Well Mystery Machine has managed to scrape through another tour. The time has come once again to compile all the memories and anecdotes together and somehow make them appear glamorous or interesting. One good way to come with a witty and engaging tour summary is to lie. This common literary device comes into play because real life events are seldom appreciated as they happen. A good writer must take each event, and, by dissecting and recreating, somehow relate it to a bigger picture. The idea is to cut corners and shorten the mundane, truthful parts of life and add new zest by inventing exciting and thought provoking fictitious happenings. If the attempt is successful, it is only because the lies have eclipsed the reality in a really major way. Of course I don't do that stuff....
        The tour started off like any other tour. We rented a big Ford van with a trailer hitch and at about three in the morning we stole a U-Haul trailer from the senior high school. After breakfast we drove the truck into the shop and hooked up our travel sized TV with six adapters and about a pound of duct tape. Our TV and adapter rig are veterans of three tours and Luke and Bean could wire it up in their sleep. They do a good job with the home-made antenna except that you can't get the van wet afterwards. We had a brief debate over whether or not to install one of those big oak ceiling fans but decided that the factory air conditioning was adequate.
        All too soon it was time to hit the road. We gassed up for the first of many times and set the trip-o-meter for posterity. On the way out of town we picked up our quarter of venison and a four-half of good salted moose for the trip. The nights were still very summery so we tied our bear-skin cloaks up with the rest of the trading hides and headed for Calgary. This was our first minor set-back.
        We were actually headed for Edmonton but someone had heard from an old Confederate scout that it was shorter to loop through Calgary. I'm sure it is except the highway was closed. We had to sit on the highway until the road crews finished blasting and then moving the tons of rock off the road. We saw the blasting crew as we rode by. You can always tell who the head blaster is. He's the guy who sweats all the time and has some kind of chronic twitch. The wait was long but we passed the time throwing rocks far into the traffic behind us. If anyone came looking to see who was doing it, we'd pretend we were asleep. We're pretty smart sometimes.
        We arrived in Edmonton and I have to say it's a special feeling to play a hotel lounge; it really really is, thankyou, and I just want to say...that it's a special feeling deep down in my heartthankyouthanksfor comingdownheybig-guy and this room is filled with that special feeling. Thank you.I mean that sincerely, from the bottom of my heart.Really.
        Saskatoon and Regina came after Edmonton as any map will tell you. I don't know what it is but the downtown core of those two cities are always deserted. Why is that? Were they test sites for some chemical weapons program from the fifties? The town centres have not been changed since our Prime Minster sought advice from his dog. I keep looking for that big brass plaque mounted on a dry fountain saying something about the many brave Canadian citizens of Regina who gallantly lost their lives to advance military science. I know I could be accused of exaggeration but it's just weird walking around and seeing only packs of wild, mangy dogs.
        Soon after leaving the prairies we were driving straight into Thunder Bay. That drive always seems shorter if I don't take my medicine. Crocks and Rolls was our destination. What do you get when an Italian road manager meets and Italian club owner? The Frank-and-Fab monster. Frank puts us up in this bed and breakfast place about ten minutes out of town. Armand and his wife were there to greet us when we finally rolled in at Three- thirty. The food was great and we all slept in the same room in strange, comfortable beds. It was a lot like a youth hostel except we knew each other already and Armand was the only person with an accent. There were also dogs. Many large quiet dogs. My favorites. I spent about two hours scratching these dogs and wondering how to smuggle one into the van. In the morning we all tumbled out of bed and got ready to go. Armand's wife took a picture of us for the photo album but gave it back to us a few weeks later because although no-one had noticed at the time, Shane was completely nude.
        After such good, well attended shows with such happy, agreeable promoters, who could have guessed what we were in for in Kingston?
        If anyone hasn't been following the news, there has been a minor biker war in Ontario. Two rival biker gangs, the "Rock Machine" and "Satan's Choice" have been feuding over territory and gambling profits during the course of the year. Apparently, the Ontario Police (OPP) knew that "someone" had recently purchased a russian army surplus RPG-7VAT Rocket Launcher. Unlike the heavier, tank-mounted SWATTER or SPANDREL anti-tank rockets the RPG-7V (Rocket propelled grenade) can be carried by one man and re-used, much like its older cousin, the Bazooka. Anyways, one night a gang drove by another gangs clubhouse, located in a local machine shop, and sent this anti- tank grenade through the front door. The rocket punched through the light guage steel door and exploded inside the machine shop. This would have been a brilliant move except that the clubhouse was empty at the time. The gang in question had just adjourned to check on some brownies they had in the oven. If the gang had not scheduled a bakesale the next day to prop up their sagging public relations, they all might have been killed. Needless to say, the profits from said bake sale were siphoned off secretly to finance the opening of a childrens hospital.
        Aren't those biker types EVIL? Geez, if they're not shooting pool or cutting the sleeves off of perfectly good jean-jackets, they're going on toy runs for the Salvation Army or sponsoring refugees from war-torn countries or donating money to day-care centres or lobbying for more support for AIDS research or distributing leaflets to raise public awareness on different issues or helping stranded motorists or trying to create helmet laws that make sense. I could go on. Is there no worthy charity they won't donate to? Is there no intelligent cause or under-dog they won't lend a hand to? Can these people be stopped? Let's hope not.
        So let's say a few bikers have a different agenda. Let us postulate that maybe some bikers are living off of the proceeds from prostitution or extortion. Let us further suggest that maybe some motorcycle club members are "at odds with the management strategies of the competition".
        Allright. So far we have a minor war in Ontario. We also have a show in Kingston. You must have heard of Kingston Pen? They are one and the same, the latter being located almost within the city limits of the former. I understand that Kingston, like Chilliwack, has a number of parolees living in and around the area. Good luck to them. The world is a tough place and people are happy to dis-qualify other people for past mistakes. This is a sad fact. Anyone will tell you.
        Such was the setting as we pulled up to Muldoons Music Hall in Kingston. The stage is great; it's clean and new and generously proportioned. The food is usually good and the pool tables are free to band members. Unfortunately, the businesses next door have started legal proceeding against Muldoons for allegedly violating noise by-laws. The owners are understandably tense about volume. To top this all off, the PA sucks; the monitors shut down right in the first quarter of our set, mostly with Luke singing by himself with a quiet guitar. We ended the evening with our favorite noise and as a finale Luke piled his gear and some of the houses PA gear into a huge pyramid. I saw him do this. It looked more like a methodical, carefully built heap than an expression of disgust at the owners. I think some disgust at the owners or at least the house tech was in order anyway. Their stuff was broken, but not by us.
        Well, the owners, who are already tense, blow their tops. They offer to charge us for incurred damages. They refuse to pay us. They offer to call the police and charge us with vandalism. A big scary biker suddenly has Luke by the hair and is only distracted when Luke throws his leather cap across the room. Our road manager is talking faster than the micro-machines guy. Bean is also harassed by departing rowdies. We pack our van hastily and leave town. The whole time we drive through Kingston I expect to hear the sudden vaccuous sound of an RPG round punching through the thin skin of our van, then the final white hot blast of the hollow-charged HE warhead as it tears our truck open and hurls our twisted, blackened bodies through the dark hostile streets of Kingston.
        As we streak away on the 401, Shane wonders "Maybe they thought we were the Rock Machine...."
        The shows that immediately follow Kingston are in St. Catherines (named after St. Catherine) and Hamilton. When we pull into Hamilton, we are busily navigating the one way streets trying to find the X-Club. We decide to ask directions from a local. The first person we see is this bearded guy wearing sunglasses. He has a walkie-talkie and a pair of binoculars. As we sit and ponder what to ask him, he speaks softly into the radio and scans the area with his binoculars. We begin to wonder what he is up to. We notice that he has a ten year old boy beside him with a backpack. Is this some father and son secret service team? I roll down the window and ask what is on everyones mind: "Do you mind if I ask you what you're up to?"
        The man cracks a pleasant, excited smile and says "We're spotting Peregrine Falcons!" He is like a little kid at Christmas. He spots one and speaks into the radio again. Then he turns to me again, about to speak. Just then the light changes.
        "Good eating!" I declare and we drive away. His face in the rear-view mirror is priceless. We don't stop laughing for twenty minutes. These are the moments, I swear.
        The next show is a big deal. The concert is called Edge fest and is held at the Molson Ampitheatre in Toronto. There are something like twenty million bands and the place seats around sixteen thousand people. Very big deal. I am excited because not only do I get two drum roadies, free food and a laminate, but I also get the opportunity to prove my skills as a driver by backing our trailer down a slightly curved ramp into a slot between two other trucks. This is after negotiating a U-turn through crowds of cars and people. I rise to the challenge and we are able to load our gear straight onto the loading dock to avoid the rain that suddenly starts. Once the equipment has been seen to I go exploring.
        The stage is huge. If you can imagine wandering around during a Van Halen soundcheck you've got the idea. They have rolling drum risers and huge chain drive loading doors. The ceiling is so high I can see the lighting crews wriggling around up there and they look like tiny black maggots with flashlights.
        The high point of the show for me was Hardship Post. Although the drummer up and quit some time ago and things got comfusing sometimes onstage for them, that Lippa guy and his pal Mike Pick made me all weepy with their rendition of 'If I'. Treble Charger also played, resplendant in their huge wigs and false mustaches. The night was finished with Sloan who had to be carried onstage by the roadies. They played great when they weren't puking behind the bass rig or hurling beer bottles at the crowd. One of them actually got shot in the foot and had to be taken to the beer gardens on a stretcher. I walked by him later, I never caught his name, but he reached out and grabbed me by my stage pass. He pulled me down to his level and the stench of his beery breath just about knocked me out. I was choking already.
        "You killed me you son of a bitch" He said.
"What?"
"Don't play dumb with me! You killed me you bastard! I'll get you for this!" He began to shriek.
"I'll kill you you bastard! Kill you! You killed me! I'll kill you!
Bleaagh!" And more of the same. I jerked my stage pass out of his grip to get away but he had already passed out. I stood up and noticed the beer gardens had gone silent. Everyone was silent. They were staring at me. His road manager appeared and hustled the unconcious musician away. "You shouldn't have done that." He said to me before he climbed into the ambulance that appeared. "He might not make it now and you'll be the cause. Why don't you use your head for Christ sakes!" The manager spat in my direction and slammed the doors. The ambulance peeled out of the beer gardens and up the loading ramp. The siren split the air over my head. The lights gradually faded and blurred in the rain. Conversation started again, haltingly. I fingered the red mark that my stage pass had left around my neck when he was strangling me with it. I could hear someone playing a Steve Miller cover onstage. The rain continued to drum on the roof of the bar tent, the overflow was leaking onto the damp tarmac and pissing away into the storm drains. I never felt more alone in my life.
        The next few weeks passed like a blur. We played the Embassy in London, then Barrie. Ottawa came and went. We ventured into Detroit and Toledo again and witness the horror that was the Chrysler Freeway. We all ran out of Canadian cigarettes and had to smoke crappy Marlboros full of saltpeter and cordite. Somewhere in there was a show with Our Lady Peace in Kitchener. We stole the chromies off of their tour bus and drenched their deli-tray with Lawn and Garden Raid. I don't think they noticed. We also drank all their beer while they were playing. Bands love to play jokes on one another and I hope they took our shenanigans in the spirit intended. We also gutted their bus driver and left him hanging by his achilles tendons from the sun visors. I think he was still alive when they got back to the bus. You could hear their screams for like, two blocks.
        A week later we were back in Toronto headlining at Lee's Palace. Marlin was the house tech again and everything was of course, perfect. We had a gig with Sandbox somewhere too. The stage was so small that our amps were blocking the kitchen door. Who pronounces these rooms fit to play in? In St. John we played in an old banking building. You could actually walk into the vault and pretend you were gold. Or whatever. I met a girl who was working full time to raise money to go to clown and mime school. I didn't speak to her after that. We went to Halifax and I spent two hours wandering around the fort and military museum looking at guns. I sure like guns.
        The rest of the tour was rock festival after rock festival. The X- Fest in Detroit was great except the hospitality tent was swarmed by bees. I didn't think Michigan had any bees left. Maybe they work at the Ford Stamping Plant. We did two dates at the Festival du Rock sans Frontiers in Montreal and Quebec City. We were sandwiched between weird francophone funk/jazz/metal bands. The date in Quebec City was virtually deserted. We heard rumours of food poisoning at the local creperie or something.
        We were suddenly six weeks through a seven week tour. The great Turning Around Point had been reached and passed without comment. Suddenly we had only three shows left. We had shot a video for Pound for Pound in Toronto somewhere in there and played live on MuchMusic again. We had pulled into cities and remembered only where the club and the laundromat were located. We had played an acoustic set live on the radio with me singing back-ups and sweating uncontrollably. It all seemed to happen at the same time in retrospect. Now we were headed West and I had lost like five pounds. For some reason we had also signed about five thousand autographs and donated six pints of blood each to people who wanted a souvenir but couldn't afford a t-shirt. Since when are we the hardest working band in showbiz? Next tour it's going to be golf and room service, just like Dio.
        We played the university club in Edmonton and the promoter was telling me about the opening band.
"Chick drummer." He told me with that can-you-believe-that look on his face.
"A CHICK drummer?" I asked him. I said it sarcstically because everyone knows ANYONE can play drums. All it takes is practice. There are no limitations on anyone because of size, sex, strength or even amount of limbs. As far as women playing drums, Sheila Escovedo is acknowledged as one of the worlds best drummers.
This genius didn't get the irony.
"Yeah!" He said "Go figure! She's pretty good though!"
WHATEVER
        When people ask me what the high point of the tour was I always mumble something about being thankful I even get to tour at all. That's true. I don't tell them what the high point really was because they'll think I'm crazy or even worse, a rube. I'll tell you though. The best part of touring is driving. Ever since I was a little kid I have loved cars. My Dad used to take me on his truck routes when I was wee. I would pour his coffee for him while he directed the skidder and loader. The logs would shake the whole truck when they were loaded and when Dad set the chokers the sun would be coming up over the mountains. We would carefully pick our way down the dirt road and when we hit the highway the mud would fly off the huge tires and turn into mist behind us. The smell of diesel and cigarette smoke filled the air during breakfast and we would cover 2200 kms sometimes.
        I drove a twenty hour stretch from Halifax to Toronto. The best part is when the music is off and the sun hasn't risen yet. Everyone is asleep and the road is deserted. When you come up behind a transport truck, he will flash his signals briefly so you know it is safe to pass. When you do pass he'll flick his high-beams to let you know you can pull in. Then you are alone on the deserted road again. The tires are warm and singing quietly on the pavement. The pressure and fuel guages flutter lazily as the engine pulls and rests around the long curves. For some reason I couldn't sleep if I wanted to. Canada is full of drives like this. For some reason the driving is not so good in BC. No one moves over when you pull up close. No one knows what flicking high beams mean. No one waves to say thank-you. I've seen six transport trucks negotiate a passing pattern into oncoming traffic. What would have been a major disaster in BC was an exercise in courtesy and finesse in Alberta. BC drivers are good for nothing. Can't drive in snow or rain without ending up in the ditch. Everyone going as fast as they can wherever they drive and not one thought for walkers or mergers. What's the stress factor for local truckers here? How about the suicide rate? Everyone should go to traffic school in Alberta for a year and then the final exam will be held in Toronto in December. I think maybe three people would be licensed the first year. Everyone else would be dead or walking.
        I hope this summary makes good reading. I have done no revisions or editing. I haven't even chicked my spulling. I"m no damn good under a deadline.

That was by Jordan Pratt. My favorite part was the pretending to be gold part.