Somewhere in Edmonton, 1983
"Marry my sister, marry my horse, marry my mother 'cause she's di-vorced..."
Billy watched Joe as he stumbled drunkenly ahead, singing tunelessly to himself.
Billy'd hustled them out of the Trojan Club right after Joe's ninth beer, counting on Joe's second wind to get them home. Joe was not a happy drunk, exactly, but getting trashed did seem to give him a kind of strange, infernal energy that could keep him up and in motion long past 4am or 5am.
The promoters for tonight's show were a couple who'd brought Hard Core Logo to town before, back on their first tour in '81. Unfortunately, they were a couple: Debra and Skunk had broken up right after the show was booked and moved to different places on different sides of town, neither of which had enough room to sleep all four of Hard Core Logo.
Which meant that, after they'd loaded their shit back into the van, Pipe and John had gotten into it and driven it south, to Debra's place (a big creaky old house that she shared with three other punk girls), while Billy and Joe were left to pick up their bags and their guitars (because no fucking way would they put Pipe and John in charge of looking after those) and walk north, north, north for half a fuckin' hour in the freezing fucking cold, until they got to Skunk's new place.
Skunk was meant to walk with them but he'd begged off doing it 'cause he had to settle up with the venue manager. Something about a broken light fixture: the crowd had gotten a little crazy during the encore. Billy was pretty sure he'd seen John swinging from a lamp. He himself had been busy trying to protect his gear from the thrashing, slamdancing, stage-diving kids.
Luckily, it wasn't a complicated route from the Trojan to Skunk's apartment: go west down the avenue 'till you were past the park, then take a right, and Skunk's place was the one with the red light in the window and the key under the papier-mache skull on the stoop.
Billy was a little worried they still wouldn't find it, and end up walking around Edmonton in circles until they froze to death. He was more worried, though, about what Skunk's place would be like.
Skunk was called Skunk because a couple years ago he dyed his hair in black-and-white stripes. Also, he always smelled like shit, which was probably why Debra had dumped his ass.
Billy had stayed in some ratty ass places on tour over the last few years - punk houses with holes in the walls and blood on the ceilings, vegetarian squats with no water or electricity, some suburban kid's fucking garage. Given Skunk's attitude to personal hygiene, Billy was not looking forward to seeing the state of Skunk's guest room, if he had one. Or, more realistically, the state of the couch that they were going to be sleeping on. Skunk had said something about the floor - maybe he lived on the mezzanine. Billy hadn't been paying attention.
Maybe Skunk hadn't had a chance to really dirty the place up after living there for just a month. That was what Billy was holding out hope for.
Joe didn't seem to be worried, though. Joe was in a state of oblivious bliss, humming to himself as he lurched along.
"I fuckin' love Edmonton, man," Joe said.
Billy ignored him. Joe was obviously out of his tree.
"I fuckin' love Edmonton," Joe said again, insistent, as if he could read Billy's mind and tell that he was thinking skeptical thoughts.
"Oh, sure," Billy said.
Nobody loved Edmonton. Even the people who lived in Edmonton were just too tired to try and move somewhere else.
"I do!"
"Bullshit you do," Billy said.
"I do," Joe said. "Those kids, they really want to see us. They really care."
"They don't give a shit about us," Billy said. "They'd come out and see any old band that came through 'cause there's nothing to do here and it's better than cow tipping."
Joe shook his head: he stumbled a little bit as he did it, and Billy kind of wondered if he might fall over. "Those kids, you didn't talk to those kids, man. They fuckin' care. They need us."
Like a hole in the fuckin' head, Billy thought to himself, but he didn't say anything. There was no arguing with Joe when he was like this.
They trudged on in silence.
So, okay. The crowd went crazy for them. Joe nearly got fully dragged into the pit while someone yanked the microphone from his hands to holler the chorus to Who The Hell You Think You Are.
So, okay, maybe it was important that they came here and played. If only 'cause it meant the Edmonton kids didn't have to go out and steal people's mail or crash cars or murder people to get their kicks. If only because of the wave of energy Billy could feel during every gig, the feedback loop between the band and the audience that sent previously normal people into emotional fits.
So, okay, maybe what they were doing Meant Something.
Joe always wanted it to Mean Something. Joe was always looking for The Reason, because The Reason would mean that It Was All Worth It (It being driving from town to town for eight weeks in a van held together by rust and prayer, It being the shit, the spit, the pointless fuckin' arguments, the getting chased out of towns by the cops, the fleapit motels, and the impossibility of maintaining a steady relationship when every six months you quit your job at the A&W, dropped everything, and disappeared to drive cross-country).
Joe desperately needed for there to be a Reason, because Joe was a fuckin' neurotic. Worse than John.
There was a little bit of ego in there too. Joe always needed to convince himself that what he was doing was Important. Hard Core Logo couldn't just be a band: it had to agitate, educate, and organize. As if the whole world was just waiting to hear what four unemployable Canadians had to say about the US invasion of El Salvador.
Billy never needed to believe that what he was doing was Important with a capital I. All Billy thought was that if he could get paid to play guitar, he was a lucky son of a bitch. It was starting to look like Hard Core Logo was never going to pay as much as he wanted, but fuck it.
Billy reckoned they'd tough it out for a few more years then move on to the big time, play something more radio friendly. The labels would start signing punk bands again eventually. They'd have to.
Joe was talking again.
"You remember when you were like that?" Joe again.
"Whuh?" Billy said.
"When you went to shows and, you know...all the possibilities were in front of you. Your future."
Billy snorted. "Nah," he said. "Didn't see shit growing up. Had to go to the big city for everything. Didn't see a band play, face to face, 'till I was eighteen."
"Exactly," Joe said.
Joe stumbled into the street, and stood there, and stared at Billy, who tried to avoid making eye contact.
One good thing about Edmonton: you weren't at much risk of getting hit by a car. The whole town emptied out after 6pm. So Joe could stand there in the middle of the road, and point a wavering finger at Billy, without any trucks swerving around him or blasting their horns.
"You remember when we started the band," he said.
"I remember," Billy said.
"And we thought we'd never see more than 25 people in the audience," Joe said, and he was smiling now.
Shit, Billy hadn't seen him smiling like that in - weeks. Months maybe. Sure, it wasn't like Joe never smiled. Joe smiled plenty, but usually it was quick, and sour, and you didn't get to see his teeth.
"I always thought we could get to 30 people," Billy said. "So long as your sister made her boyfriend come with her."
"How many you think were there tonight?"
"Hey, I wasn't standing around with a clicker counting heads," Billy said. "Too busy trying not to get crushed."
Joe's smile got wider and wider.
"Oh come on, Joe, what do you want?" Billy asked. "You want me to tell you you're a genius?"
"Fuck me," Joe said, happily, walking backwards across the road. "Who gives a shit about me? I remember when there weren't more than 30 fuckin' punks in Vancouver. Fuck, I don't give a shit if I'm a genius or not. Think about all those kids out there," he said, "Kids from fuckin, nowheresville. Who can see bands. Who're gonna start a band. Start a zine. Get off their asses and do something, not just sit around and jerk off or watch TV or kill themselves."
He walked on a few more steps, then turned around and howled at the sky, arms in the air. "I KNEW those assholes were wrong when they said punk was dead! This is it! The real thing! They don't know what they're fuckin' missing!"
Joe stood there in the moonlight for a moment, arms outstretched. Then he reached out and grabbed Billy by the hand and pulled him along the street, humming something to himself.
And it was funny: Joe's good mood was infectious, even though he was full of shit. When Joe was on the upswing, he had 100% copper-bottomed faith in what they were doing, and it was genuinely a little bit awesome to watch.
It wouldn't last. Joe's good moods never lasted, his optimism always curdled quickly. But Billy was going to enjoy it while he could.
"And you sounded great, " Joe was saying. "Even on that crapass PA. All the kids were asking me, what's he like, and I said who? and they said Billy. Like that, all starstruck. They know your name. They think you're the man. They wanted autographs, too," he added, "But I told 'em you don't do that kind of rockstar bullshit."
Joe pulled Billy down the street. They were past the park now, it probably wasn't far to Skunk's. Joe was walking fast, building up to a jog, as he led Billy on: past the snow-topped cars and empty parking lots: past shuttered, dark stores.
Billy could catch snatches of the song Joe was singing to himself as they ran. "The people! United! Will never be defeated!"
"That's by Sham 69, right?" Billy asked.
"Shutthefuckup, I'm composing," Joe said. "I have a melody."
They were passing houses and two-unit apartments now. Billy saw one with a red light in the front window. Must be Skunk's. He yanked Joe's arm to make him stop - it was like being pulled down the street by an over-enthusiastic dog - and pointed. "Look!" He pulled Joe over to that side of the street.
A red light in the window of the top floor apartment, like a brothel. Skunk's suburban asshole neighbors must really love that.
There was a beater car parked outside the place, one wheel on the sidewalk. The Black Flag bars spraypainted on the passenger side door meant it could only be Skunk's.
"Jesus, what's with that?" Billy said. "Why didn't Skunk give us a fucking lift? Debra told us he didn't have a car."
"Didn't ya hear?" Joe said. "Skunk bought this hunk of junk from a punk in California. Fucking dumbass. He can't drive it here 'cause the engine just freezes, won't start after two hours. It was the last straw for Debra. She says he doesn't plan anything right."
"No block heater, huh?" Billy said.
"That's right. Nowhere to screw one on either, unless he drives around with the hood up. It's a fucking ornament."
There on the stoop of Skunk's building was a papier maché Hallowe'en skull, with the keys under it as promised. It took a few tries, but Billy opened the front door, and they stumbled into the hall.
"Block heater..." Joe muttered.
Somehow it felt colder indoors than outdoors. They ran up the stairs.
Joe was singing to himself again, sorting through the jumbled words in his head. "Plug me in to your....fuck me up with my.... Plug me in to my....plug you into a..."
Skunk's new apartment, when Billy finally got the key in the lock and shoved open the door, was really fucking tiny.
Skunk was living in two very small rooms: a bathroom, and a room for everything else. There was no guest room. There was no couch. There wasn't even really enough room for them to sleep on the floor, after they put their bags down. There was a sofa bed, and a cupboard, and one chair, and a kitchenette, and the only way you could tell where the bedroom ended and the kitchen began was because there was linoleum on the floor. Bathroom didn't even have a bath for them to sleep in.
It was still cold as balls.
"What the fuck are we meant to do," Billy said.
"Sleep in his bed," Joe said.
"No way," Billy said immediately, but by this point Joe was immune to reason, or even to whining. He just threw his bag down on the bed and headed for the bathroom with his toothbrush in his hand.
"We can't sleep in his bed," Billy said, again, when Joe came back out, a big ring of white foam dried around his mouth like someone with aquaphobia.
"Why the fuck not?" Joe asked. He was already taking off his big black coat and laying it over the bedclothes for extra warmth.
"It's fuckin' rude?" Billy offered. I'm not your girlfriend, he thought.
Joe shrugged. "Hey, leaving us with nowhere to sleep is pretty fuckin' rude too." He pulled the light switch.
"When's the last time those sheets were changed? I bet he's been jerking off in there," Billy said.
"So breathe through your mouth and stay away from anything that feels crusty," Joe said.
Billy couldn't see it in the dark, but he knew Joe was rolling his eyes.
Joe was already taking off his sweaty show clothes and throwing them on the floor, putting on the Socialist Party Summer Camp 1980 t-shirt he wore as pyjamas.
Then he got in the bed and lay there.
Even though it was dark, Billy could see the stupid expression on Joe's face.
Beseeching? Persuading? Puppy dog eyes? Whatever you called it, it worked.
Although really it wasn't anything to do with Joe, or his eyes. The bed just looked a lot more comfortable than the chair, or lying down wedged between his duffel bag and Joe's guitar and waking up with a crick in his neck from sleeping on the floor.
Billy gave in.
He pulled that handle of vodka out from his jacket - he'd grabbed it from behind the bar on their way out, wanted to wait 'till they were safely home before getting really drunk - and got under the covers without even taking off his boots.
It was still kind of cold, and the mattress wasn't great, but at least it was an actual bed. He hadn't slept in one of those since Calgary.
A wave of tiredness hit him. He'd better put the bottle down before he spilled it everywhere.
Joe squeezed himself up against Billy's body, startling him awake again. "Hey!" Billy said, mildly aggrieved, even though Joe was warm....he must have said some of that out loud by accident, because Joe laughed as he took the bottle from his hands, and said "I'm a human fuckin' radiator."
"Block heater," Billy said. "Start your engines."
"Yup," Joe said. He drank, then murmured to himself again, another snatch of the song from earlier: plug - me - in - to - your - block heater.......
He kissed the side of Billy's head as he passed him the bottle. Right on the temple.
That was weird.
But they were drunk, Billy told himself determinedly, glugging the vodka. People did weird things when they were drunk. Sometimes they acted like they were in love with you.
"We're going places, you and me, Billiam," Joe said. He kissed Billy again. It felt like he meant to kiss him on the forehead, but instead it landed on Billy's cheek, close to his mouth.
And then Joe fell asleep right then and there beside Billy - half on top him, really.
Billy lay there quietly, feeling too warm, until sleep finally came.
Skunk got in the door at half past four in the morning. He was not at all pleased to find them in his bed, so he shouted about it 'till he woke them both up.
Which took some doing, because Joe always slept the sleep of the dead.
"That's my bed, man! I need to sleep!"
"We can budge up,"Joe muttered.
"No way, man, no fuckin' way. Just get out of the bed, okay?"
"Fuck you," Joe said. "Where else are we gonna fuckin' sleep?"
"The floor, man! The floor! I told you!"
"Fuck off," Joe advised him, then rolled over and went back to sleep, dead to the world. Billy pretended to be asleep as well, trapped under Joe's arm.
Skunk was a weak person, and also he had said both in print and in real life that he thought that Hard Core Logo's first EP was the best debut by any Canadian punk band since 1979. So he did not resort to violence at this point. Instead, he sat in his chair and sulked, and then he dragged them out of bed and kicked them out of the house as early as he reasonably could (7.30 am).
Skunk still gave them their full fee for the previous night, plus bar take, and didn't even ask for money to cover the damaged furniture at the bar. They had a fund to cover that, he said.
Billy thought Skunk's overt and scrupulous honesty was downright irritating.
Joe tucked 10 bucks from their fee into the front pocket of Skunk's flannel shirt and advised him to buy a futon, "for the next unlucky band who roll through here and have to take advantage of your great fuckin' hospitality".
Another bridge burned. But it was worth it just to see the look on Skunk's face.
Then they went down the street to a diner and got breakfast.
Joe paid for both their meals and bought a song on the jukebox as well. It Wasn't God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels. He was still in a good mood.
And if that was where the story ended, it would have been a great memory. But life only has a happy ending if you know when to stop.
Joe's good mood faded - not by the next week, or even by the next day, but by that afternoon, when they were getting back in the van to start the long drive back to Vancouver. They had a gig booked next week at the Smilin' Buddha, but Billy called the promoter the night they got back and asked him to cancel, come up with some bullshit reason and not tell the band Billy called. If they had to rehearse and play right now, the band would break up.
So they spent two weeks all ignoring each other and the band didn't break up. Instead, they went on another fucking tour three months later.
Billy's mom used to say that if she'd remembered how much it hurt to have a baby, she'd never have had another one after Billy's sister. It was something like that.
So Hard Core Logo had kept writing new songs and releasing new albums and somehow losing more money every time. Didn't matter what record label they signed to or who they go to manage them.
John thought they were under an ancient Egyptian curse: they'd offended Ra, or Osiris, or possibly Hathor. It was something to do with the red letter A for Anarchy in their logo.
Billy started looking at the classified ads in the back of the music magazines. GUITAR PLAYER WANTED.
It got clearer and clearer that John wasn't just acting crazy.
Touring all the time ground them down. Billy knew he drank too much, but next to Joe he looked sane, and next to Pipefitter he looked like a teetotaler.
Joe did write that song about looking for warmth in Edmonton, but he changed the words so it was about "a blonde chick with big tits". At least, that was what he told everyone the song was about, over and over and over again. Billy sat next to him in bars and booths and wondered if he was going crazy too.
More and more badness just kept piling up. It could even go back in time to change Billy's few good memories, like that night in Edmonton.
Burning bridges with one of the few honest promoters they've ever worked with feels different after you've been ripped off by a thousand skeezy ones. Joe fucking with Skunk feels different after you've seen his primadonna behaviour on tour - okay, Joe talked a good talk about Billy wanting models and limos versus his hookers and taxicabs, but when it came to drugs he was as demanding as Mick fucking Jagger. No one who ever saw him throwing a tantrum because a promoter wouldn't buy him blow would call him low maintenance.
Billy will never regret leaving in 1990. Joe was a liability: he was a lying, cheating, manipulative son of a bitch who couldn't handle anything being anything but what he wanted it to be.
This is the real thing, Joe had said. But there was no real thing. Punk was just a word, and meanwhile you were sacrificing your one and only life to a collective delusion.
At least, that's what Billy should be thinking, five years later, as he listens to the messages Joe has jammed up his answering machine with. As he reads the dumb press release Joe faxed to his agent.
Joe is a screwed-up, shrivelled-up, cross-addicted, scary person with more baggage than a carousel at Vancouver Airport. No more so than Billy himself, of course, but you really only want one of those guys in your band. If you have two of those guys, you get too much friction - and Hard Core Logo has, count 'em, four.
But Billy's can't help where his mind goes. He doesn't think about Joe having a coke-induced nosebleed, he doesn't think about Joe coming home drunk and angry and locking himself in the motel room bathroom and crying and cutting his guitar-playing hand open punching a mirror.
Instead, Billy is thinking about how much he used to admire Joe's sense of conviction, and about Joe buying him pancakes.
What Billy's head knows and what his body wants don't always coincide. In the end it takes a lot more phone calls and persuasion and false promises, but then and there is when Billy knows that he'll give in. He'll agree to play for the Bucky benefit concert - not because it's Bucky, but because it's Joe.
One last waltz, he promises himself. Let the last memories be good.
Depending on who you are and where you are, “punk” can be a lifestyle; cosplay; design element; powerful ideal, lazy cliché; magical realism; badge of authenticity, pantomime social movement; withering mockery; ironclad conviction; lucrative career; vow of slovenly poverty; incubator of brilliance and/or mediocrity; rite of passage; riot of violence; ferocious hokeyness; suicide hotline; sales category; community glue; license to wallow; mass catharsis; a refuge for smart people and/or playground for dumb people; boisterous escapism; marketable nostalgia; belligerent incompetence; self-satire (intentional or otherwise); assault on falseness; or adult-sized, psychic diapers that can be worn until death.
- Sam McPheeters, "Mutations: The Many Faces of Hardcore Punk"