I was immediately sucked back into my body. Geoff was actually talking to me. He had decided to head up to Fourth Avenue and was looking for someone to go with him. I was terrified. I couldn't be alone with him or anyone else for that matter so I muttered, “I don't know.”
He lit a cigarette saying, “Nay nay little's much ... nix nix falsehoods ... let's go Rocky boy.”
I had no idea what he meant but I sensed there was no way out of it. Reluctantly, I got up and followed him out. Luckily, he didn’t say anything as we wandered in a hallucinogenic trance up Balsam Street to Fourth. That was fine with me; I was content just to be quiet and tag along.
We went into the Phase Four Coffee Shop across from the Psychedelic Shop near Arbutus Street and the Afterthought. It wasn’t really a coffee shop; it was more of a 'Score Some Dope, Drink Some Wine, Get Laid And Listen To Music Shop'. There was a small room in the back that was painted black with multi-coloured trim. The only light was from several black light tubes. There were some chairs along one wall and an old Rock-O-La Jukebox standing against the other. My delirious eyes saw the room as a cathedral and the jukebox as a shining stained-glass window.
A singer named Danny McGinnis, whom everyone called Danny Mack, from The Hydro Electric Streetcar, a great band who had just changed their name from The Fantastic Sensations, and played a mix of rock, blues, country and folk, was sitting in one of the chairs slumped over. Geoff and I sat down. I was relieved because now there was somebody else around in case Geoff started up a conversation. But he didn't. Nobody spoke.
The jukebox came alive with a sound so rich and full that it engorged every cell of my body with joy. I marvelled at the music:
There's a light
A certain kind of light
That never shone on me
I had never heard Barry Gibb sound so amazing. He and his brothers, Maurice and Robin, harmonized together like sweet syrup. They were The Bee Gees and the song was To Love Somebody. Then came 'The Note!' After the second chorus they go back into another chorus and Barry wails, “NoNoNoNo - NoNoNoNoNo!”, and we were all pinned to the wall.
Long after the song was over Geoff finally uttered, “I gotta hear that again.”
Quickly, we all fumbled for a dime. Danny found one and we listened again with the same effect. No more dimes. Geoff went out in front and bummed one and we went again.
Then I went out. I had to go, it was my turn. It was scary on the sidewalk in front of the Shop. It was late at night but still crowded with freaks, and everything was moving in slow motion. I thought I was in a tank of thick clear oil. I couldn't move and I couldn't speak. This made it difficult to raise any cash.
A freaky chick approached me. She had butterflies in her long tangled hair. I sort of recognized her but from where I didn't know. She said something to me. It sounded like, “Ump rolf duh yal ruffen?”
I had no answer for that.
She understood what I wanted. She pressed two quarters into my hand and led me back to the jukebox. By now the little room was packed full with others who had drifted in to see what the excitement was. I handed the coins over to Geoff and he plugged the Rock-O-La. We held our breath waiting for the opening violins of To Love Somebody.
Instead, we were blown away by the hypnotic, fluid guitar riff that begins Hey Joe by Jimi Hendrix. Geoff shrugged off his mistake and we all sat back and listened to Hendrix’ wasted vocal narrative of a guy named Joe who shoots his old lady for messin’ around and then flees to Mexico. The story was made even more haunting by his acerbic guitar lines that wove in and around the words. We played Hey Joe into the night. There was something special about that jukebox.
Jim announced his idea to send The Seeds of Time out on a barnstorming tour for the summer. His plan was to take off in whatever direction suited us and play wherever and whenever we felt like it. We embraced this plan wholeheartedly and prepared to get out of town. Of course, first we had to find a guitarist.
George Greenwell played guitar and sang a little with a great band called The Coastmen from the Victoria Drive area of East Vancouver. We heard that they were having some difficulties and asked George if he’d like to come and play with us. His girlfriend had just dumped him, and he was miserable hanging around town, so he jumped at the chance. He didn't want to leave The Coastmen, he said yes in an attempt to escape his broken heart.
We had one afternoon practice a couple of days before the tour. That evening, George, Steve, John and I crashed a gig in a small hall on Main Street. Steve talked the host band into letting us play a few songs. George worshiped Jerry Garcia of The Grateful Dead so he sang Morning Dew and New, New Minglewood Blues. He sawed off some blistering solos and blew everyone away. We believed we had made a wise choice in George.
The next afternoon I got my drum set over to John’s parents' garage. Jim and his friend Norm had rented a small van from Tilden Rent-A-Car and promised to pick us up that evening. Jim’s license had been revoked on an impaired charge so Jim asked Norm to sign for the van. Norm was a slight little guy, about twenty-two, with wispy reddish hair. He quit his summer job at the University of British Columbia to tag along with us. But, license or no license, Jim always drove.
I had some socks and a toothbrush in a brown paper bag. John and I sat in his garage with our gear, waiting all night long to be picked up. Finally, at dawn the next morning, the van arrived. The side door opened and Howard Diner fell out. He was as skinny as a broom handle with a tangle of long, thick hair and his trademark nose sticking out. Steve had brought him along to help set up the gear (the term 'roadie' was not used yet). There was no explanation for the long delay but I didn’t care, I was finally 'on the road!'
We grabbed George on the way out of town and I took my first meaningful step towards the end of the road – wherever that might be. We were eight gypsies crammed into a truck full of dreams on our way to whatever it was that was out there. Of course, there was also a lot of musical gear in the van. I sat on a microphone stand all the way to Hope.
The Tilden van, powered by the grace of Norm’s Gulf Oil credit card, sputtered east and we ended up in Kelowna; a small resort town in the beautiful Okanagan region of British Columbia. The Okanagan is a jewel of a plateau nestled between the Cascade and Rocky Mountains. It is a popular resort area famous for gorgeous weather and endless cherry orchards.
Kelowna's downtown is located next to Okanagan Lake, home of the legendary monster of the lake, Ogopogo. We camped out in City Park beside the lake. Except for the Gulf card we had few assets. We had little money and, as yet, no cash-generating gigs. We had one small Coleman gas-stove. We didn’t even have sleeping bags.
Our first night out, I slept on the grass under the van. In the morning, Jim invested a few pennies in some bread and peanut butter for breakfast.
There was an open band-shell in the park called the Jubilee Bowl. Howard went off in search of a soda while the rest of us hauled our gear out and set up on the stage. We started playing. After a short time, a fair sized crowd had gathered. The young people were thrilled with our impromptu concert but the old folks just scowled at us. They were displeased with our intrusion into their tranquil little world.
News travels fast in a small town. Soon we attracted a large crowd of kids. They danced in front of the stage or sat back and grooved to the music. We also caught the attention of the local RCMP who quickly stepped in and pulled the plug.
When Jim protested the officer said, “We have a civic ordinance against making noise in the park.”
“Noise?” Jim exclaimed, “We don't play noise. We play music. Do you have a civic ordinance against playing music in the park?”
The officer barked, “If you don't have this crap out of here in ten minutes, I'll run you out of town. Now move it!”
The kids helped us pack up the