1982 (32 page)

“I think it’s a guy, Toke. His voice is more like a guy’s, too.” I was not really sure myself. But it was important to maintain a debate.

“No. It’s a girl. Dat’s a girl’s voice. A chick!”

The debate went on for a couple of weeks. Remember, this was before Google or Wikipedia. Arguments couldn’t get settled by asking your iPhone for help. Now, you might just say to your smartphone, “Is that a chick?” and you’d get an informed response instantaneously. But we didn’t have that in 1982. We had unanswered questions that could linger for days and wouldn’t be resolved by
Encyclopaedia Britannica
. And in this case, even a lot of the New Wave kids at school
didn’t know the answer. It wasn’t until one afternoon at Toke’s house, when his older brother, Mitch, heard us discussing Culture Club, that he told us the lead singer’s name was Boy George and that he was a man. Toke remained suspicious. But Mitch was usually an authority on these things.

The example of Boy George very much represents the way the world was changing for me with music and theatre in 1982. Questioning sexuality—including my own—was part of my routine, along with wanting to be Bowie. And I was not alone. Lots of the students in 213 were gay. Some of them were gay sometimes and not other times. One of the New Wave girls at Thornlea, who was a year older than me and dressed like John Taylor from Duran Duran, had told me she wished she was gay. It was odd for her to be disappointed that she was straight. Wider society’s intolerance for homosexuality ran deep at the time. But in the New Romantic milieu, being gay or bisexual was almost coveted. I had a good sense that I was ultimately oriented towards a sexual attraction to women. And I certainly only fantasized about girls. But there was something liberating about sexual orientation not being a big deal. That was what New Wave music and 213 were teaching me. And in Wendy I got to be attracted to a beautiful female and still be devoted to Bowie.

My adoration of Bowie was related to the fact that I felt like an outsider. Bowie was the champion of the outcasts. At the end of Grade 9, I attended the commencement ceremonies for the graduating class at Thornlea. It took place in our school gym. I was there because Theatre Troupe members had a small role in a theatrical number to honour the graduating students, and I was also singing in the Thornlea Vocal Group.

The highlight of the event was a touching duet by Mike Ford and Dani Elwell. Mike had been dating my sister and was the coolest person I actually knew. He was five years older than me but still hanging out at high school. He was in theatre and also in music. He carried around an acoustic guitar and played in the hallways. He had a beard and Coke-bottle glasses. He was widely revered for his creative talents and encyclopedic knowledge of essential trivia. He would go on to play in Moxy Früvous with me.

Dani was one of the prettiest girls at Thornlea. But she was also super New Wave and punk. She was like a gorgeous version of Siouxsie from Siouxsie and the Banshees. Dani wore a black leather jacket and big black scarves and crimped her hair. I was in awe of her, and she could sing, too. She had played bass in a Toronto punk band called the Babyslitters when she was only fifteen.

Mike and Dani ended the commencement ceremony with an acoustic guitar medley that concluded with David Bowie’s “Changes.” In “Changes,” Bowie had written lyrics about children being spat on as they tried to change their reality. The words in the song suggested that young people were selfaware and “immune” to the influence of the mainstream adult world.

Hearing Mike and Dani sing “Changes” was one of the most beautiful experiences I’d ever had. It was probably partly because I was in awe of them both. But Bowie’s lyrics also moved me. I always took “Changes” as a message from Bowie to all those who saw themselves as outcasts or outsiders. He understood us. He had written that song—albeit a decade earlier—for us. Bowie was more than a rock idol. He was a
role model for those who felt they were different. Whether that meant differences of sexuality, gender, artistic choices, attitude, or race, I felt like Bowie understood me.

BACK AT THE POLICE PICNIC
, Talking Heads had now launched into a frenetic song called “Life During Wartime.” Wendy and I were bopping up and down along with what seemed like everyone else at the CNE Grandstand as well as the band onstage. My connection with this creative band was becoming more profound with each passing minute. I marvelled at how it was even possible that a rock group so infused with my own interests could not have occupied my stereo and my life before now. At the point in the song when David Byrne sang about changing his hairstyle so many times he didn’t know what he looked like, I turned to Wendy and smiled. She smiled back. The fact that I was experiencing all of this with Wendy beside me was taking it from memorable to dreamlike.

By the time Talking Heads launched into their final song, a cover version of Al Green’s classic “Take Me to the River,” I was overwhelmed. It’s a strange sensation, the moment when you discover your new favourite band. It’s like the feeling of love at first sight with your fantasy partner. Or it’s like being told you’ve won your school’s public-speaking contest for your epic speech about the Montreal Canadiens’ Guy Lafleur and you’re only in Grade 5 and you’ve beaten all the kids in Grade 6, too. Yes. It’s like either one of those two things. There is a sense that you will remember the moment forever. There is also the awareness that it will never get this good again. It may never again taste quite as good as it does the first time. But I
can tell you, my devotion to Talking Heads began that day in August of 1982 and never abated.

The summer after the Police Picnic, I would go to see Talking Heads perform outside again, but this time headlining at the Kingswood Music Theatre for their “Stop Making Sense” tour. The tour featured an outstanding theatrical stage show with three giant screens displaying iconoclastic messages. The concert began with David Byrne in a tight white jacket that would grow throughout the set until by the end he was in a giant oversized suit. The oversized suit performance is now the stuff of legend. That tour was shot and made into a movie by Jonathan Demme. It’s still one of the best concert films of all time.

In 1983, I formed a band named Tall New Buildings with Murray and John Ruttle and some other musician friends I’d met. Unlike the Wingnuts and Urban Transit, this group was our first to play outside of school and get some real exposure, even though we were all in our mid-teens. We had a minor New Wave hit on the alternative music station CFNY and some other radio channels for a song I wrote called “Fashion in Your Eye.” And our videos got played a bunch on MuchMusic in the following few years. I would often get asked where the name Tall New Buildings came from. I would tell interviewers how I liked the name because it suggested modernity and was futuristic and it was somehow related to Toronto’s growing skyline. But the truth was that I liked the name Tall New Buildings because I knew our records would come immediately after Talking Heads in the sales bins at record stores. If you were rifling through Talking Heads albums at Sam the Record Man, at some point you would hit Tall New Buildings. That
was the theory. And it worked. Any type of proximity like this was something to jump at.

In the mid-90s, I would discover a new band that would achieve favourite status in my life and remain there to this day. They’re called Radiohead and they’re from the UK. I don’t think there has been a better band in the world than Radiohead over the last two decades. Interestingly enough, Radiohead got their name from a song called “Radio Head.” That song is from a 1986 album entitled
True Stories
. That album is by a band called Talking Heads.

When Talking Heads exited the stage at the CNE Grandstand on August 13, 1982, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. Wendy and I were both drenched in sweat. It wasn’t until after they’d gone that I realized I’d been laughing out loud for much of the Talking Heads set. I was giddy. I was giddy like a schoolgirl or a young man in a mauve minidress. I would have been concerned about my less than manly disposition except that Wendy seemed to be high on the same energy. Besides, things couldn’t really have gotten much better. Losing my Adidas bag felt like a lifetime away.

When the Police hit the stage mid-evening for their set, there was little question that they owned the headliner billing. The lighting and the sound and the staging were more ostentatious and glamorous than they had been for all the other bands combined. The Police were the superstars. And there was no doubt they sounded good. Sting was in fine form, playing coy and teasing the audience between songs. He had blond, straight hair with a long bit like Wendy’s. He jumped up and down and hit all those high notes that I’d not been able to reach when I’d sung “Roxanne.” Andy Summers bounced around the stage
like a Muppet on guitar. And of course, I was transfixed by Stewart Copeland’s stellar drumming.

Mind you, for all that they were trendsetters, the Police certainly had a lot of hits. Despite their New Wave synth sounds, there was something uncomfortably commercial about the Police. They had increasingly become mainstream pop stars. I wondered why they were allowed to have massive successes with their songs but Joan Jett was not. I wondered if it had been fair that the entire crowd had turned on Joan Jett as a sellout. Forbes the punk had thrown my Adidas bag at Joan Jett because she was such a sellout. Yet the Police were now staples of pop radio as well. In fact, they were much bigger than Joan Jett. It didn’t entirely make sense. But the Police were still cool. They were still considered New Wave. Their art was still suspected to be real. The audience roared with delight.

Watching the Police was not a letdown. That would be an overstatement. But there was nothing that any band could have done to follow the magic of Talking Heads on this day. Wendy and I maintained our position near the front of the stage and we sang along to all the familiar songs and highfived with the stubble-faced guys, who were still next to us. The Police were good. We stayed until the encores were done. During one break in the set, Wendy leaned in to me and whispered, “This has really been a great day.” She smiled, and her eyes squinted like Bowie’s eyes would.

On the subway ride home, Wendy and I didn’t say much to each other. We agreed that Talking Heads had been the best band on the bill, and we joked about the Forbes incident. After Eglinton station, the crowded subway car emptied enough for
us to share seats next to each other facing the direction of home. Wendy and I were both looking straight ahead. I was tired. I wanted to rest my head on Wendy’s shoulder. I wanted to curl up into her or have her rest her head on me. But I couldn’t. I became very self-conscious.

I thought about how long it had been that I’d wanted to spend time with Wendy. I thought about how I’d spent most of the year hoping she would notice me in the Thornlea hallways. I suddenly became very intimidated by the thought of doing anything that Wendy might consider uncool. I wondered if I’d see her much during the new school year. I wondered if we’d continue to become close friends.

When we got to Finch subway, we walked up to the roundabout where Wendy’s brother, Paul, was waiting to pick her up. We were there about half an hour later than we’d said we would be, and he didn’t look happy. Wendy offered me a ride, but I told her I’d be fine taking the Thornhill Transit bus home. I was a bit scared that Paul would be angry if I came along.

“I guess I’ll see ya when I see ya,” Wendy said with a smile. Her eyes twinkled. She was really very pretty. And cool. And she was genuinely nice.

“Yeah … back to school soon, eh?” I said.

It was an odd thing to say in that moment. Much colder than I’d intended. I regretted my words as soon as they came out of my mouth. That was the best goodbye I could say to the girl I’d thought about for months? I suddenly felt very young and awkward. But then something quite unexpected happened.

“Well, I hope I get to see you soon, Jian. Thanks again for bringing me along today. It really was rad.”

Wendy then moved towards me and got up on her toes and
threw her arms around my skinny shoulders. She kissed me on the right cheek. I felt her lips touching my skin. It felt like they lingered there. It felt magical. It was slightly more than a peck, but still somehow very graceful. It was pretty much as good as a kiss on the cheek could get. Wendy slowly pulled away, smiled at me, and then turned and ran to her brother’s car, where he was waiting.

The Police Picnic had turned out to be a lot more than a concert. It was a coming of age. I felt like a man, no matter how much eyeliner I’d worn. In one long and eventful day, I had been kissed by my dream girl, forever lost a prized possession from my recently departed youth, and forever gained a new favourite band that would see me into adulthood.

10

“EBONY AND IVORY” – PAUL McCARTNEY AND STEVIE WONDER

I
had always wanted to be a rock singer.

I’d done pretty well with the Wingnuts and our big gig at the Woodland Junior High gymnasium in Grade 8. I’d certainly deduced that girls fancied rock singers. And so I imagined that if I became a good rock singer, I would probably get Wendy’s attention and affection.

The good news was that a few months before I summoned up the courage to ask Wendy to the Police Picnic, I began to receive some notice for my vocal abilities. The less than good news was that this modest vocal triumph did not really come from singing. It was about speaking. In the middle of Grade 9, I started doing the morning announcements at Thornlea Secondary School. It was a job for a nerd. I was that nerd. Actually, no, I was more. I was an aspiring Persian-Canadian New Wave singer with newly acquired hair gel … and also a public-speaking nerd. This was the first time I became identified for my voice.

The morning announcements were roughly five minutes in
length and involved holding a microphone close to a cassette deck that was playing the national anthem and then telling everyone that classes were to begin. We didn’t have digital music players in the early ’80s. We had clunky portable cassette decks left over from the ’70s. They would make loud whirring sounds when they were rewinding. And we would hold a microphone close to the cassette-player speaker for the audio to be heard over the school PA system. If you’re a teenager reading this now, you probably think the whole exercise sounds prehistoric. That’s because it was. Sometimes, describing the way we lived in the early 1980s is akin to telling the story of being a pioneer: