On July 18th, my sixteenth birthday, I received my driver’s license. Finally, this was something I was actually good at. Now I was free. My dad had a 1964 Chevy Impala Super Sport, cream with tan leather interior - truly one of the most beautiful cars ever made - although at that time, it was thought of as simply the family ride. He only allowed me to take it out for short drives but, because the cable to the odometer was so easily disconnected, I could roam far and wide without detection. Mostly, I would cruise over to Bob’s or Steve’s with the windows open and The Troggs’ Wild Thing blasting from the Delco radio. Those old tube car radios were how rock & roll was supposed to be heard.
At the end of July, while I was out of town with my parents, I missed the first significant event of the soon to be upon us Social Revolution in Vancouver. Two bands from San Francisco called The Grateful Dead and Big Brother & the Holding Company along with a few others played The Trips Festival at the Garden Auditorium on the Pacific National Exhibition (PNE) grounds. One week later The Grateful Dead played a small hall on Pender Street called the Pender Auditorium. I missed it all.
Later in the summer the PNE had a Teen City and held a Battle-of-the-Bands. The Seeds of Time entered. I was still not really aware of my obvious-to-others-but-obscured-to-me limitations as a drummer and was consumed with the desire to do well at this showcase. I became obsessed with a Ludwig 'Hollywood' drum kit that was on display at Vancouver Drum Company on Granville Street. I would stand on the street staring at it in the window for hours at a time. The drums were an Oyster Marine Pearl finish, similar to Ringo’s Ludwigs, and had two tenor toms. Somehow I talked my mom into advancing the money to buy the kit. My dad picked them up and brought them home in a big cardboard box after work. The kit was a gorgeous instrument that certainly outclassed my ability. I had no understanding of syncopation - I was still playing straight 1/4 notes and 1/8 notes on the bass drum. I hoped that the kit would make me better. In some ways, I believe it did.
We went to a West-End seamstress and had her make us matching jackets out of a flaming orange burlap material with electric blue satin lapels. We prepared a set of Yardbirds, Pretty Things and Who songs and we were ready to do battle.
We played our set one afternoon in late August and were pretty pleased with ourselves. We cut into our very hip repertoire of British covers with the confidence that we had great gear and looked fabulous. We were developing a small fan base especially with Mod females like Bob’s girlfriend Anne and other girls from school. Even some boys were digging the band including a high-schooler from Richmond named Dave Gilbert and his friends. They gathered around to shower us with compliments. It was natural to be smug after that.
While still congratulating ourselves, but before I had packed up my drums into their soft, vinyl cases we were witness to something that had us crashing quickly back to reality. The next band to play was a guitar quartet called The Black Snake Blues Band. They were originally from Edmonton, Alberta but had just returned from a trip to San Francisco. They had hair down to their asses and were stylishly indifferent in scruffy jeans and tee-shirts. They played some great blues and grungy rock. I stood there captivated by their sound; by their presence. It was so authentic, so committed. One of them, Joe Conroy, played a Gibson Flying-Vee guitar. They made our little set seem pretty lame.
However, they did not win the contest either. That night I heard a band called, The Shockers who eventually won the Battle-Of-The-Bands with their slick presentation of mostly top-forty material like Summer in the City by The Lovin’ Spoonful and Don’t Bring Me Down by The Animals. The sound of drummer, Dave Johnson’s, snare sent a shock-wave to my brain. I loved the way he hit the drum, the way it ‘Kracked’ in a crisp sharp sound like a bull-whip. Although I had listened to many great drummers on record such as Ringo and Charlie Watts, this was the first time I was consciously influenced by a live musician.
We talked about driving down to Seattle to see The Beatles at the Coliseum on August 25th. The top ticket only cost six dollars to see the greatest band in history but we couldn’t get organized. It turned out to be their third last concert ever (the last being at Candlestick Park in San Francisco a few days later on August 30th.)
As I dragged myself back to Winston Churchill and the beginning of Grade Eleven I was acutely aware that something was going to blow wide open. I didn’t have to wait very long.
On September 30, an aspiring entrepreneur named Jerry Kruz, who had been presenting 'happenings' at the Pender Auditorium with bands like The Tom Northcott Trio (featuring Rick Enns on bass), moved into the Russian Community Centre on Fourth Avenue near Arbutus Street in the heart of Kitsilano. He called it The Afterthought. A band that he managed called The United Empire Loyalists, and another group, The Nocturnals, now with two singles; Because You’re Gone and This Ain’t Love, were the featured attractions on opening night.
The Afterthought was nothing more than a small wooden meeting hall with a proscenium stage and a balcony but it became the focus of the emerging avant-garde music scene. More importantly, it was quickly established as the gathering place for young people who were growing restless with rigid society born out of the materialistic post-war fifties and were looking to discover a new freer way of life.
The United Empire Loyalists was a very good band. Guitarist Jeff Ridley and vocalist Mike Trew attended Churchill High so they were our closest serious rivals now. They had evolved out of a group called The Molesters and developed a distinct 'riffy' sound led by lead-guitarist Anton “Tom” Kolstee. They were miles ahead of us in originality and in creating their own musical sound.
Things were coming to a head at school. I was constantly in trouble for my wild Mod clothing and long, unkempt hair. This was not entirely accurate as I spent considerable time washing and grooming. Hair was an important statement and I took care to say it right. Regardless, my battles with the principal and his sadistic henchman, the vice-principal, now escalated into all out war. I was pulled out of class and sent to the vice-principal's office where I was told that I was “a distraction” to other students. I was charged with an after school detention which I refused to attend. I was penalized with three detentions for each one I ignored. Soon, I had hundreds of them. I was hauled into the office again. This time the vice-principal was standing beside his desk holding a cruel, thick leather strap.
“Hold out your hand,” he ordered.
I took one look at the strap and said, “I don‘t think so.”
He was confused by this and I realized that he had no way of forcing me to extend my hand. That was the end of the strap at Sir Winston Churchill High School.
Like a flower blooming from the ashes, a beautiful thing grew out of all this. On one of my frequent visits to the office, while waiting to further the campaign of freedom, I met Liviana. She was a senior and built like an Italian goddess. She was apprehended for violations to the dress-code ... her dress was too small to have a code. The skin-tight, micro-mini outfit she was almost wearing struggled to contain her abundant assets. She was Sophia Loren in the flesh. But her extroverted style concealed a shy and demure nature. We connected in many ways. Under our flamboyant exteriors, we were both naturally reserved. We were both drawn to the mood of social unrest emerging around us. And, we were both very interested in sex.
I was now afforded a more stimulating activity after school which very nicely took the place of drum practice. Liviana and I would hurry to her house in Marpole and fool around until her parents got home. She encouraged me to explore her naked body, to caress every inch of her. But, for all her promising