Strange Way to Live. Carl Dixon
found an ad in the Toronto Star classifieds seeking a “singer for a steady-working rock band.” That was exactly what I thought I needed, as opposed to the occasionally working band that I had with my friends. This could be my big step up to the level of the real pros, I thought excitedly. I called the number and wound up auditioning for a group called Olias. The name was drawn, obscurely, from Yes vocalist Jon Anderson’s solo album title. I don’t remember the audition but they asked me to join. I was elated.
Olias asked me to come to their hometown of Owen Sound to rehearse for a week before commencing their next slate of one-week stands. The band was popular in bars and worked constantly.
That rehearsal week is gloomy and dark in my memory. Only three of the four musicians attended; the keyboard player was almost thirty (!) and lived in another town. It wasn’t worth his while to leave home for unpaid rehearsals. I heard the stories about Dave, the singer I was replacing, a very good singer and frontman but who just didn’t like playing with them anymore. He’d given them a month’s notice. I thought I was working hard in the rehearsals, but I realize now I hadn’t a clue about preparing a repertoire quickly. Ah, I was so green!
We finished our week of practice, and I drove home to get ready to meet in Orangeville a few days later. The band was nervous but I didn’t notice. I told the boys in Boots that I was off to join this full-time group to build my experience and my reputation, and maybe we could do something again in the future. I told my girlfriend Gwen the news and promised I’d come home as much as I could and I’d bring her on the road as soon as I was settled in. My dad was out west teaching, but I arranged with my mom to take care of my car and things while I was away. I would also need a ride to Orangeville the next Sunday with my suitcase, guitars, and amplifier to join my new employers. It was an exciting couple of days, filled with anticipation.
Sunday arrived, and my sister came with my mom and me on the delivery trip. The Grand Hotel in Orangeville, in all its faded Edwardian glory, beckoned me inside. I said my prolonged goodbyes to the family and went in with my gear to begin the “Grand” adventure of life as the singer of Olias. Five days later I was on a Gray Coach bus headed home to Barrie, tail between my legs. Released from further obligations.
How had it unravelled so quickly? It was a combination of my inexperience and singer Dave’s veteran savvy. He was there to begin the week as part of the transition process, and I was to ease into the role by week’s end. Improbably, and unhelpfully, the band had me room with my soon-to-be-predecessor, on a cot in the corner of his room. They had a set number of rooms provided by the hotel, and I was an extra guy, so there was no other place for me. Maybe Olias thought he would coach me toward being ready to fill his shoes. Not so. Dave eyed me shrewdly when I arrived and then set about exposing my un-readiness for the job. He was a typical road dog, staying up smoking and drinking until three or four in the morning every night, inviting the strippers from up the hall into his room for parties. I was unfamiliar with this lifestyle. My presence was not going to stand in the way of his fun, and I never knew whether Dave was intentionally wearing me down or just carrying on as usual. When I think about what I learned in my years on the road that followed, it seems likely he was doing what he would have done anyway and I was the oddity, with my wussy desire for a good night’s sleep. A memory that I can’t shake was of a stripper prattling on drunkenly one night at 3 a.m., moaning about how the hotel management didn’t appreciate the great sacrifices she’d made by doing her “danseuse” shift on the stage even when she had diarrhoea. Yeoww. Now there’s a sexy image I’m wishing I hadn’t heard while I was clutching a pillow around my head to shut out the noise and the lights.
It wore me down very quickly, the endless chatter and Dave’s eight-track tape player carrying on into the wee hours. The band resumed rehearsals with me in the mornings to get me up to speed (rousting me while Dave slept in blissfully), but that preparation was too little, too late. They got me onstage for a few songs in front of the audience on the fourth night, but it wasn’t good enough. I just didn’t know how big the gap was between showtime and myself. Increasing bleariness was setting in from my sleepless nights, and it was becoming apparent that I was no road dog.
From the other side, Olias was no doubt panicking, thinking I wouldn’t be ready fast enough. They told me Dave had changed his mind about quitting when they let me go. Maybe he had, or maybe they begged him to stay. Either way, it was off back home for me, with egg on my face and lessons learned: be prepared and don’t room with the competition.
back to the boots
Once back home in Barrie, I made the most of the band that would have me. Boots, with Hal Hake, Blair Duhanuk (a.k.a. Duke), and Chris Bastein, with their neighbour Brad Noble on sound, was now the proving ground for my unfocused ambition. With fresh determination, it was time to get serious. A name change was in the works.
I still remember the heat of the day when I returned from Toronto, with our faithful roadie Brad clutching a copy of our new band photo, which now styled us as Primecut. Astro Talent Agency, which had agreed to represent our fledgling unit, had made up the new name on the spot as we stood in their office because they said “Boots” would make people think we were a country band. Stompin’ Tom Connors had his Boots Records label, for one thing. Astro’s staff quickly printed up promo photos for us to take away. Our drummer, Chris, was the first band member we saw on our return, so we unveiled the great new name. Chris’s eyebrows shot off his forehead in surprise. Then he swore at us, said this was idiotic and the worst name he’d ever heard, and jumped into his Trans Am to tear out of his driveway in a fury, tires squealing. Brad and I looked at one another and said, “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
Once we’d come to our senses, nobody liked the new name, but we needed an agent to like us and get us jobs. We swallowed our distaste and convinced Curly (as Chris was called) to just go with it for a while until we thought of a better alternative. In the month or two that followed we played as Primecut.
Then one day Astro called. “We have a gig for you in Parry Sound at the Kipling Hotel, but it’s this week, can you guys do it?”
“Wow, great ... yes, thanks! I was hoping something would come up.”
“There is one catch.”
“What?”
“You have to tell them that you are Hollinger.”
“What do you mean? Why? Who is Hollinger?”
“Hollinger is a group from Timmins. They were booked to play there this week, but they had an accident on Sunday. Some of them are hurt. They can’t play but we don’t want to lose the booking.”
“Wait a minute ... we have to pretend we’re some other band? How will we do that?”
“It’ll be okay. Hollinger play kind of the same music as you guys. The trick will be that they’re a five-piece, so you’ll have to make up a story why you’re only four.”
“We’ll have to make up a lot of story to pull this off. I don’t know, this all feels kinda weird.”
“Do you guys want to work or not? Just say you’re Hollinger when you get there and it’ll be fine.”
So we were Hollinger for a week. It would have been fine too, except on the second night one of the bar owners started asking us things about Timmins. We deflected. Then he suggested we must have been named after the big Hollinger Mines up there. “Uh, Hollinger Mines? Umm, I don’t know about that. It’s just a name.” We’d never been to Timmins, didn’t know the first thing about it. He looked at us quizzically.
The week was a moderate success but we weren’t as good as the real Hollinger. We also drove back to Barrie after the 1 a.m. closing each night because the guys had jobs or school. On one of those drives our new name came to me, as I felt the pressure of a return to the detested Primecut name after our Hollinger masquerade.
The band name we chose, finally, was Alvin Shoes, after a shoe store I’d heard advertised on a Parry Sound radio station on the drive home, but I’d misheard it as “Elvin” Shoes. After our beginning as Boots it may have looked like we were fixated