us, had one. Those things were epic. Hundreds of channels and open feeds, all with the touch of a huge dial that would send the massive dish revolving with a grinding hum. Visiting across the street to the calm and collected house of my grandma and Papa Doug was always a treat. My grandma was always very strict and strong-minded and Papa Doug was the most organized person I’ve ever known. PD had a tool area in the garage that looked like a working military shop, dialled to the max with places marked for every piece, small or large. Tip-top.

  Their house was always immaculate, so you had to play by the rules or you were out. Fuck up a few times and you were on Grandma’s shit list, and once that happened, you were doomed to stink-eye. Even worse, Jetsun and I fucked up enough to never get to go on the family trips to Britain but had to sit through countless hours of my brother James and sister, Jenni, on vacay in the UK with Grandma. Jenni climbing Stonehenge, James trying on one of those bearskin hats from the Queen’s Guard cats. Both our other cousins, too! Haha! Fraser pointing scarily into Loch Ness, Elliott climbing Hadrian’s Wall.

  Even though we never got to go overseas with Grandma, we still loved her and thought she was the bomb. My sister, Jenni, moved in with Grandma and PD shortly after the satellite installation—a great move, if you ask me. She became pretty hip, watching MTV and HBO all the time. I remember back then, “Weird Al” Yankovic ruled the land. It’s truly uncanny how long that guy has been successful by ripping up artists with his odd charm. Loads of Weird Al, the Police, Huey Lewis and Dire Straits. Given the success of MTV in the US, it was only a matter of time before Canada had its own musical television franchise.

  When MuchMusic launched in ’84, I was aware of City Limits on channel 57, which was the CHUM-owned Citytv, a station I could get up in the sticks of Mansfield. Christopher Ward would play great music videos, interviews and even comedy sketches. Mike Myers made his TV debut there with his Wayne Campbell character, doing reviews with that classic Scarborough accent. City Limits was a shrunken version of what MuchMusic became. John Martin, creator of the Citytv show The NewMusic, and Moses Znaimer, a co-founder of City, put MuchMusic on the air August 31, 1984. It’s obvious that there was a massive young Canadian audience just waiting to bite on a twenty-four-hour-a-day music and culture channel. City was already producing great shows like The New Music with J.D. Roberts and Jeanne Beker, John Majhor’s Toronto Rocks and Ward’s City Limits, to name a few.

  By the time I was living in Cookstown, outside Barrie, I had cable and the opportunity to watch MuchMusic on the reg. I’ve heard many stories about how crazy that building got with partying in the ’80s, but that goes for any radio station or TV production back then. There are also crazy stories about radio stations Q107 and CFNY back then. Par for the course, I suppose. Seemed like everyone was getting banged up in that decade.

  I remember seeing Peter Garrett of Midnight Oil on Much a lot. MO and Crowded House seemed to be the international fave bands that Much supported. Not surprisingly, it gave both of those bands lucrative Canadian fan bases that churned tickets for years.

  Much started breaking bands big time. By the time I was in OLP, I knew it was all about getting on MuchMusic. I saw right before my eyes the difference between getting love from them and dying a slow death from not getting played on Much. They were a huge part of OLP’s success. It provided a band with direct access to every kid from thirteen to twenty-five. You could guarantee your record was going gold—possibly platinum—if you got three singles in heavy rotation. Then your live audience multiplied, and if you were a good live act you could pack theatres on the strength of a run on MuchMusic. If Much put you under their microscope, you felt the difference real quick. I remember having never heard of Moist, and then seeing them every twenty minutes on Much. After that, they were ramming halls. It happened all the time back then. The connection Much created with its audience was incredible.

  Those guys basically created a branch of the Canadian TV tree equally as important as Hockey Night in Canada. The advertising dollars grew to staggering levels, while the savvy young hosts got paid squat. The influence of MuchMusic grew too. The MuchMusic Video Awards, for example, went from bands setting up in closets around the Much environment amidst clouds of hairspray to two city blocks getting shut down, two weeks of stage construction and massive corporate support. Bands might not break on Much anymore, but it still wields a big sword with the teenyboppers, and if you’re a young band, you will still see a jump in awareness.

  I always enjoyed the people who worked there, from the first time I did an interview. It was with Erica Ehm, and I was eighteen and shitting myself inside. Seeing people that you grew up watching is pretty weird, but when they’re nice, it makes it way cooler. It was a pleasure to be accepted by all the bahds who have come and gone through those doors at 299 Queen Street West, from Strombo to Craig Halket, and Amanda Walsh to Master T. All bahds!

  Ontario Gotta Do’s

  DESTROY blueberry pancakes at the Senator. Just a block or so from Massey Hall, between the Eaton Centre and Ryerson.

  PEEP the view of Niagara Falls, the Thousand Islands or Point Pelee National Park.

  HAMMER a hike in the Hills of the Headwaters, in Melancthon.

  CRUSH some grapes in the Niagara region or Prince Edward County.

  POUND the white water at Wilderness Tours Adventure Resort in the Ottawa Valley.

  PITCH a tent in Algonquin Provincial Park.

  SHARPEN your blades and skate the Rideau Canal in Ottawa.

  EXPAND your mind at Stratford’s Shakespeare festival.

  FREAK your freak at Science North in Sudbury.

  JAM some history at Sainte-Marie among the Hurons in Midland.

  DRILL some BBQ at the Memphis Fire Barbecue Company in Winona.

  DEMOLISH a pizza at Maker Pizza in Toronto.

  HOOVER a burger at Chuck’s Burger Bar in Hamilton.

  SWANK it up at Eigensinn Farm in Singhampton.

>   BANG your head at the Danforth Music Hall in Toronto.

  New Funswick

  Bahd Bands

  In-Flight Safety

  Eric’s Trip

  Chris Colepaugh

  Grand Theft Bus

  Roch Voisine

  Matt Andersen

  Matt Minglewood

  David Myles

  The Motorleague

  Five Notable Bahds

  Donald Sutherland. Kiefer’s dad. Pretty decent actor in his own right.

  Louis B. Mayer. The co-founder of movie studio Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer grew up poor in Saint John, the plucky son of resourceful Russian immigrants.

  Ron Turcotte. Thoroughbred racehorse jockey.

  Sir Samuel Leonard Tilley. Father of Confederation. Supporter of the Intercolonial Railway. Also widely believed to have suggested “Dominion of Canada” as a name for the new country.

  Winnifred Blair. The first Miss Canada.

  Moncton + Fredericton = A Ton of Fun!

  Torrens

  I have to confess something, and I feel very weird about it. I didn’t always “get” New Brunswick.

  Let me explain. As I mentioned, when I was growing up on PEI, there was the fear that Moncton people might come over and ruin the place. Also, my impression of New Brunswick was formed by yearly weekend trips to Champlain Mall for back-to-school shopping. If you spent time in a mall in Moncton in the late ’70s, you’d have a strange impression of the place too.

  Plus, when I was eight I took the bus/ferry over to Moncton every Sunday for guitar lessons, and I encountered some strange characters on the walk from the music teacher’s apartment to Pizza Delight, where the bus picked passengers up.

  As I got older, New Brunswick was the “we’re not quite on PEI yet” portion of the trip from Nova Scotia. Then, years later, it was the “almost home from Ontario/California” portion of my drive. Not fair. I didn’t give New Brunswick a fair shake, with its covered bridge, Covered Bridge chips and bilingualness.