Canadianity

by Jeremy Taggart

  It wasn’t long after that—maybe around the time that I accidentally crushed several pricey headset batteries in the trash compactor—that my McDonald’s career came to an end and my TV career got started.

  As far as TV school goes, Street Cents was the best possible training ground for a young performer. It was partly a straight hosting gig, delivering information to camera. It was also partly a sitcom, with written scenes and therefore lines to learn. Best of all for me, it was a place to practise and hone impressions. I loved doing characters, from Bob Saget on Full House to Don Cherry on Hockey Night in Canada.

  Street Cents was an incredibly formative time for me. The crew became surrogate parents. The cast became my family. Such a clich-eh, but it was where I spent most of my time as a teenager.

  More than anything, I got to travel all over Canada, meeting people and shooting little stories for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. It was not a responsibility I took lightly. I saw places I’d never in a million years get to go, and people would tell me things they wouldn’t tell their best friends. It was a pretty good fit for a nosy/curious person.

  It was also where I met Mike Clattenburg, who would go on to create Trailer Park Boys. I didn’t go to university, which is where most people find their people—like-minded, challenging friends for life.

  I’d never met anyone quite like Clattenburg. He had a show on Cable 10 called That Damn Cable Show, which was years ahead of its time in tone. I was a fan of TDCS and so excited to work with Mike.

  Clatty got his sense of humour in part from his father, Ken. When Mike was studying TV at Kingstec (the Nova Scotia Community College campus in the Annapolis Valley of Nova Scotia), he’d come home to work for the summer. Everywhere he went, people would ask how it was going working for Ben’s Bakery.

  Mike was understandably confused. It came out that Ken had been telling everyone who asked about Mike that he was driving a truck for Ben’s, delivering loaves all over Nova Scotia.

  Such a non sequitur, but what I loved best about that stuff was the commitment that a joke required, even when you’re not around for the payoff. Mike and I—along with Brian Heighton, who played Ken Pompadour on Street Cents—became fast friends. It really felt like we spoke the same language. We’d challenge each other to do shocking pratfalls in malls and at the bank. Call Shoppers Drug Mart and try to squeeze the word “mawfucka” into our question. “What time do you mafsks close tonight?”

  We tried to jam our brand of humour into the show wherever we could. If you watched episodes from the Clattenburg era, there were definitely early shades of J-Roc. He and I both went to high school with a bunch of dudes who looked, sounded and talked like that, and it made us both laugh.

  Clattenburg worked at Sobeys, and there was a tall, skinny kid named Arnold who worked there with him. One day the manager asked Arnold to wash the lettuce and then walked away. Arnold didn’t move, and when Mike asked if he was going to do what he’d been asked, Arnold responded, “He ain’t beatin’ me.” Which meant if it came down to a fight, the manager couldn’t force him to wash the lettuce. Do you guys find that as funny as I do?

  We did a Street Cents bumper for a segment where my mouth was superimposed over the Queen’s face and then we recorded my voice saying “Eyes all over to one side” the way J-Roc would.

  One time, we even brought some pre-J-Roc to the Pit. We were testing a product called the Miracle Thaw that claimed it could thaw meat in mere moments or something. As I was throwing the product into the Pit, we changed the line from the standard “We think ________ is Fit . . . for the Pit” to “Go on witcha, Miracle Thaw.” Just something about that patois made us laugh. Still does.

  Despite the fun we were having making it, at the time there was nothing outwardly cool about the show. It was a kids consumer affairs show on the public broadcaster. It was hardly Sloan getting signed to Sub Pop Records. But for us, to have access to cameras and crew and a national platform was intoxicating.

  Several times during those years, I called Ryerson to inquire about the radio and television arts program there. The very patient woman I spoke to always asked why. She told me I was working in a job that lots of their graduates would love to be doing. “If I were you, I’d show up early, stay late, ask questions, take on extra tasks, just be a sponge.” I’m so thankful that she was on the other end of the line. What sound advice, and I took it to heart. It’s actually great advice for anyone in any career. Mentoring is such an important element for someone entering the workplace, and we’ve lost it in recent years.

  Looking back, I’m really proud of Street Cents. It really did empower kids and give them a voice, without talking to them in the condescending manner that its predecessors sometimes did. Like Jonovision, Street Cents also gave kids in the regions some insight into what their peers across the country were doing.

  It was also where I realized that I’m most comfortable in a hybrid setting. Street Cents was a hosted show with parodies. Jonovision was a talk show with sketches. Trailer Park Boys is a mockumentary. The Joe Schmo Show was a fake reality program. Even Taggart & Torrens is prone to flights of fancy and surreal moments. I think that’s why I like doing it so much.

  In the past, I’ve done some gigs that haven’t really felt like me, and I think it’s because I’ve slipped into the character of a game show host instead of being me hosting a game show. Being yourself on TV is hard to do.

  Jay Onrait and Dan O’Toole can do it.

  James Duthie can do it.

  Ron MacLean can do it.

  Come to think of it, most sports guys are good at it. Through practice, you find your voice and your rhythm, just like drumming.

  Taggart’s Top Five Drummers

  This is a list of important drummers for me personally. It’s not a be-all, end-all Top Five. It’s the five drummers in the Canadian industry who most inspired my own playing. They are all pretty insanely talented, though.

  5.Glenn Milchem (Blue Rodeo and Change of Heart)

  Glenn is a badass. From his early days on the Toronto rock scene to the ease of theatres and arenas with BR, he has always been one of the most tasteful players out there. Great feel and plenty of chops deep in his palette. I remember he used to crush a double pedal with workboots on. That’s classic.

  4.Ray Garraway (Salvador Dream and k-os)

  Ray was the most interesting drummer I can think of. He always had a sticky sense of time, and it was almost impossible to watch him play. He looked like he was about to screw up all the time, but if you closed your eyes it was seamless. Such amazing ideas and concepts. He was a true original. I will always cherish the many days of hanging out, buying records, chatting on the phone and laughing hysterically. I will always miss him. He passed away far too young.

  3.Paul DeLong (studio great)

  I studied with Paul and think he’s one of the most precise drummers I’ve ever seen. His playing is probably most famous from Kim Mitchell anthems like “Patio Lanterns,” “Go for Soda” and “All We Are,” but his depth in technique in a bunch of different styles is why I had to learn from him. He taught me great Latin grooves and transcribed crazy Vinnie Colaiuta beats from Zappa’s Joe’s Garage album, specifically tracks like “Dong Work for Yuda.”

  2.Mark McLean (George Michael, Catherine Russell)

  Mark is such a fantastic jazz player. Incredible time and feel. I love hanging with him to talk about drums and life. I first saw him play when he won a drum competition in 1989 at our local drum shop. We were both fourteen! I always hit him up when I’m in New York. He’s as great a bahd as he is a drummer.

  1.Vito Rezza (Joni Mitchell, Gino Vannelli, John Lee Hooker)

  Vito was probably my most important mentor/teacher. He gave me great advice and never held back on critiquing my playing. His ability on the drums is unparalleled, always evolving and pushing every envelope. I always respected his opinion. He never eased up on others, and he always cut right to the point. He is known to get steamed and blow
his top. He kind of reminded me of my dad. Maybe that’s why I like him so much. It’s always a pleasure when I run into him.

  Maya and the Gorilla

  Torrens

  The most Canadian I’ve ever felt was being drunk on rye at the top of a mountain in the Northwest Territories and coming face to face with a muskox with Rick Mercer. Boy, did he stink! The muskox, that is. In my experience, Rick always smells great.

  Oddly enough, the second most Canadian I’ve ever felt was at a live sex show in Amsterdam with Ken Pompadour from Street Cents.

  Before I launch into it, you have to know I didn’t want to go. I strongly feel my discomfort is essential to your enjoyment of this story.

  Ken’s real name is Brian Heighton, a great actor and great buddy who instantly became my best friend when I arrived on Street Cents. Well, he was my best friend. I was probably more of an excited/annoying puppy to him at first, but we grew to be very close.

  Brian Heighton is a Renaissance man. Truly. A remarkable painter, great cook, skilled carpenter, phenomenal guitar player, well travelled. There isn’t much he can’t do. Plus, it was inspiring to watch him play the cartoon character of Ken with such panache.

  To nineteen-year-old me, he seemed so worldly. One summer while on hiatus, we took the night ferry from England to Rotterdam and then the train to Amsterdam. The city’s rep for debilitating smokables and window-shopping for sex workers is well earned, which is why I was surprised to discover such a beautiful city full of art and bikes and rivers. We went to the Van Gogh Museum and Anne Frank’s house and did the Heineken brewery tour.

  Sitting under a giant tree, sleeping off a beery lunch, Brian suggested we go to a live sex show.

  The truth is, there’s nothing really seedy about it. Amsterdam’s underbelly is out in the open for you to scratch and pet and use as a pillow if you want. It’s just that watching a couple of bad actors bumping uglies was not my idea of the best time.

  Plus, Street Cents had rubbed off on me (pun intended?), and $75 was a lot of dough to spend on witnessing mechanical intimate relations. Talk about What’s Your Beef!

  But I couldn’t really argue with his “when in Rome” approach, and so I reluctantly agreed.

  When we arrived, I was nervous. The show is ongoing, so you pay for your ticket first, stumble into a dark theatre and join the show in progress.

  If I didn’t feel dirty before we entered, the dozen or so pervy lurkers in yellow raincoats who dotted the theatre really tipped the balance. We found some seats in the second row, much nearer the front than I’d hoped, and Brian sat in the second seat, leaving me the aisle. In hindsight, no one else was sitting up front. That should’ve been a red flag.

  I’ll spare you my review of Blackman & Robyn and Popsicle Paula, but suffice it to say it was indeed, as advertised, a live sex show. Not unlike in a magic show, act after act found new and interesting ways to make things disappear.

  I was actually starting to enjoy it—the spectacle more than the event itself. Paula had some technical issues that she wasn’t happy about (“Turrnon dee fackeen laights”). Robyn counted her dance steps in a half-hearted attempt to remember the horrible choreography. The waiter took our drink order while people were onstage doing it—as whichever Olsen twin used to say on that garbage-y show, “How rude!”

  By the time the Brazilian Lesbians took the stage, I’d managed to relax a little bit. They playfully clawed at each other’s ill-fitting leather getups, much to the audible delight (barf!) of the gathered pervs. As Gerry Dee says in his strip club joke, you look around at the other people in a place like this and think, “Who are these losers? God. That guy was here last Tuesday.”

  They whipped each other, sorta. They kissed each other, sorta. Then the houselights came up. They needed a volunteer from the crowd.

  Joomba-doomba-doomba-doomba, went the ’70s bass line. Clap-clap-clap went the crowd as the BLs trotted down the front steps of the stage to find their victim. Every other hand in the place shot up. Pick me! Please!!

  Nothing doing. They made a beeline for me. The least pervy, most clean-cut fish out of water there. I smiled and whispered, “No, thank you.”

  Joomba-doomba-doomba-doomba.

  Clap-clap-clap.

  They insisted. Again I declined. Politely.

  Joomba-doomba-doomba-doomba.

  Boooooo!

  The entire crowd started to turn on me because I was bringing the show down. The show I didn’t even want to go to in the first place. I looked at Brian, pleading. Why is this happening? Why don’t you go up? He smiled and shrugged. When in Rome.

  Joomba-doomba-doomba-doomba. They pulled me up out of my seat and danced me onstage and the crowd went wild. The show was back on!

  The Brazilian Lesbians handed me a whip and bent over. One of them gestured for me to use it on them, but not hard.

  I guess I’m a performer at heart, and no matter the stage I want to do a good job. So I mimed whipping them and beamed at the audience like some type of proud lion tamer.

  The audience rewarded me with thunderous applause.

  I did it again, with a little more vigour. More applause and cheers! I was killing up there, and best of all, not even touching their posteriors with the whip! Showbiz magic!

  The rest all happened so quickly. I remember one of them whispering in my ear in very broken English, “I’m going to pull your pants down but not all the way.”

  “Pardon?”

  Joomba-doomba-doomba-doomba. Jiggady-roomba-doomba-boomba.

  The other one pulled my khaki shorts down to my ankles—boxer shorts too. Luckily I was bum to the crowd.

  They got me down on all fours and proceeded to whip me. Hard. I glanced over my shoulder to make pleading eye contact with Brian, but he couldn’t see me through the tears streaming down his cheeks from laughing so hard.

  My bottom hurt, as did my pride. But then came the strangest sensation of all. It appeared to be snowing on the stage. Big white flakes falling to the floor below me.

  It took me a minute to realize they were my traveller’s cheques. Followed by my passport. Birth certificate. And several coins from all the countries we’d visited.

  Seasoned travellers had told me before I left for Europe that pick-pocketing was rampant and the best safeguard against the crafty crooks was a money belt. Think of a fanny pack that goes inside your shorts. I was wearing one, and evidently the zipper had broken—which is why, after my shorts came down, it was flapping in the breeze and all the contents were now littering the sticky stage. The Brazilian Lesbians just watched as I crawled around half-naked, scurrying to gather my important documents and waddle back to my seat like some kind of humiliated penguin. I muttered something about “keeping the change.”

  I plopped down in my seat and stared straight ahead, traumatized. Brian was covering his mouth in a poor attempt to swallow what were by now big, hearty guffaws.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “We can’t leave now. The next act is starting.”

  The announcer enthusiastically introduced Maya (not her real name) and the Gorilla (definitely not his real name). “Maya” was a bored-looking Filipino woman, and her partner was somebody in a gorilla suit—Blackman double-dipping, maybe?—with an imitation phallus strapped on.

  As Maya danced in a world of her own, the Gorilla simulated self-stimulation. I was still fuming, sitting with my arms crossed in the second row, while Brian chuckled beside me at the absurdity of the spectacle.

  I turned to glare at him when I suddenly felt a strange sensation. My face and neck was warm.

  Seems as though the gorilla had “finished” on my face. And neck.

  I stood up, eyes blurry from whatever it was, and marched with my head held high up the aisle and out the door. Brian followed shortly after, and we didn’t talk for the hour-long walk back to our hotel.

  Then, in the dark from his bed, I heard . . .

  “I can’t believe you got spuzzed on by a
gorilla.”

  We laughed ’til the sun came up.

  Golfing with Gretz

  Taggart

  I had a gas hanging out and playing the pro-am at the first Wayne Gretzky and Friends golf tournament at Glen Arbour in the summer of 2000. It was an exhibition where PGA pro Mike Weir would play his best ball against Wayner, Brett Hull and Mario Lemieux. Wayne is a bit of a chop golfer, but Brett Hull is a like a two handicap and Mario is about the same—both are very good golfers. It was pretty much a relaxed three-day party. Put it this way: I don’t remember who won, and I don’t think anyone cared. It was a big success. There were tons of great fans. I had a terrific time, and I got to meet Gretz, which was pretty cool, because he’s Wayne Gretzky.

  I walked a couple of holes with the extremely professional Mario Lemieux—who has an amazing golf swing, by the way, easy like Ernie Els. I ended up going out with Brett Hull and a bunch of other NHLers to the Dome one very late night. Brett is a bahd, for sure—you won’t find a much better hang than that guy. Always has a great story, and is so positive. I vaguely remember some classic moments with Tiger Williams by the end of that time at the Dome. What a classic place. Pretty greasy, indeed.

  Bahd Ambassador

  Bette MacDonald

  Cape Breton treasure Bette works with Jono on Mr. D but is also known throughout the Maritimes for her yearly Christmas show. She sings, she dances, she blows the roof off place after place with her equally talented husband, Maynard, and her hilarious roster of comedic characters by her side. This show delivers the most laughs per minute of any show you will ever see. Here are Bette’s hot tips for Cape Breton.

  •The Doryman Pub & Grill in Cheticamp is the place to be on any Saturday afternoon. There will be fiddle tunes and square sets.

  •The little lobster shack behind the Island Sunset restaurant in Belle Cote is a hidden gem. La Bella Mona Lisa art gallery in St. Joseph du Moine is a delight

  •Flavor Downtown, Flavor on the Water and Flavor Nineteen for the best food in Sydney.