Hard Core Logo

by Michael Turner

  downing peyote

  with glasses of port.

  At midnight or so we’d go out for lunch,

  ordering meals we never could eat.

  The boys all made sure

  they got known around town;

  that they were all paid

  to make beautiful music,

  played super-fast,

  played hard and ugly.

  And that I was their god;

  and that I played their game

  ’til I woke up busted

  in an Anaheim jail.

  The record company made a deal:

  they’d get me out

  if I played them the tracks.

  So I’m back in the studio

  two hours later, and the engineer’s

  laughing his guts out.

  I’m sitting with the head

  of world A&R,

  who’s fifty years old

  and a friend of the Bacharachs,

  listening to punks doing

  “Walk On By”

  “Blue on Blue”

  “What’s New, Pussycat?”

  “Here I Am.”

  And after four more,

  after sitting there silent,

  he picks up the phone

  and holds for Hal David.

  Then he covers the phone,

  gives me a wink,

  and tells me

  they’ll love it in Europe.

  XI

  So I’m back in New York,

  hailed as hero,

  and the company wants me

  to handle young bands.

  They postpone my album,

  move me uptown,

  and give me ten demos

  of the bands they’d just signed.

  For the next three years

  I’m their hottest producer,

  yet none of the records

  I do get released.

  It’s 1984

  and I decide to call it quits.

  I move down to Texas

  and record Blue Tattoo.

  It’s picked up in England

  by a small independent

  and gets credited

  in circles

  with starting roots-rock.

  But I’m still under contract

  with the big major label,

  so they hand me a lawsuit

  and the record’s recalled.

  XII

  The last time you saw me, at CBGBs,

  I was hyping two bills a day.

  It got so bad after you left

  I started needing blood transfusions.

  Needless to say I couldn’t work;

  and what work I did was awful.

  All of my friends were dead or dying.

  Everyone I met sucked up to me.

  I realized I had to leave

  when I got that dirty needle.

  I was diagnosed with hepatitis.

  The very same strain as Naomi Judd.

  XIII

  If I could give you all

  one piece of advice:

  ditch the band

  and buy a farm.

  It doesn’t matter what you grow.

  It’s the fact that you’ll see

  whatever you do.

  JOHN’S TOUR DIARY

  May 15 (p.m.)

  The visit with Bucky was not what I expected. He lived in the loft of a modified barn, and this Native girl looked after him. I reckoned he’d be healthier, but he looked as bad as he did in the eighties. Most of the time we sat and listened, drinking his beer and eating his food. He had a way of putting things, where everything’s funny and sad at once.

  We drove in silence down the highway. I could tell that Joe was really bummed. While Billy and Pipe were bemused by Buck, Joe grew more despondent. Billy began an imitation: Buck’s drawn out way of lighting a smoke, his pathetic attempt at flicking the ash. I could feel a storm beginning to brew, but Joe just kept on driving.

  EIGHT

  A New Tune to Practice

  JOE ON THE MIKE

  Hello, Saskatooooooon!

  We’re Hard Core Logo.

  We’re gonna sing a song or two

  to prepare you for tomorrow.

  This one’s written by Bucky Haight,

  the legendary punk king

  who died last year in New York City.

  BLUE TATTOO

  It hurt so bad when you got it

  It went right to your head

  It drove you insane

  But now that’s all forgotten

  And you can go on

  Without any pain

  A blue tattoo on your shoulder

  In the shape of a heart

  In the middle of my name

  And that’s how I remember

  All of the bad things

  That you couldn’t change

  Blue Tattoo

  Blue Tattoo

  You had no time for corruption

  You felt that the world

  Was an unsafe place

  You worked towards a solution

  But the best you could do

  Was to send me away

  A blue tattoo on my shoulder

  In the shape of the world

  In the middle of your name

  And that’s how I remember

  All of the good things

  You took to your grave

  Blue Tattoo

  Blue Tattoo

  JOHN’S TOUR DIARY

  May 16 (a.m.)

  Since there were no touring bands playing the club last night, and we had the whole day off, the promoter let us have the band rooms upstairs—for free. He asked us if we wanted to come down later, do a couple of songs on the open stage to hype tomorrow’s show. At that point, Pipe charged into the conversation and said we’d do it for twenty bucks a song. We all laughed.

  We ended up playing two half-hour sets. Originally we’d planned to play three or four songs, but the crowd was loving it. Really loving it. And by the end of the first set people were lining up at the telephone, trying to get their friends out to what was becoming a perfectly spontaneous event.

  For the first time in a long time I began to realize how special this band was to people. I felt really proud. I felt part of something bigger than all of us. Standing there on the stage I got to thinking that maybe we were meant to stay together. Forever. And when Joe opened the night with Bucky’s “Blue Tattoo,” which caught us all off guard, I felt like crying.

  When the doors closed, we invited the promoters and the owners upstairs for a poker party. Everybody took turns winning, and the beers were flowing freely. We were all having a good time, until Joe ruined it by insisting that the club should give us full payment for the extra show. And then Pipe started multiplying the number of songs by twenty. Nobody was laughing then.

  PIPE UNDER HIS BREATH

  Having a shitty time doin’ this. Should have listened to my gut. Joe’s an asshole. Billy’s a jerk-off. John’s a fuck-head.

  I was led to believe I’d be making some okay money. Now it looks as though I won’t even make my rent. Hell, what do you expect when

  you’re doing gigs for free?

  Bucky’s lucky. He still gets royalty cheques. He doesn’t have to worry about making ends meet. Plus he’s got someone looking after him. Shit, I wish I was in his shoes.

  BILLY ON HOLD AT THE NELSON HOTEL

  The first time Joe and I met Bucky was backstage at the Smilin’ Buddha. 1979. He was passing through town with some band from the States, and our friend, Ed Festus, was a buddy. It was our first ever backstage visit.

  I never thought much of the great Bucky Haight. He was a shitty singer, an even worse guitarist. But he managed to write some pretty good songs. Songs only he could deliver. He’s always been a god to Joe.

  Bucky’s the reason we started this band. When I taught Joe guitar I tried to get him to learn the classics—Johnson, Leadbelly, Hendrix, Van Halen. But Joe never much got in
to that. He only liked the music he knew. And the music he knew was Bucky.

  A FREELANCE INTERVIEW

  AT THE WOOLWORTH’S COFFEE BAR

  INTERVIEWER: I thought you guys were dead or something.

  JOE DICK: We’re very much alive, thank you.

  I: How’s the tour going?

  JD: Great. All the shows have been sell-outs. We even sold out in Winnipeg, but had to cancel due to unforeseen circumstances.

  I: Why did you guys decide to reunite?

  JD: We decided to reunite because that’s what people wanted. We’ve always been the populist band, eh? We’re slaves to the people. It’s what we had to do.

  I: You sound like Tommy Douglas.

  JD: Tommy Douglas. A great man.

  I: Besides going acoustic, is there anything different about Hard Core Logo?

  JD: Yes and no. (pause) I: Can you elaborate?

  JD: Well . . . what was the question again?

  I: Anything new with Hard Core Logo?

  JD: Right. Besides going acoustic we’re writing again. Our song about Robert Satiacum is a smash hit.

  I: Didn’t he do time in Alberta for racketeering? Selling cigarettes or something?

  JD: Yah, and now he’s dead. He died in a Vancouver lock-up. He was charged with a crime and he died waiting for his trial. See, his heart was going and he surrendered to get medical help. He had a heart attack and the guards just watched him suffer. That’s the true crime.

  I: Is is true that the legendary Bucky Haight has returned to his native Saskatchewan?

  JD: I don’t comment on legends.

  I: The last time you came through here, in ’89, I had an interesting chat with your manager, Ed Festus. He was telling me that punk was gonna make a big comeback, and that he was trying to prime you guys for the nostalgia circuit.

  JD: Ed Festus. That fucker!

  I: Right. I understand Ed’s moved on.

  JD: Yah, well we moved him on. Fuckin’ crook. We don’t usually talk about Ed, but let me just say that we’re suing him for stealing the rights to our name.

  I: Well, how did this come about?

  JD: We had some tax problems in the mid-1980s. That’s when we hired Ed. He was our friend at the time, and he knew a bit about finances. Everything ended up getting transferred into his name.

  I: So legally he could sue you? Aren’t you worried about that?

  JD: Are you kidding? A lawsuit would be the best thing ever to happen to us. The problem is that Ed knows that, too. If anybody else owned our name we’d be laughing.

  I: So what’s the problem?

  JD: It’s personal. It goes deeper than money.

  I: I hear Ed’s living in Seattle, managing grunge bands.

  JD: We know exactly what he’s doing. I feel sorry for the musicians signed to his company. He’s probably screwing them like he did us. Look, the Ed Festus stuff is turning me off this interview.

  I: Sorry.

  JD: I’ll allow you one more question. Better make it a good one.

  I: Is there any future in what you are doing?

  JD: Yes. Now fuck off.

  JOE’S KEY WORDS TO A NEW SONG

  Grain Tower

  General store

  Reduced prices

  No credit

  Million dollar debt

  Savings and loan

  Bank manager

  Near the church

  Poor farmer

  Wheat in the donut

  Feel like the chaff

  Ticket punch

  Bad times

  Moves the family

  Gives up hockey

  Gives up pool

  Transfer

  Liar

  The Reverend’s opinion

  Everyone’s opinion

  A NEW TUNE TO PRACTICE

  I was having lunch

  up on Broadway

  and these three guys

  were talking

  about their fathers, farmers

  up near Lloydminster.

  Got most of it down

  on this napkin.

  THE TICKET PUNCH AT THE SAVINGS AND LOANS

  I took my grain to the tower

  Across the street from the general store

  I almost made enough money

  For a bottle of Coke and the drive back home

  I owe your bank a million dollars

  And every year it’s a million more

  I drive by there every Sunday

  On my way to church, when I know you’re at home

  I am the poor farmer

  I am the road that leads to town

  I am the wheat in your donut, yes

  But I feel like the chaff when you come around

  The ticket punch at the savings and loans

  I could tell bad times were a-comin’

  When you moved your wife to Saskatoon

  When you gave up Saturday hockey

  When you stopped playin’ pool at the hotel saloon

  Now you’re puttin’ in for a transfer

  ’cause you’re ready to move on to something new

  But we all know you’re a liar

  And The Reverend Jim he thinks so, too

  Yah The Reverend Jim he thinks so, too

  JOHN’S TOUR DIARY

  May 16 (p.m.)

  Went downtown at 8 a.m., the earliest I’ve been up since we left. Had breakfast at the Nelson Hotel. Steak and eggs, toast and coffee.

  Went to the Mennonite clothing store and bought a belt.

  Practiced Joe’s new song—in silence.

  Leaving right after the gig.

  A SULKING PIPE

  Everytime I look at John he’s writing in his fuckin’ notebook. He never used to do this before. He was just like the rest of us: drinking hard and chasing women. Mind you, nobody’s chasing women anymore. And Billy’s the only real drinker.

  Still, it picks me. But I know what he’s up to. Last year I read something John wrote in Discorder: some anonymous thing only he could have known of. It was all about the early years: Subhumans, K-Tels, gigs at the Buddha.

  I know he’s writing a story on us. A tell-all thing that’ll make me look stupid. There’s no fucking way I’ll sign a release. I’ll just wait ’til it’s published, then hire a lawyer.

  SASKATOON MAY 16 (SET LIST)

  THE BARTENDER CAUTIONS JOE

  Don’t get me wrong.

  It’s nothing personal, Joe,

  but could you please tell Billy

  that our rider agreement

  specifies draught beer only?

  Also, there’s a six pint

  limit per person,

  and Billy’s already nine pints over.

  And one more thing, Joe.

  Could you please tell him

  to lay off the waitresses?

  The two on last night

  have refused to come in.

  JOE IGNORES THE ENCORE

  The club owner wants an encore,

  but there’s no fuckin’ way

  I’m gonna go out there

  and play to a crowd

  of five people.

  ENCORE

  Thank you very much.

  You’ve been a terrific crowd.

  Joe just collapsed upstairs

  from all the excitement,

  so me, Pipe, and Billy

  are gonna give you

  our rendition

  of the Safaris’ classic,

  “Wipeout.”

  NINE

  Something’s Gonna Die

  Tonight

  THE FAX FROM BRUCE

  Attn: Joe Dick

  The Town Pump is on the verge of becoming a non-smoking, top-forty club. They’re honouring some bookings, but, unfortunately, not yours.

  Your Power Plant show in Edmonton has been moved to a smaller venue, the O-Zone. The promoter’s putting you on a bill with a band made up of ex-Jr. Gone Wild guys. Make sure he pays you the $300 up front.

  What else
can I say? That’s rock ’n’ roll!

  JOHN’S TOUR DIARY

  May 17 (a.m.)

  Joe got a fax from Bruce regarding our gigs at the Power Plant and the Town Pump, which have now been cancelled. Oddly enough, Joe didn’t seem bothered by the cancellations. I figured he’d blow up and try to break something; but he just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Oh, well,” when he told us. We’re playing the O-Zone instead.

  The turn-out in Saskatoon last night was pathetic. It seemed as if everyone dug the spontaneous show the night before and felt they’d had enough. I think there were nine people left when we finished. Billy said something about a grunge band blow-out downtown, so that probably accounted for the small crowd.

  We ended up getting an extra $200 for our spontaneity. It was hardly worth it, though, since they probably hate our guts after the scene Joe and Pipe pulled. I doubt they’ll ever have us back. But then again, I doubt we’ll ever be back.

  I know there’s only one more show left, but I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’m sick of Billy drinking all the booze rider. And I’m sick of Pipe eating all the deli-tray. And as for Joe. . . . Well, I’m just sick of Joe.

  INVENTORY

  JOE CALLS A BAND MEETING

  AT THE STRATHCONA HOTEL

  I’ve got bones to pick

  and one positive thing

  to say to you all.

  Pipe. Your whining.

  Everybody’s fed up

  with your attitude.

  The hotel guy in Regina

  phoned to say

  you left a turd

  on your pillow,

  and that you wiped your ass

  on the bedspread.

  Uncool, man.

  If you’ve got a problem

  don’t take it out

  on the cleaning staff

  or anyone else

  you’ve never met.

  John. Your writing.

  You’re making us

  totally paranoid.

  Pipe’s already told me

  he’s gonna fight you

  for your diary

  or whatever it is

  you’re keeping from us.

  So I want you to stop it

  or I’ll let Pipe kill you.