1982

by Jian Ghomeshi

  1982

  VIKING

  an imprint of Penguin Canada

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published 2012

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (RRD)

  Copyright © Jian Ghomeshi, 2012

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Manufactured in the U.S.A.

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Ghomeshi, Jian

  1982 / Jian Ghomeshi.

  ISBN 978-0-670-06648-3

  1. Ghomeshi, Jian. 2. Iranian Canadians—Biography. 3. Popular music fans—Canada— Biography. 4. Popular music—Canada—1981–1990. 5. Music, Influence of. 6. Nineteen eighty-two, A.D. I. Title. II. Title: Nineteen eighty-two.

  ML3534.6.C2G56 2012 780.92 C2012-905011-3

  Visit the Penguin Canada website at www.penguin.ca

  Special and corporate bulk purchase rates available; please see www.penguin.ca/corporatesales or call 1-800-810-3104, ext. 2477.

  FOR MOM AND DAD

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  1 “OUR HOUSE” – MADNESS

  2 “ARABIAN KNIGHTS” – SIOUXSIE AND THE BANSHEES

  3 “I LOVE ROCK ’N ROLL” – JOAN JETT AND THE BLACKHEARTS

  4 “UNDER PRESSURE” – QUEEN AND DAVID BOWIE

  5 “STRAIGHT TO HELL” – THE CLASH

  6 “DIRTY DEEDS DONE DIRT CHEAP” – AC/DC

  7 “SUBDIVISIONS” – RUSH

  8 “ONCE IN A LIFETIME” – TALKING HEADS

  9 “DO YOU REALLY WANT TO HURT ME” – CULTURE CLUB

  10 “EBONY AND IVORY” – PAUL McCARTNEY AND STEVIE WONDER

  11 “THE THINGS THAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF” – THE HUMAN LEAGUE

  12 “LET’S DANCE” – DAVID BOWIE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  “Let’s emphasize all the mistakes.”

  —DAVID BOWIE, ON SWEDISH RADIO, 1982

  Nineteen eighty-two was a big year. Really big.

  You might not think so. And you might wonder about my qualifications for making such a declaration. You might not think any single year is deserving of too much attention.

  Then again, if you do want to champion one twelve-month period, you might contend that it should be some other year. I’m anticipating this. For instance, you might be all “Team 1991!” That’s the year Nirvana released Nevermind and ushered grunge music into the mainstream and started a new generation of non-Canadians wearing plaid shirts (in Canada we already had the outfit). That was a big year. Or you might lobby for 1945, because that was the year of the final battles of the European theatre of World War II, as well as the German surrender to the Western Allies and the Soviet Union. Indeed, 1945 was also a big year. Mind you, I’ve never been so sure of that term, “theatre of war.” Doesn’t the word “theatre” connote artifice or entertainment? As a way to refer to scores of actual young dudes far from home, trudging around in shit and killing each other, it’s a bit optimistic, isn’t it? But the term sounds impressive. And it sounds smart to pick a year like 1945. It’s got gravitas and the end of a war. Nineteen forty-five is definitely in the up-market aisle when shopping for a year.

  So then you wonder, why 1982? There was no armistice or Nirvana. And you might chuckle at the idea that 1982 merits a book unto itself. The 1980s are still considered a bit of a joke dressed up in oversized shoulder pads. Even one of the most populist spokespeople of the era, the Bangles’ Susanna Hoffs—is there a more sage authority?—has said, “The fact that the ’80s are now a beloved era is shocking.”

  And you might think all of this 1982 business is an attempt at irony. You might be tempted to roll your eyes at the thought. But in case you think I’m kidding about 1982, I’m not. And actually, there’s intra-’80s competition about this stuff, too. As time passes, self-satisfied observers of late-twentieth-century history continue to focus on another year: 1984. Well, damn that 1984. It’s been fawned over for decades. There’s no denying 1984 was huge. It had important Orwellian overtones and was the year Prince released Purple Rain. That was big. But 1982 came before 1984. And sometimes the opening act doesn’t get as much credit as it deserves for warming up the crowd. Who will speak for 1982? I will.

  The thing is, 1982 was a lot more than just the debut season of Remington Steele—although I know that impresses some of you enough for me to stop right there. In 1982, the Commodore 64 computer was introduced, Ronald Reagan had survived being shot, poisoned Tylenol capsules killed seven people, the Falklands War started and ended, Michael Jackson released Thriller, Canada repatriated its Constitution, and the first compact disc was sold in Germany.

  And that’s not all. Over the course of 1982, I blossomed from a naïve fourteen-year-old trying to fit in with the cool kids to something much more: a naïve, eyeliner-wearing fifteenyear-old trying to fit in with the cool kids.

  To be quite honest, this pivotal period of my teens doesn’t seem so far away. I can still channel the angst over wanting a Clash T-shirt to help me fit in. Not that I haven’t grown past that feeling. I have. I think. Okay, so maybe I feel the need to be wearing my old Clash T-shirt right now. It makes me almost cool. Stop staring. And in the immortal words of the unevenly talented ’80s duo Tears for Fears (Roland was the talented one and Curt was just cute), the scars linger.

  But I’m no longer a teen. And I’m beginning to learn that 1982 was a long time ago. It’s sinking in every time some freshfaced hipster asks me if I’ve ever heard of Kate Bush. These kids now don’t get it. They either don’t know the references or they think of them as vintage. There’s even a whole world of young adults running around thinking of the 1980s the way we used to think of the ’60s. Old. Well, actually, old but also fascinating, and a bit zany. It’s just like the feeling you always get watching those black-and-white sex films from the 1920s. I mean, if those films exist. Like, in theory.

  The ’80s are now so long ago that those of us who were alive back then risk getting that glazed-over look of nostalgia in our eyes when we think about it. You know, the way older people get.

  The way some very nice but earnest Boomers like to remember seeing the Beatles for the first time. These Boomers will familiarly reminisce about seeing the Beatles or Stones whether they actually saw them or not. And they probably didn’t. But they will say things to each other in public as if they did.

  “Oh, honey, remember the second time we saw the Stones and you got really stupid high wi
th Julie?”

  You see, Boomers will say these things because they know no one will ever check. And if you try to verify dates or details, they will tell you they can’t remember, because they were stoned, or drunk, or too excited, or it was too long ago. And the point is just that. It’s far off enough in history that no one cares if they were actually there to see “Ruby Tuesday” performed live. And then—and this is the important part— the Boomers will get a wistful look about them and mutter something about 1967. They might use the word “innocent.” Boomers talk about the past and get nostalgic for a less confused time—an innocent time.

  But the Boomers are just copying their parents and the generations who came before them. It must be that as humans get older, we believe that the previous era we lived through was more virtuous. It’s like an aging disease and a survival mechanism rolled into one. So now those of us who were teens in the 1980s are starting our turn. But we’re not there yet. The early ’80s still don’t really seem “innocent.” Not quite. Not in the way that kind of language is applied to the ’50s to remind us that everyone was happy then, and white, and there was no poverty, and women wore pearls and heels in the kitchen. Those 1950s. Only good times with rich people wearing hats.

  I still remember the ’80s too well. They certainly didn’t seem very innocent when we were living them. In the early ’80s, John Lennon was killed, the pope was shot, Iran had been taken over by the Ayatollah Khomeini, and Madonna was wriggling into her garter belt for her pop-culture debut. We had learned that racism was bad, porn had become mainstream, big hair was all the rage, and punk rock had emerged around the world. Not so innocent. But just because those of us who were alive in the ’80s don’t particularly think of ourselves as seniors doesn’t mean things haven’t changed. The world has evolved so dramatically in the past three decades that the generation gap might as well be a century wide. So much of what was hot in the 1980s has been updated and reformulated and upgraded. There are also essential international institutions today that weren’t even invented in the ’80s. There are crucial daily staples of our lives today with names we wouldn’t even have begun to understand or recognize. Here is a list of words that did not exist in 1982:

  Google

  iPhone

  AIDS

  Wikipedia

  Radiohead

  That’s a pretty heavy collection of post-’80s reality. Let me say this again. None of those words even existed in 1982, let alone the life-changing institutions behind them. But I have more:

  same-sex marriage

  Facebook

  The Simpsons

  debit cards

  flat screens

  Can you even remember a time before you were creeping photos of “hot” people on Facebook? Barely. Right? So maybe, as it turns out, the ’80s were more innocent. Or maybe they were just harder to endure, because you had to actually get up and walk over to a shelf and pick up a book and flip to the right page to get a good definition of “innocent” rather than Google it on your tablet. And, yes, clearly, there was a lot we didn’t have in 1982, including personal computers in our palms. But what we did have was New Wave. And New Wave music came from the UK. That meant it was already cool. And New Wave was exciting, and electronic, and serious, and futuristic, and cosmetic, and sometimes a bit dumb. And New Wave was effectively created by a guy named David Bowie.

  You see, 1982 was also the year after Bowie released “Cat People” and the year before he released Let’s Dance. It was two years after his brilliant Scary Monsters album and two years before he put out Tonight. Some people would go on to say that Tonight was a less than spectacular effort for Bowie, or, more specifically, a “crap record.” But I’m one of the few people around that really appreciated Tonight. And I know all of this about Bowie because Bowie was my hero, my idol. In 1982, I wanted to be Bowie. And if I couldn’t be Bowie, I would try to come close. Bowie was cool. Everyone agreed. If I could be like Bowie, I would turn out okay.

  My dear Iranian-Canadian parents didn’t really understand all of this. They were already pretty busy in damage control trying to explain that being from Iran didn’t mean we agreed with those hot-tempered bearded guys who took fifty-two Americans hostage in 1979. When Khomeini consolidated the revolution in the early ’80s, he really messed with those Persians in the diaspora still holding on to our “I love Iran!” T-shirts. So with this backdrop, my parents just wanted me to fit in. And in that quest, we were united. Except that for me, fitting in wasn’t really working. I needed to be cool to fit in. And being cool might mean makeup and pointy boots and Bowie. This was not exactly the conventional middle-class prescription from Tehran.

  And so it turns out 1982 was a pivotal year in my life. Nineteen eighty-two was the year I became New Wave. In my goal to be like Bowie, I acquired the black clothing, the hair gel, and some of the attitude to fit in with the punks and New Wavers. Or at least, I came close by the end of the year. And it didn’t help that all the heroes in New Wave were white like Bowie—although I liked to imagine that Bowie had no race. He was too cool. And there were some cool black guys, like the ones in the English Beat or the enthusiastic bass player in Culture Club. He always wore a hat. They gave me hope.

  But they weren’t Iranian. No one was ever Iranian. I was probably the first Persian-Canadian New Waver. Well, maybe I was the only Persian-Canadian New Waver. The point is, there may have been significant changes happening in the world, but I had a more targeted idea of what was essential. I knew what was real when I was fourteen. I have made a list of the most important things to me in 1982:

  David Bowie

  black pointy boots

  fitting in

  red/blue classic Adidas gym bag

  sister and parents

  drum kit

  Theatre Room 213

  hockey

  Talking Heads

  fitting in

  Wendy

  If you just read that list with care, you might have noticed that “fitting in” appears twice. This is not a typo. And I will explain. But you will also notice that the list is bookended by two names. Bowie and Wendy. And that’s also no mistake. Because amongst all the other characters and events in 1982, this is the story of three people: me, Wendy, and Bowie.

  And as much as he was my idol, I never met David Bowie. And as much as she was my dream girl, I’m not sure how well I got to know Wendy. But one thing’s for sure, of the three of us, I probably understood myself less than I did the other two. I was only just developing a sense of who I wanted to be. And it involved a fair bit of hair gel.

  1

  “OUR HOUSE” – MADNESS

  In 1982, I lived in Thornhill. That was part of the problem. Don’t get me wrong. Life was quite reasonable in Thornhill. At least, for most people it was. It was nice. It was straight. It was normal. But David Bowie never chose to hang out in Thornhill. And it wasn’t just because he was too busy being an inspirational androgynous musical genius rock star.

  You see, in 1982, Bowie couldn’t appear in Thornhill for more profound reasons than simple scheduling. It would have been impossible for Bowie to reside in Thornhill, even though he was white and English and financially secure, like many of its denizens. If Bowie were ever seen in Thornhill, and most especially if he’d fancied it, he wouldn’t be Bowie. He would be a fake. He would be just another victim of homogeneity. And there would be headlines in trendy magazines calling him out. NME would do a front-page exposé: “Place Oddity: Thin White Duke Seen Hanging Out in Canadian Suburb! Bowie a Fake!”

  But Bowie wasn’t a fake. He was unique. He was Bowie. So he wouldn’t be seen in Thornhill in 1982. He would never have fit in, for all the right reasons. And that’s why Thornhill was a problem.

  Let me be clear. I am not a Thornhill detractor. I was not a self-hating Thornhiller. I had many fine experiences growing up in the suburbs. I met my first real girlfriend, Dana Verner, in Grade 5 in Thornhill. We kissed. Twice. I think. Then she broke up with me. Years lat
er, she told me she would’ve stayed with me had she known I’d one day meet John Cusack. I count that as a win. But anyway, Dana Verner was one of the most desirable girls in my Grade 5 class. And I would never have had the chance to kiss her if I’d not been in Thornhill.

  Also, I once scored seven goals in a hockey game in Thornhill. Okay, maybe it was just road hockey. And maybe there were only six kids playing, and one of them, Little Charles, was wearing a cast on his arm and couldn’t hold his stick properly. Little Charles had earned his name at Henderson Avenue Public School because he was small. And unrelated to that, he broke his arm in the summer of 1980. He still had his cast on the day I scored seven goals. I’d totally deked Little Charles and drove straight to the net, Lafleur style, to score my seventh tally. Little Charles later made the case that my excellent deke was only owing to him holding his stick with one hand, and also because the cast on his other hand felt heavy. I think that was a technicality. And I figure the goals still count in Thornhill history, because the word “hockey” is part of “road hockey,” and also because it was a competitive game, and also because I scored them. But look, the point is, there was nothing exactly wrong with Thornhill. And that was also part of the problem.

  Thornhill is a suburb of Toronto. It is in the province of Ontario in Canada. It is directly to the north of Toronto. If you pass Steeles Avenue, you leave the border of Toronto and enter into “scenic” Thornhill. Scenic Thornhill looks pretty much identical to the area just south of Steeles, with houses and streets and schools and cars, but north of Steeles it’s called scenic. That is, except when it’s called Markham, and parts of it sometimes are. Both Thornhill and Markham are in York Region. And they are also part of the GTA, or Greater Toronto Area. As you can see, it’s all very sophisticated. I could never really keep track of all these names. I just know we called it Thornhill. I used to hang out at the Thornhill Square mall. And I played hockey at the Thornhill Community Centre. And in 1982, I was pretty much the only kid playing an instrument with a bunch of adults in the Thornhill Community Band. So, like it or not, I was deeply entrenched in Thornhill.