This was a few levels up the Eros scale from my make-out session with Jennifer. Liviana didn't wear a bra or a garter belt or much of anything else. She usually had her clothes off before I shut the door. I had never touched a naked woman before so the first time I stroked her voluptuous warm body on the bed I did go off in my pants. I tried to hide my embarrassment but she knew what had happened. She wasn't offended; she liked it.
I learned very quickly that the erect penis has some kind of a built-in homing device. Once it's up it must penetrate the nearest vagina or it will self-destruct. I possessed only a vague understanding of how this worked. My grasp of the procedure was so rudimentary I did not even suspect that there was more than one portal that could do the job. (This is an advanced theorem – If I had been informed of these radical options at this stage of naivety, I may have been turned off sex forever).
Of course, in my case, I faced the additional dilemma of Liviana's very firm policy on what could be done with the erect penis. Her solution was to monitor the situation at all times so that, just at the instant that I could not hold back any longer, she’d lend a hand and dismantle the device before it could find its way home. She was an adept, and gentle, demolition expert but my primal urges were powerful and this arrangement was leaving us both somewhat unsatisfied.
Around this time one of Vancouver’s truly great bands, The Painted Ship with vocalist Bill Hays, had a hit with a strong “B” side song called, Frustration. It spoke well of my feelings.
The Seeds of Time was playing gigs most weekends now. We played community centre dances, schools and clubs like Gassy Jacks Discothèque in Richmond.
We even had a fan club with a president and members and everything. They put out a newsletter every month, publishing important information such as what colour Bob liked, whether Frank believed in Santa Claus, that Steve liked girls in miniskirts and “small poor boy sweaters” and what I liked to eat.
It was possible for me to earn a hundred dollars on a weekend when we played two good gigs. We had almost no overhead. We used our parents’ cars to move the gear and we rented a small p.a. system from an electronics store on Seymour Street downtown for next to nothing. The system was comprised of three Phillips microphones, a sixty-watt Bogan amplifier and two enormous round horns that we propped up on stands. A hundred bucks was serious cash in 1966 for a sixteen year old living at home. Cigarettes were twenty-three cents a pack, you could buy an LP album for under four dollars and gas was cheaper than water. I probably had more disposable cash then than at any time in my life.
We scored a gig at a new club in New Westminster called, Denny’s Discothèque. We did pretty well there, especially with some of our new material like Psychotic Reaction by The Count Five, and received our first ever review in the local newspaper. It reported:
The Seeds Of Time made with just a hint of that
new Psychedelic sound.
Greg McCoy
Steve and I hooked up with a couple of girls at Denny's. My girl's name was Hazel. This was an odd coincidence because she was the only Hazel I have ever met and Tommy Roe had a big hit at the time titled, Hooray for Hazel.
A few days later I got my dad’s car and Steve and I drove out to New West to meet up with the girls. Steve had only a learner's permit so he could not drive legally yet. When we arrived, Hazel was waiting but her friend couldn’t get out. This was a little awkward so I had a brilliant idea. I would get in the back seat with Hazel as Steve drove around. Things were going as planned, and it was getting steamy in the back, until disaster struck. A police car was right on our tail. I started to get nervous. Then the siren went on and I started to panic. Calmly, Steve pulled the car to the curb. He jumped into the back and I leaped over into the driver’s seat. When the Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers approached the car; one on each side, I felt confident that we had handled the situation.
“Step out of the car, please,” said one of the officers to Steve.
“What did I do?” Steve asked in mock surprise.
“Do you have a driver’s license?” he asked.
“A license to make-out?” cracked Steve.
“What about you?” the other officer inquired of me.
“Uh, yeah; we were just drivin’ round, you know,” I said fumbling for my license.
“Yeah? Well, for drivin’ round, I don’t think that lipstick is your shade.” Both policemen laughed. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw, to my horror, that Hazel's lipstick was smeared all over my face!
Steve and Hazel were hauled into the back of the police car and I was instructed to follow them to the RCMP Station. Our parents were called and our fathers drove all the way out to New Westminster to bail us out. We both received small fines and a lot of grief when the story circulated at school.
Safely back in Vancouver, I realized how great it was to have a girl friend; especially an older woman with a knockout body and a skimpy wardrobe like Liviana. We did get out of her bedroom on occasion. One Friday night, Frank lent me his groovy hounds-tooth double-breasted jacket and Liviana and I drove the Impala to a party with the sounds of Winchester Cathedral by The New Vaudeville Band, Mellow Yellow by Donovan and I’m A Believer by The Monkeesblasting from the Delco.
It should have been clear to me that I was much more frill than substance but I didn't notice. I was already lost in space.
Chapter Four 1967
At the beginning of January Steve and I went to see a band called William Tell & the Marksmen at a dance held in the Sunset Community Centre near Fraser Street. We had heard great things about them and I was a little nervous. It unnerved me to stand in the presence of greatness. I was still too young and insecure to appreciate talent; it called attention to my own inadequacies.
The first time I laid eyes on their lead singer, Geoff Edington, who I supposed was William Tell, I was awe struck. He was slight of build with long platinum blond hair. The way the lights hit him from behind made him appear celestial, like the noble Achaean warrior Achilles. Girls might have said that he was gorgeous, but he was no pretty boy. He grew up tough in New Westminster. His right forearm bore the remains of a tattoo of a knife with an ugly scar where he had burned off the name of a former girlfriend with a cigarette. He had a wide cocky stance and leaned on the microphone stand defiantly as he sang. Even though he didn’t possess a great voice, he could deliver a song with conviction and that made him a great singer. Although the term hadn’t been invented yet, my mind flashed, “Rock Star”.
The Marksmen were just as impressive. They had an endorsement deal with Tartini’s Music, a music store in New Westminster, and they were equipped with matching Fender amplifiers and guitars. They were great players, especially their guitarist Lindsay Mitchell. Lindsay was a thin English lad whose family had emigrated to Canada when he was twelve. He was now eighteen with strong features and thick black hair. He stood like a question mark on stage. He played his Fender Telecaster with confidence and ability beyond his years and had already developed a gritty blues based style. When he took a solo I was aware that it was pouring out of him; not learned note-for-note from a record.
I left the dance that night somewhat shaken. Geoff was an awesome figure and Lindsay a gifted musician. They made The Seeds of Time seem quite ordinary.
Bob did not like to go and see other bands. The Seeds of Time was his focus and he didn’t want other bands to distract him. Frank would confer with him about certain songs but Bob ultimately dictated what songs we would play. We were now learning songs from albums by The Blues Project featuring Steve Katz and Al Kooper and The Paul Butterfield Blues Band with guitarists Mike Bloomfield and Elvin Bishop. The Blues Project’s album, Projections was especially influential. We played Flute Thing with Bob on recorder, Steve’s Song, You Can’t