It Wasn’t All Fun And Games
Nobody Can Say I Didn’t Pay My Dues
In a post I published last year I made reference to a singer I worked with in the late seventies called The Mighty Pope. I said I would go into more detail later.
Later is now.
This strangely named dude was a large black man from Jamaica. He looked like someone you wouldn’t want to mess with. But his imposing presence belied a good hearted guy who liked to laugh. He and I got along well.
He’d had a couple of Canadian semi hit records and a well received LP that included (no joke), a disco version of IN-A-GADDA-DA-VIDA.
I was looking for work in September of 1979 after finishing one of Shirley’s projects and an opportunity came up with a company that managed some very successful artists.
They offered me a job as music director with The Raes. The band had been on hiatus while Cherill and Robie Rae were in Vancouver taping their own TV show with the CBC.
I had been offered the job a year previously but I was busy. They went with a guy I recommended who was now moving on.
One week after I agreed to join, the two front people decided to stay in Vancouver. The management company then put us with one of their other artists.
His Eminence
Earle Heedram, AKA “The Mighty Pope” was that artist. The “Mighty” comes from his strong vocal and “Pope” comes from a Vatican-shaped piece of land his family owned in Jamaica.
We simply called him Pope.
The band went into rehearsal for two weeks and we got up to speed with all of his material.
The managers wasted no time in sending us out on the road. Not shows, no way. It was six nights a week bar gigs in western Canada. I wasn’t pleased, but I was committed to the project and besides, I was running out of money.
The first stop was Saskatoon. We were leaving Saturday morning from Toronto to start there Monday evening. Of course we were driving. I made my way downtown by bus and subway with my suitcase. As soon as I saw the truck we were supposed to travel in, a dented, rusty cube van, I mutinied. I doubt it would have passed a safety inspection.
“See you in Saskatoon” I told the guys “I’m taking the train”.
Bad Planning
I took the subway to Union Station. The train ticket was more expensive than I had anticipated. All I had left was a five dollar bill and a buck and a half in change.
I figured I would need that money for a cab once I got to Saskatoon which would be Monday morning. That meant the toast I’d eaten before leaving my house that morning was the only food I’d have for the next two days. Great way to start a trip.
In those days there was a choice of smoking or non-smoking rail cars. You bought a seat in one of those areas and pretty much stayed there until your stop with the exception of trips to the bar/dining car.
I might have re-considered my choice of the smoking car had I’d known that after picking up the trans-continental passengers in Chelmsford it would be three quarters full of young people from the Atlantic provinces and Quebec heading out to the west coast to pick “Shrooms”.
Those Krazy Kids
The party had already been in full force for a day and a half as their “Atlantic Bullet” slowly milk-ran from Halifax to Sudbury.
Fueled by Molson and Canadian Club they were all keyed up about their big adventure.
It’ll be a different atmosphere on the way back, I thought, as they’ll undoubtedly be sampling the harvest. I’ve tried magic mushrooms and I can attest to the fact that the active ingredient, psilocybin, is not a party drug. In fact, social anxiety and panic attacks can occur.
But for now it was party, party!!
They were singing, laughing and raising hell all at an extreme decibel level. It was with the pungent smell of hydroponic Acadian Gold wafting through the car during the early hours of Sunday, that the conductor paid us a visit.
Empty Threat? Wouldn’t Want To Test It
“Mesdames et messieurs, ladies and gentlemen, your attention please” he announced loudly in a smooth québécois accent, “If it was daylight you could look out your window and see dat we are in da boreal forest of nordern Ontario. If I catch you smoking marijuana I’ll stop da train and you’ll be walking knee deep in muskeg to da next town. Merci.”
Angel Of Mercy
As I was saying, I had no money for food so by mid afternoon on Sunday even the seat cushion started looking good.
I was passing the time reading a book when I noticed a girl entering our car from the one ahead. Slim and cute with shoulder length auburn hair, she could have been eighteen or thirty. She stopped, gazed around and then headed in my direction.
There was a vacant seat beside me and she sat down, pulled a package of cigarettes from her jeans-jacket pocket, smiled at me and asked if I had a light. I handed her a Bic lighter.
“I’ve got a roomette a few cars ahead in non-smoking. Thought I could last. Do you mind if I sit here for a while?”
We shared some small talk and somehow the conversation got around to food, specifically, my lack of. When she finished her smoke she took me down to the bar car and bought me a sandwich and a beer. I had no idea egg-salad on a stale kaiser could taste so good.
Now I could tell you about how she took me to her room and we engaged in, ahem, carnal ecstasy for the rest of the trip… . The reality is, I thanked her for the sandwich, she said “you’re welcome” and without either of us exchanging any personal information, she got up and headed back to her car.
Eight o’clock, Monday morning, two nights and more than forty hours after leaving Toronto, the train rolled into Saskatoon.
Bleary-eyed and with that rattly feeling that only someone who’s sat in coach on a train for two days can relate to, I stumbled into the station and headed for baggage pick-up.
“Need a ride somewhere?” came a voice from behind me with an East European accent.I turned to see a guy who looked like Ratso Rizzo from Midnight Cowboy.
I’m Walking Here
“You a cab driver?”
“No, I come to station in the morning. To help people.”
Well, I thought, he might be a serial killer but I could use the six dollars and fifty cents I had left…..
I accepted a ride to the hotel. On the way I explained to him that I was a musician but he misunderstood what kind of musician. As I thought about it later, I guess I gave him the impression that I played in a Bavarian Oompah band. I invited him out to the club to see us.
When I checked into the hotel, I asked if I could charge my meals. The lady at the front desk said yes, so before even going to my room I headed to the restaurant and spent ninety glorious minutes in a feeding frenzy.
Sufficiently sated, I dumped my bag in my room, let the other guys know I was there and then walked a mile to the showroom for load-in and set-up.
Everyone’s A Critic
That evening my driver Ratso, showed up with eight people who looked like they were from a different era. Like Mennonites, the men wore black and the women had long dresses. They left shortly after Pope, flat on his back with a motorcycle helmet on, spun around on the dance floor like Curly from the Three Stooges….
Too bad, they missed the beginning of the second set when he strutted across the room pounding his chest like King Kong yelling “I am the Mighty Mighty!”
We were told by the management in Toronto that we would have six or seven weeks of work out west. That’s what I agreed to. Any less and it wouldn’t have been worth it.
Bamboozled
We played two weeks in Saskatoon and then headed further west to do a week in Lethbridge Alberta. When we got there we found out that the rest of the dates were cancelled and we were to return to Toronto.
Of course, Pope flew. I hadn’t made enough money to consider planes or trains so I was forced to ride in that same truck I avoided in the first place.
What, And Quit Show Business?
We left Lethbridge after the gig on Saturday night. Five guys in a rusty truck with bald tires and only two seats. At any given time, three of us were sitting on amplifiers. For forty-two hours!
I still have “Fender Super Reverb” imprinted on my ass…….