Canadianity

by Jeremy Taggart

  Total light-bulb moment. We see self-confidence as a bad thing, when really all it means is being confident in one’s self. The ability to say “thank you” has served me so well. The truth is, if you’re not buying your own hype, why would anyone else buy it? Especially important for a salesperson, which is effectively what we “comedic performers” are.

  If You’re Going to Try to “Make It,” Define for Yourself What “It” Is

  No matter what business you’re in. As I mentioned, I moved to California just to see what would happen. For a laugh. For a lark. To see if I could make it.

  It took a few years, some awful auditions and many thousands of dollars (which I consider my student loan) to figure this out. For me, “it” is balance. Between city and country, work and play, staying in and going out, night and day, I couldn’t achieve my “it” in Los Angeles. I had to rely on too many other people to define it and let me know how to get it.

  I actually don’t want it, in showbiz terms. Never really have. I want it on my terms, which is why Taggart & Torrens is so satisfying. We created it, and it’s exactly what we wanted it to be.

  I’m so thankful that I went, though, because I answered the important “what if” question. I’ll never wonder what would have happened if I’d gone there. I now know what would happen.

  I worked a fair bit on TV shows I’m proud of. Made friends for life. Enjoyed the lifestyle that a warm climate offers. But I also missed Tim Hortons. Putting u’s where you don’t expect them in words. Personal safety, something we take for granted in Canada.

  In the last months I lived in LA, I was escorted a few times from my parking space to my back door by a cop with his weapon drawn because there was “someone on the loose in the neighbourhood” and they were just taking extra precautions.

  America’s Cutest Puppies

  Torrens

  My decision to move back really came down to the work, though. I’m terrible at auditioning. Just dreadful. Mostly because I haven’t done it much, but also because of my apologetic nature.

  My manager thought I should get a commercial agent just to develop better audition skills. Man, if you ever want to feel small, stand in a room with eight other dudes who sort of look like you and say, “Mmmmm, Applebee’s!” while a group of people behind a table eat salad and judge you.

  The older I get, the more value I see in realizing what you’re not good at. I am not good at commercials. Every time I said something like, “Scotts Turf Builder . . . look at it grow!” or whatever it was, I felt like I needed a tongue-scraper. Just gross inside. Not because the notion of doing commercials doesn’t appeal—more because I was so terrible at it. I have a whole new appreciation for people who can take a swig of Sprite Zero, look at the camera and beam.

  Turns out I don’t have a very good poker face for someone who’s supposed to be an actor.

  There was a commercial audition for some casino in Nevada way out in the Valley one day. The drive from Venice to the Valley takes an hour at best, but with traffic it’s often closer to two.

  It was a hot day and I was sweating by the time I walked into this dingy, nondescript warehouse building. A man not unlike Larry from Three’s Company ushered me into a mangy room and “teed up the spot” for me.

  Here’s the Dilly Bar. (Remember those? How funny was “Home of the Big Brazier” when you were little?)

  “All right, Janathan, you’re at a casino and you’re on fiah! All your old friends are cheering and all your new friends can’t take their eyes off you because who doesn’t love a winnah? I want you to toss the dice down the table and bam, you won again! Really show me that winning smile. Got it? I’ll turn some music on to get you in the zone.”

  Larry cranked some bad synth music and gave me the high sign that we were rolling. Now, as bad as I used to be at fake laughing, I’m so much worse at fake smiling. I don’t smile easily and find it really difficult to be genuine in a contrived circumstance.

  Plus, here’s the thing. My friends weren’t there. I wasn’t winning. I was alone with Larry in a carpeted room deep in the Valley and looking at rush-hour traffic to get back to Venice, all for this.

  So I blew into my empty hand for good luck and fired the imaginary dice down the table. I paused for a second, then made a noise that could only be described as “Wheeeeeoooooahhhh!” Kind of like Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman.

  Larry paused the music. He was disappointed in me.

  “I’m not buying it yet, Janathan. I really need to see that you’re killing it. Let’s do it again, and I’ll even crank the music to get you pumped.”

  I blew again. I threw again. And I yelled “I’m dying inside!” over the music.

  Grooving along, Larry turned the music down and asked what I’d said.

  “Nothing,” I responded, walking out of the room before the tape had even stopped rolling.

  Now, if I were casting that commercial, I’d have given it to me.

  You get into this weird mindset where you’re waiting for the phone to ring for jobs you wouldn’t want to do anyway—“Why haven’t the casino people called?!”

  There were some memorably bad auditions. The one with Tori Spelling, where I was asked to not make direct eye contact with her . . . even though it was an intimate scene. No problem. She looks a bit like a sculpin. I snuck a peek.

  The one for a reality show called Housebusters. Let’s say you’ve suffered a recent tragedy in your home. A team of psychics, interior decorators and feng shui experts will smudge the demons and give your place a bit of a facelift.

  I swear to God, this was part of the audition: “Becky, I know this is hard for you because your roommate just committed suicide here in your living room . . . but have you ever thought of purple accent cushions?”

  Walked out of that one too.

  Then there was the audition for the Jeff Foxworthy Blue Collar Comedy thingamabobby. They asked everyone to come in with a “Southern character.” Strategizing at home the night before, I assumed that everyone would come in with the same RickyBobbyHickyKnobby thing, so I planned to make my character pop.

  My character would be Jebediah Jameson, the only albino black man from the great state of Louisiana.

  It seemed so funny and original to me, given my colouring and non-racist intentions. Jebediah’s voice was deep and whisky-soaked; his tale was heartwarming. Good for me, I thought, I’m thinking outside the box.

  The next day, my first character or two went pretty well, and I’d saved Jebediah for my big finish. I’ll never forget their faces, slowly sinking, their eyes shifting uncomfortably to the ground. Staring at the floor, avoiding eye contact even as I apologized during the audition and assured them it was almost over.

  But even that one wasn’t the worst, I’m afraid. No. The worst was America’s Cutest Puppies.

  Imagine standing in a tux in front of eight cameras and America, sharing the information that “tonight, the K-9 fur-nalists move into the Dog House. America, the phone lines are open. Who will advance? Patches? Mittens? Tim?”

  Not actually sure which is worse—not getting the gig, or getting it and having to show up every week and try to sell it. And then put America’s Cutest Puppies on your resumé.

  I left the audition and called my mom to keep me company on the long drive back to Venice. She had a dentist’s appointment the next day and was scared to go. She doesn’t like dentists and had no one to take her.

  That’s when it hit me like a ton of bricks. At the end of my life, would I rather be the guy who took his mom to the dentist because she was scared or that guy from America’s Cutest Puppies?

  Easy choice. And not just because the Puppies people never called.

  It just wasn’t me. The faking it. The backslapping and going to a bar because so-and-so might be there. The “Seacrest or Schwimmer” dilemma.

  Every casting room I was in, the casting director would look at the other dudes in tight V-neck T-shirts and say, “You guys will read for the hunk,”
and then at me and say, “You’ll read for the perv, the effeminate guy at the office and the weird neighbour.”

  I was never going to be the mysterious drifter in an ABC pilot. As Jer would say, whatev-salad.

  Waaaaahn Waaaaahn

  Torrens

  You know what? In Canada, I can be both Seacrest and Schwimmer. I can be J-Roc and Jonovision, Street Cents and Taggart & Torrens. Here I have access to people at networks who can run with an idea or give honest feedback as to why it’s not a good fit.

  My manager used to say, “No is the second-best answer in Hollywood,” and he’s right. Knowing is so much better than not knowing, and in LA you rely on so many people who’ll let you know when they know.

  Also, in Canada I can live out in the country, go to Sobeys for groceries and take my kids to school. During my time in the US I was exposed to several A-listers whose lives just seemed dreadful. They are trapped, lonely humans.

  When you’re a character performer, you need real-life experience to draw on. Living where I do, I have that. I’m famous in my neighbourhood—mostly for being the guy who doesn’t know how to do a single thing for himself.

  Best of all, in LA I got a professional page turn. I came back to Canada a grown-up and was ready to take my next step.

  See, when I was in the States, I always knew at some point I’d be back in Canada, and I toyed with the idea of what would be a good fit.

  The CBC was working on a remake of Front Page Challenge, the news quiz show that was so popular back in the ’60s. They contacted my manager to ask if I’d be interested in auditioning to host.

  My feeling was that it wasn’t the right fit, but my manager argued otherwise. His feeling was that unless you are morally opposed to what’s being asked of you, you might as well do it because you never know when this producer and that director might work together on something else, blah blah blah.

  Fine. I bought into that logic. Even though I was pretty sure hosting Front Page Challenge wasn’t the move for me, I agreed to audition. To be clear, I didn’t think for a moment I was above it. As a freelancer, you’re not wired to say no to a job. You assume every one will be your last. I just wasn’t sure if the show was right for me. There were so many other candidates I would’ve suggested for such an important role.

  Then, a couple of days later, the CBC called my manager again and said they were conducting what they called “chemistry tests”—pairing up this host with that panel, this group of panellists together, that kind of thing. They were wondering if I would also audition as a panellist.

  After thinking about it, it just didn’t sit well. It was never my way to lead anyone on, and I just thought it was best to be upfront from the get-go. That way, it wouldn’t put me in a relationship-damaging position if they did offer me a panellist position and I said no. After all, I’d spent more of my life at the CBC than anywhere else and really valued the relationship. Still do.

  So I told my manager in an email that I’d be happy to tell the CBC that it wasn’t a good fit, or he could, but I just didn’t want to string them along in any way. It just seemed like the professional approach. Twenty seconds after I hit send, I got an email back from him that said, quote, “Waaaaahn waaaaahn my pussy hurts! i don’t want to be a f*cking panellist!”

  Followed by another email that read, “Sorry Jono, that email was intended for my assistant.”

  Nice cover! Don’t you hate that? When people put you in a position that makes you have to either (a) look stunned or (b) call them on their stuff?

  I debated what to do. And then I opted to do nothing for twenty-four hours while his emails and phone messages piled up, after which I wrote him a brief email in which I again explained my decision to be straight up with the CBC. I was particularly proud of my sign off.

  “Well, better run . . . off to my appointment with the gynecologist!”

  Another good lesson learned: I don’t put the person’s address in any email message until I’m good and ready to send it. If it’s a testy one especially, I write it in the exact language I’m feeling in that moment and then wait twenty-four hours. If I still feel that way, I’ll send it. But I usually don’t. As my mother-in-law says, you can’t take back anything you put down in writing. She also says, “The second you raise your voice, you’ve lost the argument.”

  Smart woman. It’s true: there’s no more powerful negotiating tactic than genuine indifference. Not caring actually makes it kind of fun and often works out in your favour anyway. If people think they can’t have you, they suddenly have to.

  I don’t have an agent or manager now, and it works in my favour. First, because it makes people uncomfortable to deal with me directly on money issues. And second, because why give away pieces of your small-enough-as-it-is pie if you don’t have to?

  Bonus tip: use this the next time you negotiate a much-deserved raise with your boss. Silence. It’s an old interviewing technique that works especially well over the phone. The laws of social grace that apply to a conversation don’t apply to negotiating, and it’s the same with an interview. So if your boss says, “I’d like to offer you fifty dollars extra per week,” just say nothing. Tick-tock-tick. It’s scary and thrilling, but if you keep quiet I guarantee they’ll jump in with something like “Of course, this is just a starting point.”

  John Dunsworth, who plays Mr. Lahey on Trailer Park Boys, has a variation on this theme. He just repeats exactly what the person has said, with no emotion at all.

  “We’d like to offer you a thousand dollars.”

  “A thousand dollars,” John repeats, totally deadpan.

  “Yes,” they say.

  Beat.

  “Or maybe two thousand is more in the ballpark, is it?”

  Trust me. It works.

  FAQ: OLP and TPB

  When You Know It’s Time to Go

  Taggart

  Life is about learning and giving/getting love, and trying to find a balance of happiness in the face of hard work. When I started drumming, I did it because it gave me an instant connection to an incredible feeling: playing time. When you play time, you are gone. A total escape to an unexplained paradise. It’s a pure feeling, like you’re speaking a foreign language, learning new phrases and conversing to no end. The more you work on the craft, the better the conversation becomes. By the time you become well versed on your instrument, it’s a well-oiled, polished language that is entirely you. Impossible to be anyone else. Therefore perfect, in my humble opinion. The further you take your own language, the bigger you make yourself sound, projecting this giant vocabulary built for time. You are deluxe.

  When you join a band, that same formula is what it takes for a band to be great. You need to weave each instrument into the others and create a fabric that is fresh and interesting. Then you take that to market, to sell your brand in the mass-media motorway.

  When OLP started, we did exactly that. We hunkered down in a warehouse somewhere in Mississauga, writing songs for twelve hours a day, seven days a week. We pounded the pavement for weeks, crafting music that we thought was different and exciting. When we were getting close to having enough songs for an album, we finally felt like a real band, and once we started recording those songs, we knew we had something special, something to be proud of. A reason to exist! I had just turned eighteen, so I was over the moon.

  I was living with my folks in Weston at the time, and things weren’t very good. We were living in a one-bedroom apartment—my two brothers, Jetsun and James, and me in the bedroom, while my folks, Ronnie and Beryl, rocked a foam mattress on the floor of the living room each night. My sister, Jenni, had already flown the coop and lived down the street with her new husband. Times were tight and tightening.

  I was so amped when got our initial advance from Sony. It was a small deal back then, seven albums (which we completed—a rare feat!), with reasonable budgets for each album, escalating if we sold records. We started to pay ourselves $150 per week. I had only been a dishwasher at Reggie’s
Sandwich Factory in Barrie, a job that I worked at for just two weeks before quitting, citing fun in the summer as my reason. So this was real money for me. I felt like I was rolling in dough.

  Everything was happening at once. I’ll never forget those days—I was so young and put forth my best maturity to fit in with all these new adults in my life. My grandmother, who was the matriarch of the Taggart family, was so happy for me. I remember telling her I had this new band with a real record label, and we were going to get a real shot, and I was really into the music we were making. I still remember how proud she was, telling everyone about how great it was going to be for me. She passed away before we got into the studio, but I always felt her love and confidence with every step. She knew we were gonna blow up. Her blessing was enormous.

  Naveed came out in spring of 1994 and got, I would say, a good response in Canada. We had great success in Quebec, because MusiquePlus put our first single, “The Birdman,” into extreme heavy rotation—maybe because we did our initial touring in small towns around Quebec, who knows. I’m just glad we had a buzz somewhere.

  But Naveed didn’t blow up until it came out in the States the following spring. When KROQ in LA decided to spin “Starseed” a lot, that’s when the wheels started ripping. We caught fire in Boston on WBCN, much thanks to radio legend and early OLP bahd Carter Alan. WBRU in Providence also burned it, and we had great support in Atlanta at 99X. To get the blessing from all these influential stations meant everything. All of a sudden, we were being accepted in Canada as the next big thing in America, and we all know how horny that makes Canadian programmers. Our airplay grew tenfold across the board in Canada on radio and MuchMusic.

  From that point on, I think we had a video in heavy rotation consistently for the next seven years! It’s interesting how it takes America’s attention to validate something in Canada. I hope that eases at some point, so we can have the sack to accept something as our own without the need for it first to find acceptance with Uncle Sam.