August 1975.
Returning to Calgary after two months in the center of the pop world was a culture shock. In just eight hours my girlfriend and I had been transported from Kings Road, London Town to Stampede Row, Boom Town. Our friends met us at the airport. Mario, a flamboyant Italian hairdresser, and a cousin of one of my friends, had a beat up old camper van. He volunteered to drive us to Vancouver. I was surprised, and somewhat overwhelmed by his generosity, but then again it was the freewheeling decade. So, along with two suitcases of clothes and three milk crates of vinyl records, we wound our way through the magnificent Rockies towards the west coast. We arrived in Vancouver without a problem and crossed the Granville Street Bridge over Burrard Inlet and were in awe of that famous oceanic view that stretched to the furthest reaches of the Pacific. It’s one of those sights that you never forget.
For some reason Mario thought he was driving in the wrong direction and decided to make a U turn right there and then. Within seconds we heard the heart skipping wail of police sirens and obediently pulled over to the curb. With their hands on their leather gun holsters two burly cops ordered us out of the van. They questioned the fact that we were from Alberta (they noticed the license plate), and were we on a drug run? They searched the cluttered van, checked under seats, pulled my precious records out of their cardboard sleeves without any care of handling or getting fingerprints on the black virgin vinyl, and rifled through our belongings while we stood there passively and watched. One of the officers found a brand new pair of platform shoes that I had bought on a Chelsea shopping trip. They were the height of fashion, something Elton John might wear during the Yellow Brick Road performances: six inch high heels, white stitching around the black base, more of a statement than practical footwear. I had purchased them in the hope I could wear them as “stage clothes” if I ever found a job in the nightclubs. They were probably the first men’s platform shoes the Vancouver cops had ever seen. London fashion hadn’t made it that far west yet. “Who owns these?” the cop asked holding them up. “I do,” I replied. The cop laughed, and nodded smugly to his partner. “Really,” he said, and smirked, with a mental “uh huh” kind of look. After detaining us for about fifteen minutes they let us go.
Before our friends returned to Calgary we managed to find an affordable basement apartment. It was in an old three story house just off Commercial Drive in the east end. We had no furniture but managed to purchase the basic necessities. Anxious to kick start my career in music I visited Kelly’s music store on Hastings Street and purchased a high-end stereo system on credit. We may not have had sofa and chairs, or even a table to eat on, but we had great sounding music.
A couple named Floyd and Carol lived immediately above us. Unlike the rest of the tenants in the house they were not students. We did not know what they did for a living, but they did drink beer with regularity at the Blue Horizon hotel. We had a feeling that Floyd was a drug dealer. He had the look of a street wise hustler. She had an eight year old son from a previous relationship who, sadly, would come home from school and be locked out, sometimes in the rain. On more than one occasion we found him sheltering under the back stairs to keep dry. So we always invited him in until his mom came home.
For some reason Floyd went out of his way to befriend us, unlike the other tenants in the house, who gave him a wide berth. He said he liked the music that drifted from our place into his living room. “It’s not too loud?” I asked him, worried. No problem, he said. One day he came by to thank us for looking after the boy, and, by way of appreciation, he handed us a six pack of beer. He then noticed the platform shoes standing in the corner like a work of pop art. “Wow! What are those?” he asked. I explained that I had just bought them in England. “Do you walk in them, or do you stand and make a speech?” and laughed at his own joke. He held one shoe up in admiration. “Cool. Now that’s a commitment!” He then changed the subject and mentioned that it was Carol’s birthday in a week and could we look after a small present till then so she would not find it before the big day. Foolishly, I said yes. From inside his jacket he pulled out a small package wrapped in bright red paper. It was about the size of a giant box of matches that my mother used to buy and keep handy by the gas stove. I put it in the top desk drawer and told him it would be safe there.
A few days later, at about three in the morning, we were startled awake by the sound of gunfire. “What’s that?” my girlfriend said. I had no idea, but hoped it would go away whatever it was. “Go back to sleep”, I foolishly replied. Within minutes the police had arrived. We could see their heavy boots, and the paws of their German shepherd dogs, as they marched by the basement windows. Yellow flashlight beams painted the way. There was an assertive rap at the basement door. It was a policeman and, half asleep, we invited him into the small, bare apartment. He told us that someone had tried to kill Floyd. The gunman had waited in a car parked in the back alley until Floyd went into the bathroom. When he turned on the light the gunman fired. The bullet travelled along Floyd’s cheek and took off half his ear, but he didn’t die. They had rushed him to hospital. The policeman asked us if we knew of any strange happenings or any other relevant information that might help. We explained that we had just arrived in Vancouver and knew nothing. At that moment the cop became relaxed and lent against the desk where the package was stored. In fact, he was almost sitting on top of it. We didn’t want to say anything. It wasn’t ours, we didn’t know what was in it, and it might cause problems. He asked us our ages. Twenty and eighteen we told him. “You look much younger,” he commented and he wondered if we were underage runaways. No, we explained just young lovers. He penciled our personal details in his notebook, told us to be careful, and left.
A few days later Floyd returned from the hospital. He visited us, which was disconcerting. He wanted to know if we still had “Carol’s present” and I took it out of the top drawer and gave it to him. He offered no explanation as to what happened, but said he, Carol and the boy were going to stay away from the house for a couple of weeks. Good idea. So if we heard any noise coming from the floor above we should call the police, he added. Sure enough, the following day we heard his floorboards being pried open with what sounded like a crowbar. Somebody was looking for something. We were worried. I went around the front of the house, and nervously I attempted to peer in the windows. Yes, there was somebody there. I ran back to the basement, called the police, explained the situation and waited behind our locked door. By the time the cops arrived the intruder had fled. We decided it was time for us to leave as well. Our landlord understood and within a week we had a new apartment on Broadway.
While on campus I enrolled at the student radio station CITR. I was really only broadcasting to the janitor and his dog, and the few students that heard the station in residence. But that didn’t matter. I was on the air playing records and talking to the universe. Disco had just become popular on the lower mainland and I had many of the records that were hits in the UK clubs. By late October I had secured a job as a club deejay at Clementine’s on Broadway, owned by Ken Stauffer (who also owned the legendary Cave supper club downtown) and with it an income to pay the bills. I even wore my new platform shoes which became a conversation piece among the patrons and waitresses.
One Friday night, after I had completed my set and everyone was leaving the club, I was approached by a late straggler. “Hi, there music man, how you doing?” It was Floyd. The scar across his cheek had healed, half his ear was missing, but he was smiling. “Great music tonight, but I’d rather hear more Doobie Brothers than that KC and The Sunshine crap,” he said jokingly. “You’re good, though.” I thanked him and asked after Carol and the boy. He said they were fine, and invited me back to the house on Commercial Drive for a beer and something stronger. He winked. It was late, past two in the morning, and I told him I had to go. It had been a long day. What with classes and the job. “No problem,” he replied. “But hey, I can help you in your music career. I know some very influential people. Let me see what I can do.”
“I have an agent already,” I lied, “but thanks anyway. I have a gig opening for Gloria Gaynor at the Cave next week.”
“No problem,” he said. “I’ll be back to visit you again. I always loved your music.”
I picked up my red box of 7” 45’s and strode away in those fancy platform shoes, careful not to look back or fall over my feet.
The Incident in Vancouver
Aucun commentaire:
Enregistrer un commentaire