By the third time we played Calgary we were | looking for more money, filthy lucre brought I us to the ‘Trade Winds’ because if you wanted to be a working band there was only one option: start driving.
The club was forgettable but there was a girl there who worked promoting bands who I never will forget. She was a Jewish girl, with curly hair who shall remain nameless, suffice to say she was a gregarious gal, fun to hang out with. Her eyes were slightly crossed and it made for a hypnotic gaze. She was - curvaceous and funny, a tremendous combination and we had some fun.
Now most of the time, with seven in the band, you had to be creative to find a place for any post—gig connections of an amorous nature. The bus had a wretched stink and it was tough to demand from your band mate sharing the hotel room, “Hey you go walk around the block for about three hours.”
Yet with Gaffer Tape it's easier to be creative. The ‘Trade Winds‘ had a sauna on one of the floors but they locked it after 10 o'clock. I took the Gaffer and taped the bolt on the door flat so that the handle was still locked but by pushing, the door opened for later.
Inside our clandestine love nest we sat around drinking wine, laughing, having fun and finally got down to business. Alter we showered, we gathered up the towels and moved towards the door to exit the scene but as we stood there momentarily, the door into the hallway burst open and there appeared four Calgary Cops and the Hotel Dick, faces all frowning, some standing, others getting off the elevator. My stomach filled with adrenalin, that was close, timing is everything.
Three of the four cops smirked and jumped back on the same elevator they had come up ' on but one stayed and the Hotel Dick barked, "What room are you in?”
By now I was feeling indignant, unjustly harassed,"I don't fuckin know, I'm with the band,” and I took my friend's hand and we started walking,
“Hey where are you going’, asked the Dick,"I'm not finished with you." “What? Didn't we make enough money at the bar for you?"I inquired and we kept walking.
The only thing worse than someone who wants a Cop's uniform, is someone who has a pretend Cop's uniform.
The next day we were leaving and with a bitter hangover I tried to gather up my stuff, the boys loaded the gear and soon we were lurching down the #1 Hiway in our 3/4 size school bus ‘Further 2’. About a half hour out of town, with Russell at the helm, Freddy our Sound Techie, with a sheepish ‘who dunit me’ look on his mug, reveals out of a box that he has lifted a bottle of Scotch from the ‘Trade Winds’.
“Freddy, aw fuck man I gotta deal with those bastards if they catch us,”I protested.
He bowed his head being unable to contain the smirk and then proceeded to pull out seven or eight more bottles of hard liquor,. The Techies had culled a whack a booze and there was no use getting all worked up at that point, we were on a mission.
“OK,” I resigned, “Did you steal glasses too.”
Nearly two bottles later somewhere on the flatlands I had the idea to twist up a hoolie, I had a couple of oz's for the trip so I wouldn't have to score on the fly. I always kept it in my old briefcase which had the Gig contacts and books for keeping the money straight.
Casual searching turned to panicked scouring, instant Karma; it was nowhere to be found. I would have to talk with our manager Simon Gunn back in Vancouver, it wasn't a call I was proud to make. Best possible scenario was the Hotel had the bag. Trouble was the tattered old leather brief case wasn't locked.
“Simon, I got bad news."
“YA me too, he interrupted, “They are pissed at you guys in Calgary."
“Oh really?”
“Ya the rooms were in bad shape and some stuff was stolen."
“Stolen?”
“Someone stole a fuckin clock radio too." “Wha the fuck? Who?"
“Well pretty hard for me to find out here in Vancouver..."
“Simon I got worse news, I left my bag in Calgary I think, maybe at the ‘Trade Winds’ and I had some uh, I uh had some ooglie booglie inside."
“Some what?"
“OK Simon, forget that I had all the addresses for the tour, all the promo everything, our ledger...good thing we just started."
“I am sure the hotel will be talking to me soon, when they send us a fucking bill, I'll inquire about the ooglie booglie," and Simon hangs up.
Two worlds were emerging, it seemed we lived in a state of being loaded, laughing pranksters, or hung over and some of us bitching at each other.
“Who fucking stole a god damned clock radio and better yet, why did someone steal a fucking clock radio?"
There were only two or three suspects, “Freddy?”
He ran his hand over his head, “Its just a fucking radio."
“Ya well OK you put it in a box and I will take it back on our return trip when I go to pick up my missing bag, if they have it, and I will say... uh I'll say you thought it was yours, you took it by mistake OK."
Freddy merely shrugged and countered,"Sure."
The Medicine show we had become made its way back to Calgary after six weeks on the fly and like an imminent dentist appointment I found myself in some office at the ‘Trade Winds’ with the ‘Assistant to the Assistant Suit’ and it was my duty to kiss ass if I wanted the Briefcase with my dope.
“Well sir it was unfortunate incident and we wanted to bring back this clock radio. Do you have my...uh briefcase.”
He paused; he scowled, and then reluctantly reached under the desk for the item in question. Simon had paid the damages in full to bail us out again and maybe keep us out of jail because I had seen how the cops operate in Alberta.
“Thanks a bunch,"I offered diplomatically, as he passed over the bag and I explained, “Freddy told me he was mistaken and thought the Clock Radio was his."
With a cynical leer he opened the box I had given him, grabbed the Radio and showed me how the cord was cut right out of the wall.
Freddy, I thought, here I am fighting for ya, I was the State appointed Flim Flam Lawyer and you didn't give me all the facts. I know I should have looked in the box but I had other things on my mind, like the dope.
In the hall, outside the office I opened the briefcase; there was my stash, bright green but all dry and crunchy. It was nothing that a little piece of orange peel couldn't fix.
By Dano-5-0. From punkhistorycanada.ca
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