In May of 1988, I took a gig fronting a rock band from Saskatoon called “Last Child”.
As far as I was concerned, all my dreams had come true.
I was on my way!
We were playing six nights a week in towns like…
Lloydminster.
Camrose.
Drayton Valley.
Turner Valley.
Grand Prairie.
Fort St. John.
Dawson Creek
Smithers.
Kitimat.
Prince Rupert.
Life was good.
But I’d been warned about taking care of my voice on the road.
Warned about this.
Warned about that.
Warned about getting enough sleep.
Blah Blah Blah.
But, I already knew everything, so I paid no attention.
Then, one song into our two-week stand in Prince Rupert, I lost my voice.
“What the fuck’s going on, man?”
“I don’t know, man. My voice is shot.”
“What the fuck are we gonna do?”
“I don’t know, man….”
Two months of singing (or yelling) at the top of my lungs for 3 hours a night, six nights a week, finally caught up with me.
I went to see a throat specialist.
He said that I was starting to develop nodes or calluses on my vocal cords.
Singers nodes.
He said that the best thing I could do was to take a couple of weeks off.
But that wasn’t gonna happen anytime soon.
We still had shows booked clear until August 6th and none of us could afford to just cancel a tour.
The only thing we could do was weed out the songs that I couldn’t sing and replace them for songs that I could kinda sorta sing.
“The Immigrant Song” for “Roadhouse Blues.”
After the two-week run in Prince Rupert, we played six nights in Dawson Creek, six nights in Fort Saint John and six nights in Rocky Mountain House.
After the Rocky Mountain House shows, we took a two-week break.
I hopped on a Greyhound to the Calgary airport and flew to Vancouver.
While I was there, Wayne Gretzky was traded from Edmonton Oilers to the Los Angeles Kings.
It was one of those moments….
After a week in Vancouver, I flew to Edmonton and jumped a Greyhound back to Bonnyville.
It was nice to be home.
I hadn’t been back all year.
I cut laps with my buddies, drank beer and hung around on Moose Lake. Life was good.
Slowly my voice came back.
The following week, we were booked to play six nights in Hinton, Alberta.
I was excited to get back out on the road.
But, by the end of the first song on Monday night, I’d lost my voice again. Nothing but a rasp and a wheeze.
Fuck.
This time, there’d be no more taking time off.
No more cancelling of tours.
We couldn’t afford it.
I had to learn how to sing properly.
I had to learn how to project.
I had to learn how to breathe.
A singer is the only member of the band who can’t put away his instrument after a show.
I had to learn how to pace myself.
Easier said than done.
After the Hinton gig, we were booked for a week at the Saxony in Edmonton.
This, for us, was the Big Time.
We rolled into town on Sunday afternoon and drove straight to the hotel.
It was nice not to have to drive 10 or 15 hours to the next gig.
We had the night off and decided to go to the C.I. West to have a couple of drinks and to see the band playing there that night.
It was the first time I’d had a night off in a big city as a touring musician.
I felt like a Rock Star.
It was a beautiful summer night, so we walked the ten blocks from the Saxony to the C.I. West.
The parking lot was full of Harley-Davidsons.
To say that the C.I. was a rough bar would be a smidge of an understatement.
Tough customers as far as the eye could see…
Dim lights.
Thick smoke.
And loud, loud music.
We walked in the front door and there was a big, mean-looking bouncer standing there.
Wallet chain.
Skull ring.
Biker boots.
Tattoos.
You know the kind.
Other than the “SECURITY” t-shirt he was wearing, he could’ve easily been one of the patrons there that day.
On days off, he probably was.
“I need to see yer I.D., boys….”
“Yeah, sure. No problem. Here you go.”
“You got any weapons?”
“Nope.”
I’d never been asked that before.
We walked in, found a table and sat down.
We ordered a couple pitchers of beer and two-dollar steak sandwiches all around.
We felt like Vikings.
Life was good.
Ten minutes later, I was standing at the urinals returning my first beer when the door opened.
Suddenly, I could sense that someone was standing behind me.
I looked over my left shoulder and there was a big, mean-looking biker standing there.
Wallet chain.
Skull ring.
Biker boots.
Tattoos.
You know the kind.
He could not possibly have stood any closer to me.
“Today’s yer lucky day. Because if you were who we THOUGHT you were… You weren’t walkin’ out of here….”
That’s when I noticed holding the door closed to make sure no one came in was the big mean-looking bouncer, who I.D.’d us earlier.
In other words, there was no one coming to save me.
To put it mildly, I’d have been fucked.
Royally.
If I hadn’t looked over my shoulder when I did, these guys would have smashed my face into the urinal.
Over and over and over again.
Guaranteed.
No doubt about it.
Then the biker says, “The name’s Butch. Now put yer cock away so I can shake yer hand.”
Charming.
I packed up shop, turned around and shook his hand.
We exchanged pleasantries.
I walked out of the washroom and back to my table.
Ever the gentleman, the bouncer held the door open for me as I left the washroom.
Charming.
It’s the little things, the attention to detail, that makes all the difference in the world.
Truly.
Ten minutes later, the waitress came over with two pitchers of beer.
“This is from Butch.”
I looked over to his table and raised my glass.
He raised his glass and nodded to me as if to say, “Sorry about that….”
“A friend of yers?”
“I’ll tell you later….”
“What the fuck happened in there!?!”
“I’ll tell you later. Just enjoy yer beer, boys….”
Fifteen minutes later, two more pitchers of beer.
“This is from Butch.”
I raised my glass,
Butch raised his.
Fifteen minutes later, two more pitchers of beer.
By this time, we were all raising our glasses towards Butch.
All night long.
Pitcher after pitcher after pitcher of beer.
Butch was right about one thing.
I did NOT walk out of there.
Mike Plume
September 22, 2021
Edmonton, Alberta