1982

by Jian Ghomeshi

  We’d never thought of telling people to fuck off when we did our Wingnuts gig at the junior-high gym in Grade 8. And Dan Hill hadn’t told us to fuck off at his concert the year before. The Dan Hill. He had been onstage for at least seventy-five minutes longer than Siouxsie.

  But Siouxsie was cool. And she wore a lot of eyeliner. I probably could’ve worn purple eyeliner to the Siouxsie and the Banshees gig and been accepted. Jane Decker wasn’t at the Siouxsie show. I imagined myself telling Jane Decker to fuck off when she pointed at my purple eyeliner in the hallway. Then I imagined the audience cheering. I was finding my crowd.

  3

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

  The prized concert to go to at the end of my Grade 9 year was the Police Picnic at the CNE Grandstand in downtown Toronto. The headliners of the Police Picnic were a band called the Police. You probably know the Police. You know them because they’ve got a formidable back catalogue of massive pop hits like “Every Breath You Take.” And you know them because they acrimoniously split up and after that only talked to each other through lawyers. And because the lead singer, Sting, became a big solo star and started saving rainforests. And because guitarist Andy Summers began taking interesting photographs. And you know them because Stewart Copeland is one of the best drummers ever. And because they reunited twenty years after they split up and did a heavily promoted world tour and charged $250 a ticket and then acrimoniously split up again. Now people say they only talk to each other through lawyers once more.

  You probably know the Police for all of these reasons. But at the time, the Police were a ska/reggae/New Wave band from the UK that had become alternative music sensations. They were not yet global megastars. They had just released their fourth album. The previous year, they’d started an annual multi-band show in Toronto called the Police Picnic. It would end up taking place for three summers in a row.

  I had first learned about the Police when Jasmine Leung gave me their second album, Reggatta de Blanc, as a gift for my thirteenth birthday. It was a gift that would have a major impact on me. But I didn’t know that at the time. I really didn’t know much about the Police, either. But I pretended I did. I thanked Jasmine Leung the way you thank people when you’ve received something you really wanted. “No way! This is great!” That’s how I responded. I knew to say “This is great!” even though I wasn’t sure it was great. You see, beyond getting the sense that I should know who the Police were, and that this was a cool gift, it was important to act thankful and polite. I learned this from my mother.

  My mother was always very polite. She would react with enthusiasm when she was the recipient of a gift or kind gesture regardless of what she actually thought. For instance, when we got a yearly Christmas basket of jams and biscuits from the Polish people next door, my mother would act surprised. It was strange that she acted surprised, given that the basket was an annual gift that we anticipated. But my mother said it was important to be polite.

  The Capetskis were the family who lived directly to the west of us on our suburban street in Thornhill. There was a hedge that ran between our houses, and my father and Mr. Capetski would take turns trimming it. Mr. and Mrs. Capetski had come to Canada from Switzerland many years earlier, but their families were originally from Poland, so my father called them “the Polish people next door.” He called them this even though he knew their names. My father would often identify people this way. Perhaps he thought it was helpful. For instance, when I was in Grade 3, he called my best friend, Aris, “the Greek boy.” Or he would refer to the friendly lady who ran the Mac’s Milk store near us as “the good Chinese woman.” He didn’t seem to say these things in a derogatory way. I assumed it was just the way his generation identified others.

  When my sister, Jila, and I got older and more sensitive to these things, we would question my father about his unnecessary need to take note of everyone’s race.

  “Dad! Why are you pointing out that she’s Chinese? What is the relevance of the lady at Mac’s Milk being Chinese?”

  My father never quite understood the problem.

  “But she ees Chinese. You say she ees not Chinese? She ees!

  You want me to say she ees Greek?”

  The thing is, technically, my father’s answer was totally logical, even if we knew it was an excuse. This was a debate we would never win. In an interesting twist, sometimes my father referred to people from England in a more omnibus way as “kharejee-ah.” That’s the Farsi word for foreigners. This was an odd moniker for my dad to use for English immigrants, because we probably fit the profile of foreigners more closely than they did. And anyway, we had also come from England, although our background was Iranian, and my father proudly made a point of identifying himself as Canadian. But usually the labels were related to the country of origin. And so the Capetskis were “the Polish people next door.” They had two kids about the age of my sister and me.

  My mother was very polite, and she demonstrated her politeness each year with the Polish people next door. Not that she had to try. It came naturally to her. My mother was very nice. The Polish people next door would deliver us our annual Christmas basket of jams and biscuits. They would do it in person. They would gather as a family on our porch and my mother would act surprised, because that was polite. Maybe they all came to the porch just to witness my mother’s ersatz surprised response.

  “No way! This is great! We love these biscuits!”

  My mother’s appreciation always sounded very genuine.

  But some of the biscuits had orange bits in them, and no one in our family really liked those. My mother would subsequently bundle up the jams and biscuits in new wrapping paper and give them to our relatives who lived in Don Mills. I would later learn that this was called “re-gifting.” We didn’t tell the Polish people next door about the re-gifting. In fact, we would reciprocate with a Christmas basket for them as well. It never quite made sense that we were exchanging baskets of items we weren’t sure our neighbours liked instead of buying ourselves our own baskets full of things we knew we’d want. But it was nice to receive presents. Just like the present I got from Jasmine Leung. I didn’t re-gift my first Police album. It quickly became one of my favourites.

  Reggatta de Blanc had a blue-tinted cover photo featuring the three members of the Police looking cool. They also looked remarkably similar with their dyed-blond hair. It didn’t take me long to become a big fan of the Police. A year after Jasmine Leung gave me that album, I started a new band with Murray (ex–rhythm guitarist for the Wingnuts) and we did a cover of “Roxanne” from the debut Police disc, Outlandos d’Amour. I was the singer in our new band and sometimes I also played drums. This group was much cooler than the other ensemble I was playing in, the Thornhill Community Band, led by the stern lead trombone player, Mr. Margison. Our new Grade 9 rock band with Murray was democratic. We were called Urban Transit. And amongst other material, we did Police songs.

  Even at the age of fourteen, I was too much of a baritone to reach the high notes that Sting could hit. “Roxanne” probably wasn’t a very smart song for us to try to cover. But I had found a green army jacket at a second-hand store that looked like the one Sting wore. I had seen Sting wear it in a live concert video from Japan on The NewMusic. I figured that at the very least I looked like Sting when I sang “Roxanne.” One problem was that Sting had straight blond hair like Wendy and That Chris from across the street. He also had a small perky nose. It would have been very hard for me to actually be Sting.

  I’ve constructed a point-form list of things I would’ve needed to do to become more like Sting when I was in Grade 9:

  play bass

  sing higher

  dye hair blond and straighten blond hair

  stay out of sun (become whiter)

  wear green army jacket

  get nose job

  Aspiring to be like Sting in Grade 9 was almost as challenging as trying to be Bowie. None of this was easy.


  Many of the older New Wave kids at Thornlea SS hung out in or near the theatre room. The theatre room was a large, carpeted space that was room number 213 at our school. It had theatre-type lights on dimmers and it was very dramatic. Fluorescent school lights were rarely on in Room 213. This was because Room 213 was cool. Room 213 was referred to simply as “213” by its regular inhabitants. If anyone actually called it the theatre room, they would betray themselves as outsiders. It had become my destination between classes, and I was accepted by most of the older theatre kids there. I sensed the older students considered me a curiosity and liked the fact that I had pointy shoes and played guitar and drums. Besides, I had lineage. My sister, Jila, was a major star of the 213 scene, and she was now in Grade 12. Wendy, the female Bowie and the object of my affections, was often hanging out near 213. She was the younger sister of Jila’s friend Paul. Sometimes I would find myself in Wendy’s proximity because she was with Paul and he was talking to my sister. I began to understand where I needed to strategically locate myself. I learned that if I stood near my sister and she was near Paul, I would be near Wendy.

  Over the course of Grade 9, I became a legitimate member of the 213 crowd, and I got involved in several after-school theatre groups. I saw Wendy at least once a day. Like, I witnessed her somewhere at school once a day. Wendy and I barely ever said anything to each other. I was a bit scared to look at her. I was pretty sure she never looked at me.

  There was an unofficial dress code and set of practices in 213. No one talked about it, but everyone abided by the code. For one thing, the drama teachers who taught inside 213 were only called by their first names. This was cool. Obviously. There was Sue and Jim, and also Grace. Grace wasn’t a drama teacher, but she hung out in 213, so we still called her by her first name. Grace was renegade that way. Everyone in 213 wore mostly black, including my sister, the teachers, and Paul and Wendy.

  I have made a short list of (unofficial) basic items that were required in 213:

  black baggy theatre pants or black tight skinny jeans

  black jacket

  prominently displayed New Wave band pin

  black shoes, boots, or ballet-type slippers

  black flowing scarf

  cigarette pack

  Siouxsie and the Banshees tape

  black eyeliner (girls)

  You will note the inclusion of cigarettes on this short list.

  As I have explained to you, I didn’t smoke, and in 1982 I was terribly aware that my non-smoker status was a liability. Smelling like smoke meant you attended a lot of concerts, but smoking also looked cool and it made people in 213 more intellectual and thoughtful. The rockers who hung out downstairs at our school also smoked, but that was for different reasons—they did it because smoking made them tough and badass. In 213, smoking was a sign of depth. Sometimes, a theatre student in 213 would hold a lit cigarette in their index and middle fingers and put the bottom of their palm on their forehead. It was like their palm was holding up their head. Then they would rest their elbow on a table or on their knee. This “palm on the forehead” smoking position was an indication that they were thinking and that the world was not an easy place.

  My choice not to smoke was mainly because I was an asthmatic. Doctor Salsberg had told me when I was twelve that I would die if I smoked. I wondered if he was exaggerating, and I was often disappointed with myself for not taking up cigarettes. All the teachers who used only their first names, like Sue and Jim and Grace, smoked. They were thoughtful and introspective. My sister smoked, and so did Wendy. I wondered if Wendy would notice me more if I smoked and put my palm on my forehead.

  Everyone was talking about the Police Picnic scheduled for the summer of 1982. The multi-band lineup had been announced, and it would include the Beat and Flock of Seagulls and a really artsy rock band called Talking Heads. By the time June arrived, I’d realized I needed to do something to get Wendy’s attention or she would forget about me over the summer. It might seem strange to worry about someone you’ve never really talked to forgetting about you, but I held out the hope that Wendy had noticed me hanging about—even if she never looked at me. I had been trying to build my confidence to make my big move and talk to her. Finally, I devised a cunning plan. I would tell Wendy that I had gotten Police Picnic tickets and invite her to come along with me. I didn’t actually have tickets, and I had little hope that the plan would actually work. But I was in for a surprise.

  One afternoon in the second week of June, I saw Wendy standing near the lockers on the second floor at Thornlea. This was the same location as the purple eyeliner incident a couple of months earlier, but most of the older 213 kids didn’t know about that. I was counting on Wendy not having heard about the purple eyeliner. Even in 213, I couldn’t take any chances about how people might react.

  Wendy was emptying the contents of her school bag into her locker. She was alone. This was a rare chance for me. I summoned up all my confidence and adjusted my black jacket on my skinny shoulders. I was wearing my black pointy boots and I had my Adidas bag in my right hand. I acted as if I were just innocently walking down the hall. When I got near Wendy, I stopped about three feet away from her side. I tried not to appear terrified. Wendy turned and looked at me. She was shorter than me. She was cool. She was like Bowie. She flipped that bit of blond hair in the front that was longer than the rest of her hair, just like David Sylvian. Sylvian had gotten that from Bowie. Wendy stared into my eyes, waiting for me to say something. I finally did.

  “Hey. So, are you going to the Police Picnic?”

  I had found the courage to speak to Wendy. Barely. My voice sounded like it was forming words for the first time. But I had spoken. This was no minimal feat. I looked down immediately so I wouldn’t have to look into her eyes for any hint of judgment or rejection. Her beautiful, cool, girl eyes. Bowie eyes. After a few moments, there had been no answer to my question, so I re-asked it a bit louder.

  “Yeah, so, are you going to the Police Picnic?”

  This time she answered. “No. I wish.”

  Wendy looked a bit uninterested in speaking to me. But that’s the way cool people were. And this was progress. We were having a conversation. I hadn’t planned past this point. I struggled to think of the next line and to make it sound natural. Now I was improvising.

  “So, like, you didn’t get tickets?”

  Wendy momentarily turned to her locker and then looked back up at me. “No. I wish,” she said again. Then she added, “Talking Heads are playing at it, too.”

  I nodded. I didn’t really know much about Talking Heads. But I could tell they were cool from the way Wendy said their name. All I really knew was that they had that song that sounded like it had the word “fuck” in it, but it didn’t actually have the word “fuck” in it. I had been to a house party at Rosanna Dray’s place with some of my Grade 9 friends, and when they played that song, everyone sang “fa fa fa fuck” at the chorus part that sounded like “fuck” even though that wasn’t the lyric.

  Wendy was still looking at me. She had not turned away. This was my moment.

  “Well, I got tickets. So, maybe … well … do you wanna come to the Police Picnic? Like, with me?”

  “Umm. Okay.” Wendy smiled.

  Just like that, I had a date. I was going to the Police Picnic with Wendy, the older woman. I would be attending the most anticipated summer concert of the year with a teenagegirl version of Bowie. So maybe our “date” wasn’t exactly a romantic or salacious trip to the drive-in. I couldn’t drive. I was barely fifteen. But the agreement was to meet at Finch subway station and head down to the CNE. That was good enough. I was the king. I called and got tickets. They weren’t cheap by my standards. It didn’t matter.

  As the weekend of the concert approached in early August, I did a lot of planning for what I was going to wear. It was a month since I’d asked Wendy to go, but I called her once in July to confirm that she was coming. To tell you “I called her” might sound like an innocuous
bit of information. But it isn’t. Calling Wendy was no simple task. These kinds of phone calls were not easy in 1982. We didn’t have text messages or Facebook or IM-ing or DM-ing or BBM-ing in the ’80s. Communicating with someone you liked involved high-stakes exposure and risk. To get in touch with Wendy, I had to call her house. This left me vulnerable on all fronts—to the other residents of her house, and to anyone at my house who might hear me. The chances of being discovered, judged, or ridiculed were massive.

  We didn’t have mobile phones in 1982. You probably guessed that. But we also didn’t have any kind of cordless phones at all. Not yet. Not in my house. In other words, telephone receivers were attached to wires that went into a box with a dial pad on it, and that box had wires that came out of it and went directly into the wall underneath the box. The wire that was attached to the telephone receiver was called a “phone cord.” That’s right: phone cord. If you are a teenager today, you may not have ever seen those two words together. But I can assure you that these phone cords once existed. Almost all phones had phone cords in 1982. These cords were usually curly. I’m not sure why. Perhaps they were curly so that when people were on the phone they could try to uncurl the phone cord as a game during boring parts of the conversation. That’s what people did. But the point is, the phone cord meant that you couldn’t make a call or answer one just anywhere you wanted. You had to be near the phone box that the phone cord was attached to in order to speak on the telephone.

  By the 1990s, even before everyone had mobiles, many families had multiple telephones in their house or a cordless phone or two that they shared. So, by the ’90s, when there was an incoming phone call, people began saying things like, “I’ll get it and take it into the downstairs family room, Dad!” But this wasn’t possible in my house in 1982. You spoke where the phones were. At our house, we had two primary phones attached to the wall. One was in the main hallway at the top of the stairs. The other was in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. Both were in the middle of the house so everyone could hear every phone call that was being made. Both had curly phone cords.