See? My mother could say all that with “Vah-ee.” Okay. I just threw in the part about Mark Hamill. But she was probably thinking it. My mother was quite efficient with her communication sometimes.
The Clash were a punk rock band from the UK, and they were very important. In many ways, they were the definitive British punk rockers, righteous and uncompromising about their left-wing ideology. Their fiery and idealistic outlook was in contrast to the nihilism of the Sex Pistols. And the Clash were more musically adventurous than most punk outfits that preceded them, mixing elements of funk, reggae, and rockabilly into their punk rock sound. But mostly, by the beginning of Grade 9, I knew the Clash were important because lots of mods and New Wavers had begun wearing Clash T-shirts, sometimes featuring cut-off sleeves. Clash T-shirts were popular among the theatre students hanging out near Room 213 as well. And there were Clash T-shirts being worn by punks at the mall. New Wavers appreciated the Clash, and many hard rockers begrudgingly admired them. Punks worshipped them, and almost everyone else who mattered understood that they were symbols of musical ferocity fused with integrity.
Wearing a Clash T-shirt was cool. So it followed that if you wanted to be cool, you wore a Clash T-shirt. In fact, wearing a Clash T-shirt was so cool that on some occasions members of the Clash wore Clash T-shirts so they would be cool, too. I had seen their lead singer, Joe Strummer, wearing a Clash T-shirt on The NewMusic. I later learned that the expression for this occurrence is “meta.” You see, you might catch the Clash wearing Clash T-shirts on TV or onstage or in a photo, and it was unclear if they were cool because they were the Clash or because they were wearing Clash T-shirts. But Clash T-shirts also looked cool when the Clash were sporting them because … they were the Clash. I think this is what they mean by meta. It might be another word for “confusing.” But the point is, that’s just how cool the Clash were.
Here is a short list of some Clash T-shirt designs that were available for purchase in 1982:
London Calling album cover T-shirt
“Revolution Rock” T-shirt (white images on black)
“Straight to Hell” T-shirt (featuring freaked-out monkey icon)
white star with circle featuring “The Clash” T-shirt
The Clash debut album T-shirt (various colours)
“Clash City Rockers” T-shirt (yellow, red, and white on black)
Sandinista! T-shirt (black and red)
As you can see from this short list, there were many sartorial options for Clash gear—options exercised by members of the Clash as well. This practice of wearing one’s own T-shirts was quite anomalous. It was very punk. Who else could get away with such shameless self-promotion? Maybe the Clash were being ironic or cheeky, but they seemed too angry and political for that. Most artists look ridiculous or opportunistic if they’re donning their own merchandise. Not the Clash.
Let this be another lesson in cool: If you are considered groundbreaking and hip and on the leading edge in contemporary pop culture, you can get away with things that others cannot. In fact, these things may become a trend. But you will stop getting away with them when you are no longer cool. And everything becomes uncool eventually. That is, unless you experience a premature end or a tragic death. Endings and death help maintain cool. In 1983, the Clash broke up acrimoniously after just six years (even if there was a new lineup that soldiered on until 1986). Basically, the band came to a premature end. They never became uncool.
If the Clash wore their own T-shirts with aplomb, very few others could. Can you imagine the guys in REO Speedwagon wearing REO Speedwagon jerseys while they sang their corporate hit ballads? No. You can’t, because they wouldn’t. They wouldn’t, because wearing an REO Speedwagon T-shirt as a member of REO Speedwagon would be even less cool than actually playing in REO Speedwagon. They had a special REO logo that looked like an airplane brand, but they still wouldn’t have worn their own T-shirts. The individual guys in REO Speedwagon were probably cooler than their band.
The same is true of Gowan. If emerging 1980s Canadian New Wave-ish singer Gowan had worn a Gowan T-shirt onstage, it would have been considered desperate, or at least goofy. Gowan was a pop-rocker who was born in Glasgow, Scotland, but had grown up in Scarborough, Ontario, and was tapped in the early ’80s as a new Canadian star. His full name was Lawrence Gowan, but he just went by Gowan. Later, he would put out an album entitled … but you can call me Larry. So, later, he wanted to be called Larry. But in 1982, he just wanted to be called Gowan. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was catchier. I once told my father about Gowan, and he repeated Gowan’s name back to me as if I were making up words.
“Gow-van. I do not understand thees name. Why he has thees name?” My father grew tired of such things sometimes.
Gowan released his debut album in 1982, and by the mid-’80s he would score a couple of hit songs, including “A Criminal Mind” and “(You’re a) Strange Animal.” He was a very fine musician, but New Wave tastemakers were not at all convinced of Gowan’s merits. And Gowan had an odd habit of doing karate kicks in the middle of performing his songs. I wasn’t sure why he did these kicks and chops. Presumably, Gowan had mastered karate in his youth and had thereafter decided to make the martial arts a part of his rock show. Use what you’ve got, they say. But his propensity for the kicks was a bit uncool. Add to this his overblown pop anthems, and the tastemakers were really on the fence when it came to Gowan. The punk and New Wave elite of 213 were not wearing Gowan T-shirts. And so, if Gowan had worn a Gowan T-shirt, it probably would not have been a very successful career move. Gowan would later go on to be the singer of the re-formed ’70s band Styx. Now, he is Larry Gowan. He is very nice and talented. But it would still be strange if Larry Gowan wore a Gowan T-shirt onstage. And it would make even less sense now that he is singing with Styx.
In contrast to REO Speedwagon and Gowan, the Clash could get away with overt self-promotion because they had musical and aesthetic credibility. And they were tough. And then they came to a premature end. During our subway ride heading towards the Police Picnic, Wendy had told me she really wanted to see the Clash play live. That was one of her ambitions. I decided at that moment that I needed to get a Clash T-shirt with cut-off sleeves. I also decided that I might need to start doing push-ups so my arms would look less skinny. These Clash outfits came with significant collateral implications.
The Clash had released their third album in 1979, an iconic rock record called London Calling. Rolling Stone magazine would later declare it the best album of the 1980s, even though it came out in 1979. That is how good the record was. In the early ’80s, the Clash had gained an international cult following for their raw punk sound, defiant lyrics, and undeniable melodies. By the end of Grade 9, I had become a true fan. Unfortunately, my big fandom was a bit late for the cool crowd. I caught on to the Clash in the spring of 1982, when they released Combat Rock. It was an album that sold very well, but many purists considered it lame and sellout pop by Clash standards— especially because it garnered hit singles like “Rock the Casbah” and “Should I Stay or Should I Go.” Hit singles were not cool. But I was captivated by the sounds on Combat Rock, and I eventually worked backwards through their previous albums until the Clash became one of my favourite bands ever. Still, at the time of the Police Picnic, I didn’t know the music of the Clash very well. I had been too young when London Calling came out, and I had been busy attending concerts by performers like The Dan Hill with my parents.
For the most part, in 1982 I reacted to the Clash the way I reacted to most things punk when I was in my early teens: with a mixture of admiration and terror. I had a deep desire to meet the Clash, if I ever had the opportunity, but I imagined they might punch me in the head if we ever met. They would likely realize I was a comfortable suburban kid with the wrong hair and a lack of knowledge about class warfare in England. They might find out I knew the lyrics to Andy Gibb songs about love being higher than mountains and thicker than water. They might also discover that I did fairly we
ll in school and liked my parents and didn’t smoke cigarettes, even though I sometimes tried to smell like cigarettes. It was clear I had it all wrong. The Clash would probably hate me in Grade 9.
Still, I wondered if the heroic leader of the Clash, Joe Strummer, would have actually thrown my Adidas bag at Joan Jett. Probably. He was a punk. But maybe he would’ve shown mercy towards me. He had integrity and seemed smarter than Forbes. Maybe he would have pitied me because I was an immigrant and immigrants had it tough. Maybe he would have had an intuitive sense that three decades later “Spanish Bombs” would become the fourth most-played song ever on my iPod. It is impossible to know what Mr. Strummer would have done. But surely, for some other punks, it is a given that my Adidas bag would be fair projectile fodder in taking a stand against corporate rock. Jello Biafra, of the San Francisco punk band the Dead Kennedys, would probably have thrown my Adidas bag at Joan Jett. Mind you, he would also go on to become a prominent member of the Green Party of the United States. So it’s hard to imagine that he would throw the bag at Joan Jett later in his life. That doesn’t seem like something a member of the Green Party does. As you can see, there are many issues and nuances when it comes to judging who might throw my Adidas bag on the day of the Police Picnic.
I have made a short list of well-known punks who likely would have thrown my Adidas bag at Joan Jett in 1982:
Johnny Rotten
Joe Strummer (maybe)
Joey Ramone
Jello Biafra (pre–Green Party membership)
other members of the Sex Pistols
Forbes
One thing I was sure of: Bowie would not have pelted my prized possession. Can you imagine Bowie throwing a kid’s carrying sack? No. You can’t. Bowie would not have thrown my Adidas bag, because Bowie would have had more important things on his mind, like writing lyrics that are difficult to deconstruct, or the perfection of a synth sound, or trendsetting ways to hold his cigarette. And you see, the wondrous magic of Bowie was that while he was more elegant than the Adidasthrowing punks, he still had their respect and admiration. All of these things were possible in one person. The goal was, as ever, to be Bowie.
After the initial shock of my loss, I’ve often contemplated what happened to my red-and-blue Adidas bag. You probably think it was disposed of in the garbage. That’s likely what you’ve decided. But sometimes I imagine other possibilities. I imagine that Joan Jett spotted my stray Adidas bag and decided to keep it. Maybe it would be her consolation for getting booed by the New Wavers at the Police Picnic. The more I think about it, the more I believe she did keep it. That Joan Jett. She probably ripped the name tag off it and adopted it. Maybe she still has it. Maybe she uses it to store old VHS copies of her videos, like the one for “I Love Rock ’n Roll,” which was a number-one hit in 1981 and got her booed at the Police Picnic. Maybe she has it labelled the way I used to have it labelled, but now with her own words: “JOAN JETT’S BAG OF VIDEOS.”
Or maybe she takes it to the gym and stores her workout clothing in it. And maybe now, when Joan Jett takes it to the gym, she gets compliments for having that shiny fake-leather bag: Random gym member #1: “Hey, Joan Jett, nice bag!” Joan Jett: “Thanks!”
Random gym member #2: “Hey, wow, where did you get that vintage fake-leather bag, Joan Jett?”
Joan Jett: “Oh … I got it back in ’82.”
Random gym member #2: “Sweet. I’ve always known you were the coolest. Especially because of your red-and-blue Adidas bag, Joan Jett!”
You will note that people call Joan Jett by her full name. Both words. I’m quite sure that’s because it seems wrong to call Joan Jett anything other than Joan Jett. “Joan” cannot sufficiently communicate her rock star value. And “Jett” alone is just weird. Her name is like Boy George. You have to use both parts. And now Joan Jett has cool cred because of the Adidas bag that she earned by getting angrily received by a Toronto crowd that included Forbes the punk. And she has me to thank.
Of course, all of this is speculation that has occupied my mind in the years after that day at the Police Picnic with Wendy in 1982. I didn’t think of these things at the time. At the moment that my Adidas bag was thrown at Joan Jett, events occurred in slow motion the way they do in the movies when someone is taking a big fall or getting shot. As my bag sailed through the air, I looked at Wendy and then at the bag, and I experienced a zillion flashback thoughts which will be played in soft focus in the movie version of this story. Most significantly, I came upon an image of my friend Toke. He and I had gotten our Adidas bags around the same time in the summer before Grade 9. The loss of my bag was like a final chapter in my relationship with Toke. In the hours after the Adidas bag incident, I would have a tremendous revelation and a coming of age with Wendy. But long before my infatuation with Wendy, my comrade-in-arms had been Toke. Toke was nothing like Bowie. But I secretly wondered if Wendy could ever really replace him.
6
“DIRTY DEEDS DONE DIRT CHEAP – AC/DC
The tennis ball came flying at Toke’s face off the stick of Rick Bolton, who was shooting from the middle of his driveway. Toke was taking his turn in net just in front of Rick’s garage door. It was a slapshot from little more than a car length away. Rick was far too good a hockey player for this to be anything other than precisely aimed. He was four years older than us, and he had a mean streak when it came to playing with kids on the road.
It was the fall of 1982, and it was late afternoon on a cold day. Tennis balls absorb the cold in Canada. They get hard. This was less of a friendly green Dunlop and more of a missile. Toke never really stood a chance. He was a little chubby and slow to move as it was. And on this day he was bundled up in his regular green duffle coat with his hood on over a Habs toque. His clothing usually looked a size too small on him. It was probably restricting his movement.
The impact of the shot was inevitable. And when it hit, it hit hard. Road hockey had always been one of the meeting points for Toke and me. This is the last time we would play together. We had been drifting apart anyway as a result of us heading to different high schools and pursuing new interests. We shared an unspoken bond that couldn’t be extinguished when Mitch came to seek justice in Toke’s name. But it did feel like the end of an era.
BETWEEN GRADE 5 and Grade 9, Ron Toker was my best friend. That was his name, but this is the first and last time I will refer to him that way. From the moment I first met him at the age of ten, I called him Toke. It was a term of neither disrespect nor endearment. And it didn’t have anything to do with drugs. Many people would make that mistake later on. But that reference was beyond me in Grade 5. It was simply his name. Toke. Most people ended up calling him Toke in junior high. I’m convinced I started it.
Toke was a bit of an oddball. Well, most kids are oddballs in one way or another. But Toke was unique. He had brown curly hair that morphed into something of an Afro when it grew long. Toke spoke with a very precise and slow rhythm. And he was generally prone to periods of silence followed by grand and polemical statements like, “The players on the Boston Bruins are all WEASELS!” Toke gravitated towards competitive wrestling in high school, and he would later become a body builder. But that was years after he had been my best friend. In 1982, Toke was still my accomplice.
Toke and I spent a lot of time together. He was the same age as me. We both went to Henderson Avenue Public School after my family moved to Thornhill in Grade 4, and then we went to the same junior high. We played road hockey, we watched TV, we made regular trips to the Golden Star burger joint at the top of Doncaster Avenue, and as we hit our early teens, we increasingly kept each other apprised of events happening around the world. Toke was a source for me. On some occasions, Toke was such a good source that I’d pretend to others that I’d witnessed things based on his detailed accounts—like when Toke went to see Ozzy. The only problem was that I probably didn’t smell enough like smoke for people to believe I’d gone to the concert. That was often the problem. But in the early 1980s, y
ou needed human sources to know what was going on. As a kid, these sources often took the form of other kids.
The ’80s may not seem like that long ago to some of you, but they were prehistoric if you’re counting in technology years. As I’ve explained, in 1982 there was no internet, or Facebook, or texting, or even email. You would have to actually receive breaking news verbally from your friends if you hadn’t caught the story on TV or radio. And even on TV or radio, you’d have to catch the news at the appointed time. There were no PVRs or PDAs or any of the fancy gizmos with three letters. And if you were the source, you would have to track down your friends to personally communicate news of big things that had occurred. Years later, we would refer to the popular points of discussion on Twitter as items that were “trending.” But in 1982 we called it “talking with your friends.” This was only done in person or sometimes on the telephone.
It was a Tuesday morning in the middle of Grade 7 when I found out on 1050 CHUM that John Lennon had been killed the previous night in New York City. The man on the radio who made the announcement was very sombre, and between his announcements they were playing John Lennon music continuously. Within a heartbeat of finding out, I rushed to call Toke to see if he’d heard. It was at least an hour before we were to go to school, and that he’d want to hear this info right away. I was his source. I anticipated that he’d be surprised to hear my voice at this hour and that he’d know something was up. His older brother, Mitch, answered the phone when I called.
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