1982 (22 page)

About ten minutes after the slapshot incident, my mother, sister, and I saw Toke and his brother, Mitch, approaching. They were walking along the street in the direction of our house. As they came to our door, I opened it, with my mother standing next to me. Toke kept his head down, but we could see a red mark on his cheek.

Mitch Toker spoke directly to me. “Who did this to my brother?” Mitch had a stern look on his face, but this time I could tell his anger was not directed at me.

I looked at my mother and then across the street at Rick Bolton, who was watching events unfold from his driveway with his stick still in hand.

“Um … well … he did it.” I pointed across the street at Rick. I imagined I would become known as a rat for telling on Rick. He had been prominent in Scouts as one of the older leaders and would probably never speak to me again. I worried that Rick Bolton would have me kicked out of Scouts Canada
in revenge. But Toke had been my best friend. And even if he didn’t understand Bowie, I needed to defend him.

Mitch was looking directly into my eyes. “That’s what Ron said. Are you sure it was him?”

I nodded.

Mitch thanked me and turned to my mother. He said, “Hello, Mrs. Ghomeshi. I’m very sorry about this.” It was all so civilized. I realized that Mitch was not always wild and crazy if he didn’t need to be.

Toke and his older brother then walked across the street directly towards Rick Bolton. Mitch was wearing his dark brown leather jacket, the kind I figured John Travolta wore in
Saturday Night Fever
. Mitch said nothing as he walked up to Rick. Then Mitch Toker took Rick Bolton by the head and slammed his knee into his face. Rick crumpled to the ground. Mitch then put his arm around Toke and they began to walk away. Mitch was still looking back at Rick. He said, “Hey, asshole, don’t you ever fucking touch my brother again.” Toke was now looking at me. I was standing on the porch with my mother and sister watching the event transpire. Toke nodded as if to express some kind of solidarity. He said nothing. It was one of the last times we would hang out, but in that moment I knew that nothing would ever entirely shake our connection. We never really needed Dixie cups. We shared a history and a growing language of rock music. And besides, our passions would always remain united in our devotion to the band Rush.

7

“SUBDIVISIONS” – RUSH

B
efore Toke and I went our separate ways in the fall of 1982, we spent a large portion of the summer on an unplanned musical pilgrimage. Bowie wasn’t my only musical obsession in Grade 9. I swear. I had other rock heroes, ones that were closer to home, too. They even turned up in Thornhill. And we waited for them. And we hung out with them. Well, sort of.

Okay, I suppose I shouldn’t overstate things. Bowie was the real obsession. And by the early 1980s, I wanted to be like Bowie. That’s a fact. You know this by now. You know that I was striving to be New Wave. Or maybe even glam rock. Or at least I was aiming to be introspective and brooding and have a working knowledge of synthesizers and dyed hair.

It was my goal to adopt the fashions and attitude that would make me a young Persian-Canadian Bowie. Don’t laugh. When I first encountered Wendy in Grade 9, I instantly saw where all my aspirations were leading me. She began to consume my thoughts and further confirm my interests. As you’re aware, not only did I revere Bowie, I knew that if I
were more like Bowie, there was likely a greater chance Wendy would be interested in me. It was pretty much a win-win, you know? In retrospect, perhaps it was strange that I liked Wendy because she reminded me of Bowie. It was circular. It was like the Clash wearing T-shirts with the Clash on them. And yes, maybe I was overly obsessed with Bowie. That’s what you’ve already concluded at this point anyway. But if it seems like it was all Bowie all the time, it wasn’t. I loved music. And my musical interests were by no means monolithic.

In 1982, I went to see the rock band Journey play at Maple Leaf Gardens. You may know Journey, because these days they’re considered “classic rock.” That means they get played on “classic rock” radio stations every hour or so. It’s like a rule or something. “Classic rock” basically means music that is played incessantly on repeat without people being allowed to get sick of it. It means something like that. But the only problem with “classic rock” is that people do get sick of it. Except for the Boomers. They love “classic rock.” And now Journey are “classic rock.”

You may also know of Journey because everyone loves the song “Don’t Stop Believin’.” If you’re at a bar or in a sports stadium or on a cruise ship, everyone will sing along to “Don’t Stop Believin’.” People today love the song “Don’t Stop Believin’,” even though it wasn’t really a huge hit when it was first released in ’81. Years later, everyone started to like it so much that it was used as the soundtrack for the final minutes of one of the best TV shows in history,
The Sopranos
. So, you probably know that song for sure. But back in 1982, Journey weren’t “classic rock.” They were just rock. They weren’t old yet. When you’re very popular and you get old, you get called
“classic.” And if you’re a band, your music then gets played incessantly, the way you wish it might’ve gotten played in the first place. When I was fourteen, Journey were very different from Bowie. But I still liked them a lot.

I had gone to see Journey with John Ruttle and Valerie Tiberius and another girl named Jinjee. John Ruttle was my good friend, and he had gotten the tickets and arranged things. He was in Grade 10, so he was in charge. Valerie Tiberius was a very cute brunette girl who was in Grade 9 like me. She was smart and had excellent dimples and she wore skirts. John Ruttle wanted to ask Valerie Tiberius to go to the Journey concert, but he didn’t want her to feel like it was too much of a date. He wanted her to think it wasn’t a date, even though he wanted it to be a date. You see, if it felt too much like a date, she might say no. I learned that this was often the case with girls. They wanted to be taken out, but if it seemed like it was a date, it might create too much pressure and “expectations.” So, you had to figure out how to take a girl on a date in a way that wasn’t like a date, even though they ultimately wanted to go on a date. I knew girls liked dates in the end, because that’s what happened in romantic comedy movies.

John Ruttle asked me if I would come along to the Journey concert to help give the outing a non-date veneer. I agreed. He also asked Valerie if her close friend Jinjee would like to come. Jinjee accepted, and so now she was paired with me. John Ruttle was already fifteen, a year older than me, so he got to make decisions like this. He was also good at determining who was paired with whom. Besides, he had sprung for the Journey tickets, so I wasn’t going to complain. I didn’t seem
to have too much in common with Valerie’s friend Jinjee. But I really liked her name. Jinjee. It was the kind of name you wanted to repeat as much as you could when you were talking to the person who had that name.

“Hey, Jinjee. Would you like more popcorn, Jinjee? Okay, Jinjee. I’ll grab some for us, Jinjee.”

Like that.

So I agreed to go to the Journey concert with Jinjee, along with John Ruttle and Valerie Tiberius, who were not on a date. Mind you, it’s not like I wasn’t excited to see Journey anyway. I appreciated watching Steve Smith on the drums and hearing Steve Perry’s soaring vocals on songs like “Don’t Stop Believin’” and “Open Arms” and “Who’s Crying Now.” Journey had released their hit album
Escape
the previous year. They had originally been more of a progressive hard rock band, but now they were embracing a more pop sensibility. This meant that as they became huge in ’82, some rockers were abandoning them as sellouts. But we didn’t know that. Besides, we were some of the youngest kids at the concert. We sat in the blue end-section of Maple Leaf Gardens. John Ruttle said he had “pulled some strings” to get us the tickets. This meant his dad helped. Mr. Ruttle was a TV executive, so he probably had a hand in getting us good seats. I bought a Journey
Escape
T-shirt with long sleeves after the show. Jinjee didn’t want the
Escape
T-shirt with long sleeves.

The fact that I liked Journey was an example of my varied musical interests in the early ’80s. My appreciation of music styles went far beyond New Wave, punk, rock, and “classic rock.” I was also becoming increasingly aware of jazz music and the legendary drummer Buddy Rich. And I loved musicals
and was still getting regular doses of
The Sound of Music
and
Fiddler on the Roof
from my parents on the family stereo. Musicals were like theatre mixed with music, and that wasn’t too far from what Bowie did. But perhaps most of all, outside of Bowie and the New Wave revolution, I developed a rabid interest in the Toronto band Rush. My real devotion to Rush would begin at Tom Rivington’s house in 1981.

I have this theory that the first time you really listen to an artist or band, you can intuitively sense what your relationship will be to their music for the rest of your life. Usually. You will know deep inside whether you like them or whether their music is not for you. You will even know in that moment if you’re going to become a real devotee. Your gut will know this, no matter how many friends give you their opinion. You will know it, no matter how many times you say things like, “I wasn’t so sure about Madonna … but she’s really grown on me … now I really like her.” It’s not true. You always knew. And eventually the chickens come home to roost, and you will hate or love or be indifferent to Madonna. But you’ll usually know how you feel from the first minute you really listen. That is, if you learn to trust your gut.

It’s like the way mothers know about girlfriends. The first time your mother meets your new girlfriend, she may have no information about this person, but somehow she always knows if the girl is right or not. Mothers are natural arbiters of people you want to date. Or people you think you want to date. Or people you want to take on a date but are trying to do it in a way that won’t be considered a date so they won’t say no. Mothers are arbiters of those people. My mother was always able to do this. She probably knew that Dana Verner
was going to break up with me when she met her for the first time at my birthday party in Grade 5. She knew it wasn’t right. She knew this, even though she said, “Dana seems like a very nice blond girl.” I could tell by the way my mother said things. Your mother has the antenna with girlfriends. And, in the same way, we all have that with music.

But the antenna will only work when you’re actively listening. You have to really experience the artist for an inaugural time. So, I’m not talking about a song you might hear when you’re walking through a mall. You’re not really listening then. Or when your father says, “I don’t understand thees punk music, why you are playing thees so loud?” He’s not listening. Or when you’re tapping along to a catchy melody that comes on with an ad on TV. That doesn’t count, either. I’m talking about actually sitting and listening in a focused way and giving something a chance. Like when you’re alone in your car and a new artist comes on the radio and you somehow opt not to turn the channel but to listen to this new song and decide what you think. Like that. After that first time, you know.

I knew I would become a devotee of Rush the first time I heard them at Tom Rivington’s house in the fall of ’81. I mean, I’d heard Rush songs in passing on the radio before that. But I first
really
heard Rush at Tom Rivington’s house. It was after school in the beginning of Grade 9, and we were upstairs in his bedroom with Pete Hickey. Tom Rivington handed me a pair of large headphones plugged into his stereo and said, “I’ve got something you’re going to want to hear.” Tom Rivington was often right. This time, he was very right. And that moment would lead me to a Rush-related pilgrimage in the summer of 1982.

Tom Rivington had good headphones. They were large. In 1981, people only really wore headphones that were attached to their stereos. The Sony Walkman with portable headphones was invented in 1979. It would catch on very quickly over the course of 1982, but it wasn’t really commonplace yet in ’81. Things are very different now. Everyone wears headphones these days. Always. Have you noticed that? Well, maybe you haven’t noticed that, because it’s so obvious. Saying everyone wears headphones is like saying everyone has a mouth. Obvious. People wear headphones nowadays walking down the street, or driving a cab, or while they’re working out, or when they’re in bed, or when they’re on the subway. People wear headphones attached to their iPads and their BlackBerrys and their video games. Much of the time these days, people wear “earbud” headphones that go right inside their ears, so you can’t even tell that they’re wearing headphones. You’ve probably been in the back seat of a taxi and thought the driver was speaking to you, but he was really speaking to a person that existed inside his headphones.

Now imagine there was a time before everyone wore headphones. Imagine a time when headphones were only attached to stereos. And if they were big headphones, they were considered better. And if the stereo was also big, it was the best. Then imagine yourself putting on those headphones for the first time, and they’re pretty loud and it’s a live Rush album and you hear Neil Peart’s remarkable and protracted drum solo from “YYZ” recorded at the Montreal Forum in the spring of 1981. Well, here’s the thing: in that moment you will freak out (in the good way) and stand a good chance of becoming a lifelong fan. For me, it was both.

Rush came from Toronto, and in the ’80s they were the kings of Canadian rock. They could play their instruments better than anyone else in the business. Well, actually, they could play their instruments faster than anyone else in the business. But many people agreed that this meant better than anyone else in the business. Rush had started out in the early ’70s as three guys with long, stringy hair and moustaches and strange, flowing outfits that looked like wizard robes. Back then they played heavy rock songs that weren’t really very popular, and the wizard robes didn’t seem to help. But by the early ’80s, Rush had become three guys with long, stringy hair and no moustaches and no wizard robes. And by 1982, they had hit songs and they could fill arenas with their fans. Rush were loved for their musical precision and impressive solos. Later, they would become known as purveyors of “math rock.” In the ’80s, everyone in Canada was aware of Rush. Even my Persian-Canadian father knew Rush. He would call them “The Rush,” just like he said “The Dan Hill.” By the time I was in my mid-teens, I had become very interested in Rush, and my father would tell people this: “Yes. My son. He ees a big fan of The Rush!”