Instead of embracing all of the things about ourselves that bond us together as a country and as a people, things that we all agree on like falling in love, raising children, having a good job to support your family and hockey, this FLQ was about to initiate some nasty shit in an effort to get their way. Naively oblivious, we shouted, “Another round of le grande Labatts Cinquantte sil vous plaite”, and got pissed.
One afternoon at the two hundred year old farmhouse, Alfred was holding court in his living room. He was lecturing us on the “incredible” history of “incredible” modern dance in “incredible” New York City, a subject that did not interest me but he was such a compelling orator it was difficult to turn away. Still, my eyes followed in amazement the movements of Nijinski. He/she wore skin tight black pedal-pushers (or Capri-pants or whatever they’re called) and a sheer white chemise. As he/she sat beside Alfred pretending to listen attentively, he/she gazed at his/her manicured polished nails, fussed with the perfect curls of his/her short brown hair and struggled to keep his/her knees together as we all know a lady should. I was accepting but puzzled by him/her.
Suddenly Alfred stopped. Had he caught me staring at his wife and thought that I was coveting him/her? Was he consumed with jealousy and rage? He pointed a long bony finger at me.
“Your name is Rocket Norton!” he proclaimed.
There was a stunned silence.
Alfred stood up. Nijinski stood up beside him and slipped his/her hand lovingly into Alfred’s arm. “Yes! Oh, yes ... He is. He is Rocket Norton!” squealed Nijinski with glee.
I was speechless, as usual. I was also nervous and embarrassed. I did not like to be the centre of attention. I just wanted to be in the background; one of the faceless crowd. But that time was past; all eyes were on me, surveying me as if for the first time.
“Can you dig it!?” Alfred stated proudly.
“Far out!” Jim exclaimed. “What a mind fuck!”
Where Alfred came up with Rocket Norton I’ll never know but, he was right, I was Rocket Norton - I am Rocket Norton. Although it didn’t change me at first, it did change people’s perception of me. I was not so much the invisible man anymore. No longer did the rest of the guys organize clandestine meetings to discuss how worried they were because Rocky was so quite; because The Rock never spoke. Now Rocket Norton was accepted as a quiet eccentric.
In mid-September Montreal shared in a world-wide phenomenon known as Hey Jude. This Beatles single, written by Paul McCartney for John Lennon’s son, Julian, was the first on their new Apple record label and could have been the biggest hit by the biggest band in history. It was simply not possible to experience a single moment of life at that time without hearing Hey Jude on the radio or record player or just wafting in the air all around you. It was everywhere. It seemed that the whole world was singing, “Na, na, na, na-na-na-na.”
It would have gone on forever if McCartney had not written and produced a song titled, Those Were the Days, for an obscure British singer named, Mary Hopkin. The irony is that Apple terminated at a few short weeks what might have been the longest running #1 song ever by releasing Those Were the Days too soon. Only the genius of Paul McCartneycould adapt an old Russian folk song and trade the Hey Jude chorus of “Na, na, na, na-na-na-na” for the Those Were the Days’ chorus of “Da-da-da-da, da-da - Da-da-da-da, da-da” (da must be Russian for na) and score another #1 hit. Hey Jude sold five million records by December. Those Were the Days sold eight million!
We were invited back to play an encore concert at the Youth pavilion at Man and His World. The two runners-up were also invited to perform but it was clear from the enthusiastic audience that they were there to see us. We were assigned a small area backstage as a dressing room. It was really a storage room for janitorial equipment. Steve went next door to the cafeteria to get a coffee. The lady behind the counter became annoyed because he had left the assigned area and refused to serve him. Steve, who is as friendly a person as you could ever meet, attempted to charm her into releasing the coffee but she became even more agitated, calling for security. Jim, hearing the commotion, rushed to save the day. They were both apprehended by the guards and ordered to leave the grounds immediately.
“But, but, but ... I’ve gotta gig!” Steve protested.
“We’ve gotta get back to the band!” Jim argued.
It was no use. The guards stood by as Keith began to tear down the gear and throw it in Sub-A-Lub. The fans picked up that there was a problem. As the word spread that we had been thrown out of Man and His World the happy crowd quickly transformed into an angry, hostile mob. They began to throw cups, bottles and garbage. They rocked the lighting standards and pounded on the stage. They shouted obscenities at the officials. It had degenerated into a dangerous, volatile situation. A manager was called to the scene and quickly assessed the problem. He apologized to Steve and Jim and begged us to set back up and play as scheduled.
We immediately forgave and forgot. Steve and Geoff bounded out onto the stage to quell the mob. Within minutes they had the happy crowd back laughing at their zany antics. Lindsay, John and I joined them and we launched into our set.
While we were rockin’, swingin’ & rollin’, Jim was executing a little satire intended to teach the authorities a lesson in etiquette. He and Keith pretended to appropriate a 4' X 8' wooden collapsible table; they made a big show that looked like they slid it into the van and shut the door but in fact, they left it propped up on a building.
The concert was an emotional triumph. After we had gone back for several encores we finally bid fond farewell to those fantastic kids. Keith very quickly loaded the gear into Sub-A-Lub and Jim started to back out.
The police pounced from every direction at once. Even though Jim was innocent (at least of this crime), they dragged him out of the van, cuffed him and threw him into a paddy wagon. Luckily, the police station was on Rue St. Denis, only two blocks from 1201 Notre Dame. We bailed Jim out and paid his fine. The Montreal police did not get the joke and Jim flunked them in etiquette 101.
During this period we became almost exclusively an acoustic ensemble. John preferred to play an acoustic piano and, whenever one was available, he would use it; grand, baby grand, upright, spinet, in-tune, out-of-tune, with keys or without, it didn’t matter, he could make it rock. In addition to our original compositions, we did renditions of folk, bluegrass and country songs except that we would put a Seeds of Time stamp on them. When Geoff sang Jim Reeves’sorrowful ballad, He’ll Have to Go, he’d sing:
Put your sweet lips a little closer to the bone,
that sort of thing.
Life was all about the music; whatever was left over was apportioned to drugs and sex. We didn't eat, we didn't sleep, we didn't dream about worldly treasures. All we did was play music, get high on whatever was available to us and fuck girls. Then, when all that was done, we'd sit around listening, studying and discussing other people's great music.
One morning, in the afterglow of an all-night acid trip and a romp with a little French Canadian girl who spoke no English but had no communication problems, I sat cross-legged in the living area listening to Donovan's Wear Your Love Like Heaven from the December 1967 album of the same name, over and over again. Each time I would marvel at the subtlety of his guitar accompaniment and the perfectness of his diction. I was especially fascinated by the recording engineer's technique of pulling all of the effects off Donovan's voice at certain points. It made it sound as if he were sitting right next to me.
Another time, the entire group of us stayed up all night tripping on some mescaline that Frederick had laid on us, listening to a Beatles song called Flying off of their Magical Mystery Tour album. We sat enraptured, intent on every two minutes and sixteen seconds of it, leaning forward at the fade out ending to suck up every strange and wondrous note