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MOTHER TUCKERS YELLOW DUCK
Part 7 - Continued excerpt from the beginning
of the book, 'Listen Carefully to Everything he Says, Then Ignore it
Completely', by C. Livingstone.
(See here about the Book)
MTYD -- Part 7
As mentioned in Book 1, Dad had started with IBM in 1938 in Montreal. We
lived in Montreal for my first year of life. For three years we then lived
in the very rural suburb town of Châteauguay along the, you guessed it,
Châteauguay River just south west of Montreal. We lived another year back in
Montreal before we all headed west to Winnipeg in Dad’s next big step the
IBM ladder.
The entire town of Châteauguay at the time consisted of the Châteauguay
River, a small store, a small bridge across the river, a church, and a
giant clutch of four tiny little farmhouses sitting bunched together in
a row along the river. Our house was right in the middle of the clutch.
The next door neighbour was a French Canadian with a big Maple tree
orchard out back which he mined for maple syrup ever year. We of course
were completely English. We were only three kids so far at the time. My
younger brother Ron was now two and a half, Greydie and I were now three
and a half.
One day the three of us decided to help sweeten the kitty in our
neighbour’s annual maple sugar take by peeing in the collection cups. I
think that’s probably why there is still so much animosity towards the
English in Quebec these days, and why so many of the French Canadians
still want to separate. Also probably maybe, no doubt, why we moved
back to Montreal so shortly afterwards.
On a very frequent basis during the two full years we lived at the house
though, the air would suddenly fill up with a completely disassociated
disconcerting droning sound. This could only be described as a sort of
extremely pervasive slow moaning ‘wey-wey-wey’ type sound. The sound
would rise to a crescendo, then just as slowly start to quieten back
down again. Then be gone.
The walls would start shaking wildly. From the vibrations of the sound
the furniture would jump around madly on the floor. I know I wasn’t
imagining this, because I distinctly remember Mom making a sudden mad
dash up to a little landing half way up the stairs and catching our
prize floor standing RCA Victor record player. It had joggled to the
front of the landing and was just in the process of pitching face
forward down the stairs.
So whatever else they were, these were at least elements of the physical
realm. Being barely out of diapers, I had no clue.
I eventually settled onto calling the noises ‘wey-weys’ because of the
sound characteristic, and would run to my parents crying, “The wey-weys
are coming, the wey-weys are coming” whenever the sound started up. Kids
are very literal about these kinds of things. I never found out what the
‘wey-weys’ were. And after the three years, we moved back to Montreal. I
have to suspect that the same sort of mysterious sense of alarm sets up
in pooches whenever a distance thunderstorm starts looming up. Who can’t
think of anything else to do except hide under the bed with eyes bulging
in terror because there is nothing specific to go bark at.
At any rate, many years later while we had been playing the two week gig
in Montreal during the Lennon world peace capades, it behoved me to take
the opportunity to check out the old homestead in Châteauguay. Nothing
was left of the giant little clutch of four houses except a giant
shopping center where the house had been. Also lost to the plaza I found
out, was the large Lancaster bomber air force base which had been right
behind the house during the Second World War. Ah hahh!
Our house had stood crossways right at the middle of the main runway
which had been cut off to our view by a large wall of trees. The
‘wey-weys’ of course were the mammoth Lancaster bombers droning their
way into a landing or taking off at about four and a half miles an hour
just past the end of our back yard.
After we had finished our first week at the club in Edmonton, an ardent
fan decided to treat the musicians to a ride on the magical mystery
tour. These types of affairs typically have an active phase then a
passive phase, where everybody trips first to the light fantastic, then
everyone lies down and trips off into their own little happy places.
By early morning just before first light, the lads were all well along
into the passive stage. Suddenly the door slammed to the floor with a
resounding thud and a whole battalion of cops came flying feet first
through the door shouting, “Don’t anybody move”. They certainly had that
right. Not moving wasn’t the problem, it was the getting to the feet a
few seconds later when the cops said, “get to your feet”.
Fortunately all of the incriminating substance had long ago gone down
the hatch during the active phase of the festivities and nobody was
carrying. So nobody got busted.
Apparently someone in one of the apartments below had fancied himself as
a sort of James Bond type. He had tipped off the cops about the
suspicious types of activities going on in the attic, apparently not as
a civic duty but to experience the vicarious thrill of a bust from the
cop’s side. Seems like drugs aren’t the only thing to be concerned
about.
Believe it or not, bonding of a James kind was quite popular in the wake
of the Dr. No and Thunderball successes of the earlier sixties. 007
wannabes were popping up all over the place.
In the mid-sixties I ran around for a while with a circle which included
the purported son of the manufacturer of a successful posturepedic style
mattress which sold big time in Sears stores all across North America.
Wherever we landed, the son’s eyes would constantly flick around
memorizing every tiny little detail of the place. Like the dishes in
someone’s kitchen sink for example.
A straight forward case of James Bonding. A precursor to the now fine
honed art of instant environmental assesmentizing as part and parcel of
mastering the manly practice of martial arts. Our mattress friend is
probably President of the Posture P Company by now, no doubt scoping out
the competition and keeping his mouth shut about his past.
When our rock band finally wound up back in Vancouver, we just mellowed
around for the winter writing new material and playing the local clubs
while we waited for Capitol records to finally get their show on the
road. I did have one experience not to do with the band though which
will stick with me forever however. It was the fabled Vancouver insider
experience known as, ‘The Diamond Sunrise’.
In all the seventeen years I lived in Vancouver, and since, the
existence of this unique occurrence of the dawn has never appeared in
the media, or even as an item in travel brochures. It was only known by
word of mouth.
One day late winter, a lady chum of mine asked me out of the clear blue
if I wanted to go with her the next morning to watch the Diamond Sunrise
in Stanley Park. The girl chum was actually a chum in my Brother’s
circle of friends, therefore a peripheral chum in mine.
Dianne was any guy’s best gal pal. Not a Barbie, not a sleazer, not bad
looking, Dianne was also sharp as a tack, eventually getting a degree in
law. She financed most of her college degree by importing assorted
substances from San Francisco for which her law degree might some day
have proved sorely required.
More importantly, Dianne could cook. I don’t mean just boil the spuds,
this gal was Cordon Blue all the way. If Dianne was a ten, your
Grandmother and great Aunts are probably all just eights.
Dianne was oldest of six kids and had assumed the cooking chores when
she was eleven. Her father was a demanding diner. So she had really
learned well at an early age how to toss the salad. Now a’ days, all
girls can cook exotic dishes from all over the world perfectly. It comes
straight from the freezer, into the micro, and onto the table like a
Chef from a grand hotel had prepared it personally by hand.
Dianne loved to put on big spreads for her friends. One of her
specialties was spaghetti to live for. Word went out to Greydie’s circle
one day that Saturday was going to be spaghetti at Dianne’s. I got the
slip under the door so was one of the first to arrive.
Greydie told me later that he had been appointed chef’s helper for the
day. Since there were about eight people involved it was a big dish to
prepare and Dianne was cooking the spaghetti it in a large five gallon
pot straight from Gretchen’s kitchen. To keep things going smoothly they
had been doing the dishes as they went along so the sink was full to the
top with dirty soapy dish water.
When it came time to drain the spaghetti, Greydie and Dianne held the
pot as high as they could over the sink and let the water run out
through a strainer. The strainer slipped and the whole colossal wad of
spaghetti went straight down into the soapy dish water in one big sloop.
Greydie grabbed a handful, ran it under the tap, and threw it back into
the empty pot.
Instead of running home crying to mother, Dianne just said, “Woops” and
got instantly with the program. Reaching straight down into the sink
following Greydie’s lead, she pulled the plug. Once the water had
drained, the two of them gave constant furtive glances over their
shoulders as they quickly scooped the specially sautéed spaghetti back
into the pot using as much cold fresh rinse as time would allow.
The spaghetti was fabulous. Dianne had outdone even herself, even by her
own account. So if you’re ever somewhere for dinner and the chef de jour
has apparently reached a new plateau, suspect a quick rinse though the
dish water.
When Dianne mentioned the Diamond sunrise, and having never heard of it,
my curiosity instantly sat straight up, I asked Dianne what on earth she
was talking about.
“It’s just like the brilliant diamond of light that occurs during a
total eclipse of the sun when the sun shines through the moon’s
mountains just before total blackout”, she explained, “Only in reverse”.
“The Diamond Sunrise happens just as the sun is coming up over
Vancouver’s North Shore Mountains at dawn. But you can only see it from
one location in the park”, she concluded. It sounded like a plan from
Raiders of the Lost Ark, so I said sure.
The trick is, you have to be exactly in the right place in the park to
see it. At first light, when the sun first starts coming up behind the
mountains, the leading edge of the sun will finally clear the rocks on
the right side of the leading mountain, and start to filter through the
branches of the big fir trees covering the surface like giant vertical
bottle brushes.
If you’re exactly at the right spot in the dense thick forestation
comprising Stanley Park, the light will suddenly refract through some of
the branches on the mountain in just such a way that you see the
refraction as a brilliant flash of pure crystal clear light. The so
called ‘Diamond Sunrise’.
Also since the sun has to pass behind the mountain as it comes up in the
early Spring morning instead of overtop as it does in the summer months
in order to work, even the prospect itself is only possible for a few
months of the year. So it was like a Brigadoon in the making in the
truest sense of the word.
Stanley Park has a number of grassy little enclaves secreted away within
its depths. From exactly only one of these secret little enclaves can
you see the diamond sunrise. It’s a lot like having to know your way
around never never land.
Stanley Park is a very large park sitting right adjacent to downtown
Vancouver. It’s almost a small urban forest of tall giant fir trees at
the edge of the large urban city of very tall giant buildings. A legacy
of Lord’s Stanley’s more lucid moments, Stanley Park is one of the
world’s better known downtown city parks.
The park is Vancouver’s equivalent to Central Park in New York or Golden
Gate Park in San Francisco, except for giant towering cedar trees
instead of pleasant little shorty hundred and fifty foot shade trees.
The park was for the most part still in much of its original state of
forestation until a really unfortunate giant blow in 2006 took away a
significant portion of the forest community. The park also has numerous
gardens, bike paths, walking trails, and a perimeter walkway. The very
touristy walkway provides a panoramic view of downtown Vancouver, the
harbour, the mountains, and English Bay. The park even has a small lake
originally created by a beaver dam. To no one’s surprise it’s called,
‘Beaver Lake’.
Stanley Park also has a world class aquarium, plus a pretty good, if not
all that large, zoo. Because of land space at the time, the zoo had
foregone large grazing animals, featuring instead exotic smaller
animals, plus a large number of fenced penstocks jammed full of every
kind exotic bird known to man.
Dianne picked me up on the next morning’s to do list, and we arrived at
the park at the crack of dawn. My perception was not enhanced by
anything save anticipation so that I would experience aught but the real
McCoy. We parked, we walked, then we walked some more, then we walked
some more until reaching the secret enclave. It was like walking
straight into Alice’s Wonderland. Exotic birds were everywhere.
Turns out the birds aren’t in their penstocks during the day as in a
prison. They stayed in their penstocks all day to protect themselves
from the idiot public. As soon as the public leaves at night, the birds
hop the fences and have themselves a ball.
We walked around until we came to the famous X spot within the enclave.
The spot marked the spot for a tiny fragile little window of reality
which gave the one and only absolutely unobstructed view of the top half
of the mountains through the park’s dense tall wall like forest of
trees. Like a tiny peep hole through time.
The spot by convenience of fate, was also exactly within the exact
window where the sun also passed through some tree branches on the
mountainside such as to refract. This was an ‘X marks the spot’ which
made pirate treasure seem like cheating by comparison.
Because of the early morning light, the mountains across the harbour
from downtown appear to be up right close exactly as though they were in
your breast pocket. A common occurrence in Vancouver. In the evening the
opposite occurs. Because the prevailing light comes from the opposite
direction, they look distant.
We sat down and proceeded to wait. Sure enough, we eventually started to
see the early light from behind the lead mountain. The light gradually
brightened as the sun crept its way inexorably across the near top of
the lead mountain from behind. Suddenly the leading edge of the sun
cleared the mountain edge at the right and we could see it starting to
filter through the trees as it made its inexorable ninety-three million
mile way away behind the tree cover.
Suddenly the leading edge of the sun found a perfect refraction point
within the branches of the mountain trees and an absolutely profound
brilliant pure crystal clear light exploded out of the trees from a
single point. The fabled Diamond Sunrise. It was a truly delivered
promise.
It lasted for about one and a half to two minutes. Then just as
inexorably, it waned out as the sun passed beyond the refraction point
in its inexorable transverse every morning across the mountains. But for
that one and brief little moment in time, it felt exactly like looking
into the heart of an atom.
Early the next Spring we headed back to Toronto again. The East was
where the action was. It was also going to be Capitol Records main
thoroughfare of activity once they finally decided to uncork the bottle
and get it on with our anticipated promotion.
But weeks went by, then months, and nothing. I finally phoned the
Canadian head of A and R, artists and repertoire, to complain. He told
me that the big boys in the California head office had temporarily put
the project on hold.
He gave me the California phone number and I phoned the big boys in the
California head office to give them a grilling. They confirmed. The
project was on hold until further notice whenever that would be. I
raised a little stink.
The next day the Canadian head of A and R was on the phone madder than
hell. The big boys in the California head office had almost fired him on
the spot for giving me their phone number. Things were definitely
starting to turn from sweet to sour on our record breaking record front.
Actually, in thinking back nearly thirty years later in the comfort of
writing these memoirs, I’m sure I know now exactly what went wrong.
Just before we had left again from Vancouver, a flashy debonairish Chris
Carter type black dude from LA had shown up at our front door. He had
just arrived in town, had caught the band playing at a local club, liked
what he saw, and was hoping to get on the bandwagon as a soldier.
He claimed to have had PR experience in LA. So I hired him on as the
band’s publicist just a few days before we left. I barely knew the guy.
Big, big mistake.
Shortly after arriving in Toronto, my contact at Capitol had called to
give me the name of the head of EMI in England who wanted to chat. EMI
you may or may not know at the time, was the parent company of Capitol
records who had the Beatles under wing.
I called and we had a nice cordial yak, all properly British. He wanted
some press material as soon as possible. So I called our new publicist
in Vancouver and asked him to put something together and send it off as
quickly as possible. After all, wasn’t that the very kind of thing I had
hired him for?
I called the EMI guy back about two weeks later to follow up and it
seemed like the whole Arctic ice cap had suddenly slid down over his
scalp and had stopped at his mouth. A colder shoulder and shorter
conversation you could not imagine. Something like, “We’re no longer
interested in the band, don’t call us we’ll call you”.
I was somewhat taken aback, but didn’t give it a whole lot of thought at
the time. About a week later I received a parcel in the mail from our
publicist in Vancouver. It was a copy of the kit he had sent to England.
The opening sentence of the cover letter told the whole story. It went
‘Greetings and salutations from the Quacker’s nest out west, here’s some
Ducksy Quacksie news for you”. Then it quickly got worse.
Seems our boy from the bird cage was gay as the birds and had come
flying straight out of the closet like a bat from a belfry. EMI had no
doubt presumed we were following right behind.
Sadly, some things can never be undone. You only get one chance to make
a first impression. I had no way of knowing in advance or any warning.
Well, that’s not exactly true.
I did have a little advance warning but was way off the mark. Our friend
had come to the house one day complaining that somebody had just thumped
him out in a washroom. I naturally assumed it was a black attack and
gave him all due sympathies.
Isn’t it a drag when things swish by so fast you fail to pick up on the
falling scarves when you should have. And isn’t this the type of case
where for sure the expression ‘The medium is the message’ owns the
forte’.
I realize now after all these years, that when EMI had pulled the pin,
Capitol head office in LA had probably also been right behind leaving
the whole project high and dry. Can’t hardly blame them. I found out
eventually that the company lawyer who had put the whole deal together
was also as gay as the birds. I was surrounded on all fronts by fluffy
feathers and never even knew it.
So that, plus the ducksy signals that had inadvertently been passed
along from our end had no doubt made the executives conclude they had
signed on the preening struts of the century. Then along came the
Village People and changed all that. At any rate, kind of a weird ‘what
are the odds’, but give it a big f for flocked on that one.
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