Our first gig was less than a triumph, although you wouldn’t know that by the story we told to anyone who had not been in attendance. But the original gig was early in October and by late November, the tale of our solitary gig was getting pretty tired. We desperately needed another show.
Our drummer had a solution. He had secured us a spot playing the Christmas party at a renowned clothing manufacturer. How was this possible for chancers like us? The drummer’s grandfather owned the company.
The company was Canada’s leading manufacturer of tartan garments. It was called Highland Queen. It was located in an ancient, multistory manufacturing building in Toronto’s downtown schmata district, right on Spadina Avenue. It was blocks south of the legendary El Mocambo where the Stones, Elvis Costello and even reggae legend Burning Spear took the stage, but it was a gig and a paid one at that.
When we got to the building, we were mildly distressed to find that our equipment had to be hauled up three substantial flights of stairs. But we had very little equipment to start with and we had a roadie, so we were one step ahead of our first gig.
OK, he wasn’t exactly a roadie. He was a friend of the drummer’s and he made no secret of the fact that he wanted to be in the band. He had no talent whatsoever which put him a step, albeit a small one, behind us. I recall that when we told him that he was not going to be in the band, he pointed out that he had already invested in an instrument. It was a pretty desperate guilt trip, especially considering that his instrument was a tambourine and that his investment consisted of having stolen it.
To be perfectly honest, he wasn’t much of a roadie either. He dropped my amp at the halfway point up those stairs and all that kept it from going all the way down was the fact that there was a landing every half storey. His reaction was, “Huh. Lucky I wasn’t at the top.”
But the amp still worked and we worked as well, in what must be admitted was not a very rock and roll environment. Our stage was an ancient hardwood floor, an aisle actually, between the management offices and rows and rows and rows of sewing machines. And behind each sewing machine was a little lady in a headscarf and an apron. I was not optimistic about our reception but throughout the set, every one of those ladies sat motionless, save for some polite clapping at the end of each number. The applause was indeed modest but they stayed to listen!
We were elated. That is, until we discovered that they had not yet received their pay packets. This transpired between our first and second sets. By the beginning of the second set, our audience was comprised solely of sewing machines, worn and silent. Not a headscarf nor an apron nor a seamstress to be seen. I think the drummer’s grandfather slipped out as well.
But his secretary did not. She was a lovely Scandinavian woman who became more and more enamoured of the band with each secreted refilling of the Yuletide goblet. The more white wine that passed over her lips, the more convinced she became that the band’s blond rhythm guitarist was also of Scandinavian descent. That was me and I was not. I was, however, terrified by the increasing proximity of this slim but slurry lady. Besides, she was kind of old, at least twenty-three.
If you are sensing a real rock and roll ending to this story, you are right. Shortly before the band made its exit, she made hers, by falling down those stairs. As I recall, the landing did not save her as it had my amp. In an effort to remount her high heels, she turned the corner and fell half way down the next flight.
By that time, we had discovered the freight elevator at the back. Our second artistic assault on the world was over.
(Second in a series of only two, thank heavens! Be sure to read the first gig blog below if you came in late. —-David)