by Neil Young
In Winnipeg, we only saw each other on weekends because she lived on the other side of town, in East Kildonan. Of course, I was playing gigs with the Squires, too, and that made my social life on the weekends different from most guys’, but she stuck with me. I got to know Pam and Pat’s family pretty well because I would visit them often. They were really fine people, a happy family home. It sure felt good over there.
We played every weekend, and Pam was there most of the time. It was a wonderful experience, crowding our equipment and bodies into whatever cars we could rustle up, and the time passed quickly, as the good times always do. I saw a picture of Pam a couple of years ago that Jack sent to me, and she still looked beautiful, wearing a Pendleton shirt, just the same. It feels good to think about it now and I would like to take another deep breath of that winter Winnipeg air with Pam and I, and all of those friends.
After we went back to Winnipeg, the school year started up again, and finally my big dream came true, but with a catch. With Rassy’s help and support, I bought an orange Gretsch from John Glowa, who had played with Allan and the Silvertones before Randy Bachman joined the band. My Gretsch was just like Randy’s. I sold my golf clubs to raise my share of the money for the Gretsch. Rassy put in the rest. The golf clubs had meant a lot to me at one time, but not as much as my music, by any stretch of the imagination. I first showed up with this beautiful guitar in hand, my pride and joy, at a St. Mary’s Catholic Youth Organization dance on September 20, 1963, with the Squires.
The underlying story of my new Gretsch is that I misled my mother Rassy about this transaction, because I wanted it so bad and it was very expensive, maybe too expensive for us to afford. She, knowing how much I wanted a new guitar, offered to pay part of the amount if I would pay her back. I had some of the money and she put in the rest, but unbeknownst to her, the guitar cost more than I had told her. I was paying more money, on the side, to John in installments for a number of months. It was only a few months of extra payments I made, but I had to fudge the books of the Squires to hide the payments I was making to John while I was making payments to Rassy, bless her heart. I still have a sick feeling about that to this day, just thinking about it. That kind of thing never goes away. It is just not right. If I had been honest I probably would have gotten the guitar anyway, and it would have been one of the happiest moments of my young musical life. Of course, my mother is gone now, and there is no way for me to tell her the truth, which we would probably have had a good laugh over. There was a life lesson there. Try to go lightly to your grave.
The Squires kept on growing and playing gigs. The pay got higher. We were playing more and more. We took a gig downtown, playing at the Cellar, a seedy club in an alleyway where druggies and undesirables mingled with night people, working girls, and musicians. The entry was down a dark stairs, off an alley, to a dim red light. A guy you could hardly see took your money, a cover charge, to get in. It was funky and dark, all brick painted black inside. We could hardly see the audience when we played. We did multiple sets a night. The place had an unfamiliar odor, probably grass, and it was really smoky. We had seen the Crescendos play there, and the Silvertones. All the bands that were good enough played the Cellar because it was the only place to play during the week. We did it for three nights and didn’t get asked back. I was probably too young to be there anyway, still in high school.
During the summer of 1963, I found an advertisement in the paper for a 1948 Buick Roadmaster hearse, being sold as excess by a funeral home. I asked Rassy to help me buy it. She said she might be able to help if it wasn’t too expensive. After calling the number in the paper, I got the address and made my way to it in the Ensign. When I got there, a man came out and let me through a chain-link gate, and I walked into a lot full of older cars and inspected two 1948 Buick Roadmaster hearses. They were huge, with very large back doors, and rollers for the coffins to roll in and out of the velvet-upholstered back. “Perfect for our equipment!” I exclaimed to myself.
I named the hearse Mort. I was very happy. I remember going out for a drive through River Heights, feeling the same freedom I felt on my first bike. Now I could go anywhere, and a feeling of independence was upon me like never before. Mort immediately gave the Squires an identity that set the group apart from everyone else. Soon we were playing farther and farther out of town and things were getting really good for the band. We continued playing the gigs we had played through high school, improving our sound, growing and evolving with the music, happily cruising to the gigs in Mort.
I spent a lot of time visiting at Pam’s house and would practice on the big upright piano in her family room downstairs, where we would hang out. There was a great family feeling in their house that made me feel comfortable. I don’t remember a lot of that in my own home. The twins’ mom and dad were very happy. I could always feel the love. Music was taking over my life completely, though, and in late November of that year, 1963, I broke up with Pam. We were still friends, but my commitment to music was huge and I must have felt I was unable to spend the time with her that she deserved. I stayed in touch, and still had feelings for her, and she for me.
1948 Buick Roadmaster Flxible Hearse“Mort”
CHAPTER NINE
he year 1964 came along and with it came change. The Beatles had arrived, taking the entire world by storm. They hit Canada before they hit the States. We got their records first. We heard them singing. It became obvious that our band needed a singer as well, but none of us had ever sung in public before.
I had written some songs in my bedroom and had been singing them to myself, but no one had ever heard me. I was pretty insecure about my voice. One of the songs was titled “No” and another was titled “I Wonder.” I wasn’t ready to come out singing my own material, but I was thinking about singing a known song in front of people. I had still never practiced singing with a band.
The first time I sang in public was in the Kelvin High School cafeteria. At noon hour there was some sort of talent show; I am sure it wasn’t just me singing. I got up in front of a bunch of students as part of some sort of lunch hour entertainment program, getting up there with a guy named Stuart Adams and someone else. Stuart was an English guy. We did two Beatles songs. I was playing guitar and I think he was, too, but I’m not sure. I was terrified. I’ll never forget that feeling, “four-engined butterflies,” as my dad used to say. It was obviously something I wanted to do, so I did it. We sang “Money (That’s What I Want)” and “It Won’t Be Long,” two great Beatles tunes from their big hit album. I don’t remember a positive or negative reaction. People were mostly bemused and curious. Later, I used to joke that I was serious about making music for a living because the first song I ever sang in front of people was “Money (That’s What I Want).”
The best things in life are free
But you can keep ’em for the birds and bees.
Now gimme money (that’s what I want)
That’s what I want (that’s what I want)
That’s what I want (that’s what I want), oh yeah,
That’s what I want.
—“MONEY”
Even with Beatlemania sweeping the world, I was still really into Jimmy Reed and had two or three of his albums that I listened to constantly on the Seabreeze. I loved the simplicity and honesty that oozed from every one of his songs. His voice was not amazing and his harmonica was simple and direct, while not being derivative of Brownie McGhee, who I had heard at the Fourth Dimension. Jimmy played harp with a rack—a harmonica holder—around his neck so he could play guitar at the same time, and he would hold notes for a long time, focusing on high, expressively plaintive tones. To me, he was very haunting, one of the greats, a genius original, making the most of the least, with a definitive sound in the blues. Maybe he was just too successful for the hard core to appreciate him while he was alive. I sure did, though. We started doing some vocal tunes with the Squires, including a few Jimmy Reed songs, afte
r my Kelvin debut as a vocalist. We got a mixed reaction at first but no one was throwing things at me.
Got me runnin’, got me hidin’,
Got me run, hide, hide, runnin’ anyway you want to let it roll
Yeah, yeah, yeah
You got me doin’ what you want me
So baby, why you want to let go?
— JIMMY REED, “BABY WHAT YOU WANT ME TO DO”
Some people would yell out “Stick to guitar playing” and stuff like that, kind of like heckling at a hockey game. We kept at it. Ken started singing a bit, trying harmonies. We had to work at that. We were not natural singers and had to practice the harmonies one part at a time. Harmony singing did not come naturally. Harmonic structure is complex to learn, especially if you have no idea what you are doing, which was my case. We spent hours and hours working, trying to find the parts, feeling for them, and coaxing them out of the chords. I learned that almost all of the harmony notes could be found in the chords, but there were also passing notes between them that I was trying hard to locate. I would find the notes, and then sing everyone’s part to them; then we would try them together. Inevitably someone’s part would pull someone else to the same note and we would have to stop and start again, relocating the correct notes. We kept playing all the regular places, and I was singing lead all the time. Ken and Allan Bates sang as well, background parts, like “That’s what I want” and “Shake it up, baby.” We were starting to get the hang of it.
We went back to CKRC to record again on April 2, 1964. “I Wonder” was among the titles. According to Ken Smyth, Harry Taylor, the CKRC engineer, thought I should give up on singing and just play guitar. There was a copy made of that recording, as well as an instrumental called “Mustang,” from that session. I don’t think the vocal was too bad at all when I listen today; actually, the track seemed a little tentative, sounding self-conscious.
On April 23, 1964, I got my first Fender piggyback amp, a Tremolux, from Ray Hamerton Music, and we were on the edge of our dreams, cruising around Winnipeg in Mort and playing all the gigs in town.
My formal education officially ended when I dropped out of Kelvin High School in the fall of 1964, having failed to pass grade ten after the second year trying. I never could pass French and had nightmares for a few years after, dreaming that I was still in school trying. Ken quit, too, and we both decided to become professional musicians. Mr. Fred “Hodgie” Hodgkinson was our vice principal, and he had called me into the office to try to convince me to stay in school. I told him I wanted to be a professional musician and play in clubs. He told me that was just temporary, and that I needed an education to make it through life. He gave me the best advice he could, but he didn’t know how dedicated I was.
Bill Edmondson, a friend I had just met when he moved in right across the street from our house, had arrived from Montreal, where his parents had recently divorced, and he really was a rocker, but had never played in a band. Bill loved music and had gotten a set of drums because he used to play, and he wanted to join the band. He had all of the attitude in the world, and I loved playing and hanging out with him. At first, he was a bit rusty because he had not played in a while, but he played loud and rocked.
Then we added Jeff Wuckert on piano. Jeff was a great player, and we had not had a piano since Linda Fowler. Then something very important happened. We had booked our first big out-of-town road gig at the Flamingo Club in Fort William, Ontario, playing three to five sets a night in a one-week engagement. We practiced a lot and had our picture taken for publicity. The picture-taking session was arranged by Sharon, Bill’s girlfriend from CKRC. To look cool, we had gotten some patent leather shoes and had outfits with ascots and pullover vests made for us by Jeff’s mom. I thought we would be really ready for the big time when we hit the Flamingo Club, but we had a surprise coming.
When the time drew close for the band to go on the road to this big gig, and it was just a week before we were to leave, Jeff’s family said they would not let him go with us. Jeff dropped out.
That left Bill Edmondson, Ken Koblun, and me. The gig at the Flamingo Club was already booked, and after playing around town a bit as a trio, we went ahead with the three of us, even though the photo we had sent ahead for publicity had Jeff in it. We couldn’t afford to do another professional photo. On the morning of October 11, 1964, the Squires packed up Mort with all of our equipment in front of our home at 1123 Grosvenor, and with Rassy standing on the sidewalk and waving good-bye, we took off into the future.
Before leaving Winnipeg for the first time in Mort, I was probably not too aware of what a great time it really had been. Winnipeg was good to me. It was intense and not always easy, but it was my growing-up period. As Mort headed out of Winnipeg, Ken, Bill, and I were in the front seat and our equipment was well packed in Mort’s spacious form. With the open road ahead, I watched Niakwa Golf and Country Club disappear in the rearview mirror. Niakwa was the club my mother belonged to, the one she joined when we moved back to Winnipeg from Toronto, the one where I bought the clubs I sold to buy my beautiful Gretsch guitar.
Thoughts of community clubs, the Fourth Dimension, the Sugar Shack, high school dances, teen clubs, and the many friends and bandmates I had shared life with all rolled through my mind. With the open road now visible before us, it was only an hour or so before we passed Falcon Lake and I thought of meeting Pam, our special times together, the bears at the dump, and the breakup of the original Squires. “Four Strong Winds” played over in my soul as I held the wheel and drove on. Eventually the terrain became more varied, with hills and lakes everywhere. It is a beautiful country, Canada, and I hope to go back there someday and take this same trip again, viewing it through older eyes.
The hours rolled by and I started noticing how much gas we were using. Mort was not economical, as you can imagine. I began the practice of conserving fuel by turning off the motor while going downhill, and coasting. That was a bad idea and put a lot of strain on the vehicle’s transmission and rear end whenever I slipped it back in gear to climb the next grade, but what did I know? Not much. I was just trying to save fuel. It was the beginning of something. Something I could never have imagined at the time. The gas price was set at 30 cents per gallon, and cruising at 8 mpg, dreaming about our future as professional musicians on the road, we added 1,153 pounds of CO2 to the atmosphere on our trip to Fort William.
After about eight hours on the road, we eventually made it to the Fort William YMCA, an old multistory brick building downtown, where we had rooms paid for by the Flamingo Club. When we arrived, I received a Western Union telegram from my uncle Bob and aunt Merle, congratulating me on my first show, hoping it was the beginning of a long and illustrious career. Uncle Bob was a true musician at heart. Reading that telegram, I thought about my aunt and uncle and my three girl cousins, who sang like birds under his loving guidance. Penny, Marny, and Steffi were part of my growing up. My uncle Bob was a real funny guy and the girls sang around the piano and his ukulele every night. It was always great fun visiting them, and it was such a warm family scene; I couldn’t get enough of it.
Uncle Bob played the heck out of both the uke and the piano, using only the black keys, which I am sure he learned years before from his mom (my granny Jean) while growing up in Flin Flon, a big northern Manitoba mining town with gravel streets and modest housing. Granny Jean was the musical force in town, the organizer of a theater group that did musicals and a regular piano player at the local bars. She was, by all reports, a honky-tonk queen. On Sundays, she visited every church in town, all the denominations, one after another, playing the pump organs.
Granny Jean’s maiden name was Patterson. Her daddy was a traveling salesman who had come to town selling medicines and cures in a horse-drawn wagon. He put on a show out of the back of his wagon. There was also a preacher in the family from the Patterson side, and we have one of his Bibles in our house, one that was handed down through the gene
rations, that my late aunt Dorothy gave to me the last time I saw her.
Putting down the Western Union telegram, I noticed there was a Bible on the nightstand of my room. I looked out the window, surveying my Fort William view. It looked older than I had expected.
A local DJ named Ray Dee from CJLX came by the Flamingo to listen to us, and I liked him right away. Later, when I met my lifelong friend and great producer David Briggs, he reminded me very much of Ray Dee. They both had knowledge of music and an assertive leadership attitude that I found and still find essential in a producer. It takes the weight off my shoulders and lets me focus on doing my thing, singing and playing.
Back at the YMCA, I started writing more songs. They were R&B-influenced tunes with a heavy Jimmy Reed stamp on them and they fit like a glove at the Flamingo Club, or “The Flame” as it was known locally. There are some accounts of us playing through a fight that broke out one night in that first week, but I don’t have any recollection of that. However, if it did happen, it is a rule to never stop playing if there is trouble in the crowd. I have always respected that rule. A crowd is nothing to screw with. When the music stops, the anger really starts. It’s like fanning a fire.
Well, hello lonely woman,
Won’t you take a walk with me?
I know a place where we can go
Grab a bite to eat.
