To Me You Seem Giant

by Greg Rhyno

  “Holy shit. That was terrible,” Kim says.

  “Yeah,” Deacon agrees, “but come on—you have to admit those guys can play. That solo at the end was insane.”

  Kim blows an unimpressed raspberry.

  “What? You don’t like guitar solos?” Deacon asks over me.

  “No, I don’t like guitar solos,” Kim replies. “I don’t like guitar solos, or choreographed fight scenes, or those video games—y’know—where you chase each other around a castle with guns? If I wanted to watch guys getting off on other guys, I’d rent gay porn.”

  Deacon’s eyes go wide, and he’s about to retaliate when Todd Farkas appears in a studded leather jacket and idiotic green mohawk wig and shouts down what has become a fairly chatty crowd.

  “Oi! That’s enough out of you lot!”

  He proceeds to mumble incoherently through a weak cockney accent, squeezing in blimey and bleedin’ and, incongruously, slap and tickle before he introduces Marathon of Hop, Mike Rotten’s most offensively named punk band to date.

  Like Count von Count introducing a metal band, Farkas’s costume falls a little short of the cultural mark. As Marathon of Hop speeds through a series of fast, nasally pop songs, I’m a little surprised to find that Rotten, premier advocate for all things anarchistic in the U.K., has joined forces with a bunch of California-style neo-punks. Well-fed, jocky, and with hair carefully sculpted into liberty spikes or dyed like a lady’s leopard-skin handbag, Rotten’s goons pogo and posture on stage the way they’ve seen their favourite bands do on MuchMusic. How any self-respecting—or self-loathing—Pistols fan could suffer the suburban whining of mallrat punk is completely beyond me, but I guess that even nihilists have to make compromises.

  They end their set with a cover of the Clash’s ‘Police and Thieves,’ but even that manages to sounds bratty and ironic. Just before the curtains sweep them from sight, Rotten sneers, “Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?” I can’t help but wonder if he’s asking the crowd or himself.

  And then comes the moment we’ve been waiting for. When Farkas reappears on stage, he’s wearing a woman’s wig and a floral-print dress like my grandmother used to wear. Deacon elbows me with the giddy pride of a hockey mom, and in a castrated voice, Farkas introduces Martha Dumptruck.

  “Seriously?” Kim asks, disgusted. “That’s what he thinks their most distinguishing feature is? Their gender? Like there’s no difference between their rock band and, like, Wilson Phillips?”

  Of course, as the band is revealed, Kim must realize she’s been duped, even though she doesn’t show it. All four members of Martha Dumptruck are dressed just as Farkas was—floral dresses, black orthopedic-looking shoes, and gaudy costume jewelry. Evie’s wearing something on her head that looks more like a doily than a hat, and Ruth’s got her hair up in curlers. In these ridiculous outfits, they launch fearlessly into their first song and make all the boys who came before them look like pussies. Ruth’s bass pulses with authority, and between verses Evie launches off the drum riser, her fake bifocals swinging from a chain around her neck. The drummer and the other guitar player are spot-on. They’re tight and ferocious. By the end of the first song, all four of them are sweating, their dresses are torn, and their updos are in shambles.

  “Phew,” Evie charms, “it’s hot up here!”

  “You’re hot up there!” someone yells. Again, probably Rotten.

  “Easy, tiger,” she says, delighted. “We’re Martha Dumptruck. This next song is called ‘Bell Jar Superstar.’”

  From Evie’s opening riff, the song has a kind of immediate awesomeness that has the people around us nodding in pleasant surprise. Then, unexpectedly, it’s Ruth who steps up to the microphone and starts singing. And, also unexpectedly, she’s amazing. Over the PA, her voice sounds sweet and weary, like a tiny bird coated in rust. I look over and Deacon is grinning like a fool.

  By the end of their last song, almost half the crowd is on its feet cheering and whistling. I’m convinced. Martha Dumptruck shall inherit the Earth.

  “Well, I’d hate to follow that,” Deacon says.

  “We did follow that. Last month.”

  “Yeah. And look what happened. Man, we’ve got to practise more. Write some new songs. Step up our game.”

  “I know. Soda’s been busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Busy.”

  There’s only a couple acts left, but it doesn’t take a “local record producer,” a retired music teacher, or the mustachioed sales clerk from Colosimo’s Music—this year’s venerable panel—to know that Martha Dumptruck have this battle in the bag. The crowd is just settling down when Farkas finally slouches across the stage for another lame introduction. This time he’s wearing a tie-dye shirt, a peace-symbol pendant, bell-bottoms, a headband, and little round glasses.

  “He-e-ey, man ...” He addresses the audience like he’s knocking on Tommy Chong’s door. “Hey, listen ... listen ... I’ve got some good stuff here for you.” A few people in the crowd hoot. “This next band will really broaden your mind ...” More cheers. “They’re about to get really high—” he pauses for effect “—on my list of favourite bands. Please welcome my personal friends, Bunsen Honeydew!”

  I look at Deacon. His face is mobilized by disgust.

  “What the fuck? Who in the band besides Wheeler—” he spits his name like a curse word “—even goes to this school?”

  He’s got a point. The rules are pretty clear on the fact that there needs to be at least two people in the band who currently attend Mackenzie King to compete. Thaler graduated last year, and the rest are from out of town. As the curtain opens and the band eases into their first groovy number, I see how they did it. They brought in a ringer. Jay Olejnik, one of the stoners who commune daily on the far side of the football field, is swaying in front of a set of bongos. Occasionally, he reaches out and taps one, not particularly in time. He and Sudbury Steve nod to one another like a couple of old pros.

  “Well, I think that’s my cue to use the little girls’ room,” Kim says before she disappears up the dark aisle.

  After about a minute or so of innocuous, folky jamming, Matty walks up to the microphone. His head is a crown of dreadlocks as he addresses his people.

  “Hey, everyone. I’m Matty.”

  He pauses for a moment, confident in the cheers that eventually follow the very mention of his name.

  “Y’know, I think music is better if you can dance to it. Don’t you?” There’s more cheering, and the band grooves along behind him. The last few months of playing house parties, Whiskey Jack’s, and the University Pub have endowed him with the breezy banter of an experienced showman. “Why doesn’t everyone come on up to the front, and we can have ourselves a good time?”

  On command, about nine or ten of the school’s female hippie contingent—all friends of Matty—run boldly down the aisle with their homemade skirts and long, straight hair. When they arrive in front of the stage, they bounce around each other, their hands weaving toward the sky like stop-motion flowers. They laugh a little self-consciously, but also seem proud of themselves, as though they’ve shaken the heavy shackles of complacency.

  Matty starts singing something about a sea serpent named Jarret, and the song takes off. The bearded drummer feels out a competent rhythm with the tall, skinny bass player. Sudbury Steve blows some thoughtful notes on his horn. Thaler the Wailer lives up to his name. And Jay Olejnik pretends to play the bongos. After a few minutes the song seems to reach its conclusion, but no one stops playing; they just get a little quieter. It’s a good trick. Matty talks to the crowd as the band chugs behind him, maintaining a kind of musical momentum.

  “Not bad, not bad ...”

  From the back, a girl screams, “I love you, Wheels!”

  “Thanks. I love you too.” More screaming. “Here, let me show you how much I love you ...”

  Matty walks back behind the drum riser and returns a moment later carrying a
cardboard box the size of a small television. He puts his hand inside, and it resurfaces with a few snack-sized bags of Doritos. “We like to call this next song ‘Munchies from Outer Space.’”

  With that, he begins to toss the bags into the crowd. Some are caught by the hippie girls, while others slide across the floor. Upon seeing this, some of the bolder boys rush to the front and scoop them up. Like unwashed sirens, the hippie girls pull the Dorito-eaters into the circle of public display and they give in, smiling at the attention. Matty rains more chip bags into the crowd, the band gets a little louder, and I can feel an undeniable shift in the landscape as more and more people get up out of their seats.

  Soon, Matty’s repeating some lyric about “sunny weather” and “keeping it together,” and the reverie has spilled up the aisles. It’s a full-blown party. Woodstock before the brown acid. Jeannie Drew and Brandy Sawchuck have clasped arms and swing each other around in delighted circles. Even Mr. Murdock stands with his hands in his pockets and does a slouchy, head-bobbing shuffle. Most of our immediate neighbours have left their seats while Deacon and I stay conspicuously seated. A middle-aged mom in a fanny pack points at us and arcs her thumb toward the crowd, encouraging us to “Join in the fun!” We stare straight ahead and refuse to acknowledge her.

  Bunsen Honeydew have bought the crowd’s love with a little charisma and a lot of Doritos, and while I think the music is terrible, I have to admit that they’re really good at making it. Plus, it turns out that there’re a lot of people who seem to like terrible music, including the judges, who keep smiling at one another. Even though I’m not competing, I’m starting to feel like a sore loser. I wonder where Kim is.

  ‘Munchies from Outer Space’ winds down, but like their first song, it doesn’t really end; it just mutates into something a little trippier. One by one, most of the instruments fall away, but Thaler’s Gibson continues to creep out a rhythm drenched in spacey delay, until it becomes the only sound, the focal point.

  “We’ve got one more for you folks—” the crowd continues to bounce in anticipation as Thaler plays “—but it’s kind of a tricky one. I think we’re going to need a little help from a very special guest ...”

  I can see the curtain leg flutter. A concealed figure is waiting behind it.

  “Please welcome to the stage ...” Matty drags the suspense for all it’s worth. “... the winner of last year’s Citywide Battle of the Bands ...”

  I look at Deacon. He looks back, as confused as I am.

  “Jesse ... ‘Sodapop’ ... Koskinen!”

  The crowd erupts and Soda walks out onto the stage with a cheese-eating grin. He casually flares out a few notes from his Telecaster.

  “So-daah!” a girl from the back of the room screams.

  I look at Deacon again, but this time he doesn’t look back at me. His eyes are fixed on the stage in disbelief and vibrating with betrayal.

  Soda arrives beside Matty, who slaps him on the back and leans away from the microphone to say something. Soda laughs a silent, conspiratorial laugh under the music, and with that laugh, the contest is over. No one’s saying it, but everybody knows it. Soda’s appearance on stage is like the old Miss America stepping out to crown the new Miss America.

  Matty cues his drummer, who lays down some slinky four-four time under Thaler’s guitar. Sudbury Steve drops a few somber notes, and finally Soda joins in with a little rhythm. The melody’s familiar, but I can’t quite place it. I imagine Deacon knows exactly what it is, but I’m afraid to disrupt his catatonic rage. Everyone’s still bobbing up and down, but not in the silly, self-conscious way they were before. They’re all watching the band, waiting for their next move.

  “We’d like to dedicate this one to the teachers ...” Soda tells them. “And Mr. Hawkes. This one’s for you, too. Okay. Here we go ...”

  Soda and Matty sing together into the microphone. They tell the crowd that they don’t need no education. Nor do they need no thought control. If the music wasn’t immediately recognizable to most, the lyrics are, and a delighted roar goes up from the crowd as though everyone simultaneously realized that this is their Favourite Song Ever. Soda and Matty shout at the teachers to leave them kids alone. They tell the teachers that, all in all, they’re just bricks in the wall. The staff supervisors sing along, seemingly without a shred of irony or self-awareness.

  Bunsen Honeydew and their new guest guitar player shake and shimmy through another verse and chorus, and the crowd is happy to come along for the ride. They’ve gone a little past the allotted fifteen minutes, but nobody—except maybe the other bands—really seems to care. Soda and Thaler end the song with an epic guitar solo that duels and intertwines and falls back on itself. Even Kim might have liked it, if she was actually watching the show. I wonder where she is.

  Once the curtain closes and the insistent cheering and hollering for an encore dies down, Kim collapses into the seat beside me, breathless and sweaty.

  “Sorry. Got caught in a dance party. Couldn’t be helped. Your friend Soda is amazing.”

  Deacon stands up.

  “I’m going to go see if I can find Ruth.”

  “Aw. You’re not going to watch the last band?” Kim asks. “Isn’t that what you musicians are supposed to do? Support the scene?”

  Deacon fires a warning look and doesn’t respond. He steps over us into the aisle and heads up toward the doors.

  “Dude’s got to relax,” she says.

  By the time Farkas gets back behind the microphone, about a third of the crowd has left, and another third is leaving. Farkas hasn’t even bothered to put on any thematic outfits this time. He just introduces the final band by their forgettable name, and the curtains open on three small grade ten students doggedly performing unremarkable originals. I feel a little bad for them when the bass player invites everyone to “keep the party going” in a voice that cracks with inexperience, but not so bad that I accept his invitation, or even stay until the end of their set.

  SIDE B

  Combat Baby

  “Thanks, but I kind of need to get going.”

  Since the disastrous end of our would-be date, and since she found out I got the job and she didn’t, Molly has reinstated her old policy regarding extracurricular activities and me. “I have a lot of packing to do.”

  I can’t imagine she’s brought too many of her worldly possessions for a five-month employment experiment in northern Ontario, and I know her flight doesn’t leave for another few weeks, but I’m not about to poke holes in her story. It seems pretty clear she’s made up her mind about me. The weird thing is, I don’t really care that she has a kid. Granted, it’s not exactly first on my list of qualities that I look for in a romantic partner, but I think I could handle it.

  Maybe.

  There’s a whole dynamic to dating a mom that I’m just not sure about. How do you make friends with a four-year-old? And who gets to explain why Mommy’s friend is still hanging around the next morning wearing Mommy’s bathrobe? More importantly, what happens if Daddy suddenly shows up? How am I supposed to compete with that? Still, I’d like to give it a shot.

  We walk together a little ways down the hall, but after a civil goodbye, Molly takes the first available exit to the parking lot. I don’t follow. Instead, I’m immediately ambushed by two representatives of Students’ Council. They’ve been buttering me up all week, so I should have seen this coming.

  “Hey, Mr. Curtis, you were in Battle of the Bands when you were in high school, right?” This is Kirsten, an impossibly tall senior wearing a Three Gut Records t-shirt.

  “Didn’t your band win a Battle of the Bands once?” This is Steph, a bespectacled and bohemian-looking kid from my grade ten class.

  I imagine they’re both getting their information straight from Jim Lodge.

  “Mr. Curtis, you’d be a perfect judge! And we totally need someone else—someone who knows about music.”

  The truth is, I should probably start doing more extracurricular stuff now th
at I’m getting hired full-time, and my options are kind of limited. I’m not exactly sporty enough to help coach the football team, or smart enough to help out with Reach for the Top. I’m definitely not stupid enough to supervise another school dance grind-a-thon. Plus, the whole Battle of the Bands thing is kind of up my alley.

  “You said yes?” The next day, Ruth disapproves. “When’s the first audition?”

  “First audition? I’m a judge. I show up and I judge.”

  “Sorry, my friend.” Ruth leans down and crunches holes into a class set of handouts. “I did this last year at Churchill. They sucked me in with talk of my glory days as a bass player, but really, all those kids need is a warm body with a teaching certificate. Next thing you know, there’ll be first-round auditions, final-round auditions, lyric sheet approvals, dress rehearsal, sound check. You didn’t agree to do Citywide did you?”

  “I said I’d think about it.”

  “Don’t.” She punches holes into another set of assignments. “Unless you want it to drag on for another month.”

  “I thought Lodge did all that stuff. He’s Student Council Supervisor, isn’t he?”

  “My guess is that Jim takes a pretty deistic approach to school events. He needs a staff supervisor for all the menial stuff. And then later, he’ll probably bring in a couple ringers for the actual judging. Thunder Bay music-industry types. You know—some guy with a ponytail who did sound for April Wine back in the eighties. That’s what happened at Churchill, anyway.”