by Bif Naked
Both hands are not enough to count how many promoters leeringly asked me to blow them, fuck them, fuck their bouncers, fuck the waitresses, you name it. It was demeaning. Usually, I would make light of it and laugh it off, as I’d still be trying to get our fifty bucks for playing the show. This was the all-important gas money to get to the next show, and what was left over after paying for gas was divided between each person in the band, for food.
A couple of girls in some town told me one night that a trick promoters try is to make insulting, sleazy, racist, or bigoted remarks to get a band member angry enough to take a swing or storm out, then he would refuse to pay the band because of the bad behaviour. Knowing this, I never let such comments get to me, and I never took it personally. Misogyny isn’t personal, it’s against everybody. But I never ever forgot a misogynist. They stick in your memory like dog shit on your shoe.
SIXTEEN
The Wedding
“CAN’T BACK OUT NOW,” I THOUGHT, STANDING UP THERE with my dad. He was tired, having recently travelled, but he looked so nice in his suit and tie. He had polished his church shoes and had shaved close, and smelled of astringent. It smelled good. I was relieved my dad had come. My parents were definitely not pleased about the wedding, but, as usual, they were unyielding with their support and encouragement. I think they were both surprised that I wasn’t pregnant. The baby’s breath in my bouquet was quivering as we walked down the aisle between the folding chairs, smiling faces all around us. Soul II Soul’s “Back to Life” was the processional music, and it was playing loudly.
Getting married was a pretty big milestone. Brett and I had been playing in the band and living together for months. We were in love, real love, just like in the Jody Watley song. Our engagement caused a bit of a stir in the local scene and was a source of great discussion among the Winnipeg punks. I mean, nobody got married anymore, not punks, anyway. But they all were invited to the wedding. It was an event not to be missed, and they didn’t miss it.
It was just how any bride wants it: my head was freshly shaved on one side, and my white dress was in what I perceived to be the style of Jackie Onassis. I was a bit off the mark, really, but I thought I looked lovely. The mother of my maid of honour told me I looked pinched and drawn. I think she meant “sick,” but I chose to take it as though she meant “thin” and about this I was ecstatic. I wore white satin shoes with five-inch heels, and a strapless bra and garter belt. That was the best part—it made me feel extremely provocative. The trophy; the inaccessible, sexy punk prize bride.
My mom helped me organize the wedding and paid for my dress, even giving me extra money for makeup and pantyhose. My dad flew in from some remote community, where he had been doing dental exams, to walk me down the aisle, or should I say, up to the stage. Brett and I had decided to have the wedding at Winnipeg’s West End Cultural Centre, an old church converted into a hall. We were married on the stage there, facing the guests.
We had a good history with the venue. Gorilla Gorilla had performed there and recorded there, and even Jungle Milk had performed there. I stood on the stage thinking about how fast things had changed. I remembered how my parents had come to see Jungle Milk, with our five singers and ten drummers, plus myriad other guest percussionists. It was a benefit rally for El Salvador, and Marcos Torres, the band leader, stood on top of one of the conga drums making a speech in a loincloth with nothing underneath, right in front of my father’s seat. What are the odds of that being my parents’ first exposure to my budding music career?
The wedding had been announced a mere two months before, in February 1990, and was thrown together in DIY skate-punk style. I was being married by a Muslim—named Mohammed, of course. (I was a proud non-denominational girl despite my upbringing—or is that, to spite my upbringing?) Brett’s parents hosted our wedding reception at their house. Brett’s cousin marked our arrival with her squealing bagpipes, to the delight of all the baked and half-drunk punks who had descended on his parents’ place.
The truth is that Brett and I were so drunk that neither one of us remember the rest of the evening. Somehow we were returned safely to our apartment. Our roommate, Al, was elsewhere, in honour of the night being our first as husband and wife.
The next morning when I woke up, Brett was gone from our futon bed. I smelled food and heard a Jungle Brothers cassette tape playing on the stereo at full volume. I could hear my new husband singing along merrily, clanging pots, and running the tap. I smiled and lay there on the futon, feeling very good about life.
SEVENTEEN
Unexpected, Unprepared, and Undone
THIS HANGOVER WAS DIFFERENT. THIS RICE-PUKE, beer-smell hangover, with its retching and hurling, was exhausting. I was in London, Ontario, where a sold-out crowd saw Gorilla Gorilla for the first time. I probably should have known I was knocked up, I was sick a lot that tour. The smell of stale beer and smoke in the bars made me puke as soon as I entered them. For some reason, I thought nothing of it. I barfed every day and night, and in fact, I barfed so much that I started losing weight.
I was still smoking cigarettes, which was a disaster because I’d just get sicker each time I smoked. The show in London was difficult, as I was very ill. But as far as I was concerned, puking made the show hardcore—or my idea of hardcore, anyway: it was very punk to puke, I thought, a real crowd-pleaser, and of course, anything for the show. I used it as armour against my insecurity of being the only girl front man. (I would remain one of the only female singers on tours for years to come.) But being in the band felt natural to me, and puking only added to my punk rock identity, to my mystique as a performer. It never occurred to me that I could be pregnant.
I wrote the story of Brett and me into a song called “Chotee,” and put it on my second record, I, Bificus. I even made a music video for it. I sang the song two thousand times and cried every time, transported as I was, the way my songs seem to curse me with.
Chotee
I was just out of high school in my first band.
I married my drummer, our love was grand.
I thought it was forever. Till death do us part.
Then, he cheated on me, and he broke my heart.
Chotee . . .
So young, so confused. What was I to do?
I’m so sorry, Chotee, but I couldn’t keep you.
I hope you can forgive me.
I hope you can forgive me.
My baby. My baby. My baby, Chotee, please forgive me.
Me and him were fighting on the road for two years.
He never loved me, anyway. It still brings me to tears.
Chotee.
He didn’t really want you, ’cause he didn’t want me.
He didn’t want to be a husband, didn’t want to be a daddy.
I hope you can forgive me.
I hope you can forgive me.
My baby. My baby. My baby, Chotee.
Brett and I were in love, and in love with the band. We were married first to the band and second to each other. Our collective priority was the band. Gorilla Gorilla was the biggest thing in our lives, and we were committed to putting the band first. But as time wore on, Brett was confronted with the reality that he really did not want to be married, or at least not to me.
When I became pregnant, things really fell apart. I simply could not understand how he couldn’t be overjoyed. We were married, and though the pregnancy wasn’t ideal timing, I truly believed having a baby was our destiny. Brett did not believe it was destiny; he believed it would ruin my life and his life. I think that he was feeling overwhelmed.
Our fighting was relentless, and by the time he finally broke up with me, I was a complete mess. My heartbreak was immeasurable.
Terminating the pregnancy, though, probably was for the best, given my various health conditions every Saturday night. In hindsight, I know that my health and drunkenness would have been to the detriment of the child, but at the time, I could not forgive Brett. I was completely immersed in my grief.
We both remained in the band for the greater good, and it sucked. Ignoring his flirtations with girls backstage during shows took every bit of disassociation and resolve I could muster, but I managed. I believed it was a great opportunity for me to learn, to grow, and to act professionally at any cost.
Brett was already in a new relationship, with a long-legged, red-headed waitress. I couldn’t take it. My hair was coloured red; worse, it was the identical shade as that of his new girlfriend. I immediately dyed my hair black as night, and it never went back to red. I would remain raven-haired from this point on, and it suited me. I was never a real fan of Bettie Page, but the black hair with bangs quickly became my trademark, and I embraced it. I wanted to look as different as possible from my estranged husband’s girlfriend. That was the bottom line. I started being accused of being a Goth and, taking this as an insult, would occasionally end up in a drunken fist fight.
It was a sensitive time for me. I was lost. I was twenty-one years old and separated from the love of my life, silently devastated, vulnerable.
I filed for divorce, using a divorce service I found through an ad at the back of a newspaper. Brett and I had no shared assets. In fact, we had no assets at all. There was nothing to divide and there was nothing to lose.
My dad gave me the five hundred dollars I needed for the divorce. I was divorced fifteen months after the wedding, after a year of separation. I never got over this and would go on to replicate the relationship again and again. Luckily, I found that my therapy was writing songs. Brett would find his way into much of my writing, and “Chotee” was all for him, telling my true story of us.
EIGHTEEN
Choked
THE GREAT VOLTAIRE IS SAID TO HAVE DISTRUSTED democracy, which he saw as propagating the idiocy of the masses. Perhaps no truer sentiment has been so beautifully put. Well, that is until my manager, Peter, later said, “It was meant to be this way, otherwise it would be different.” Or, as is said in the film Slumdog Millionaire (quoting the Gospel of Matthew), “It is written.” Any way you say it, sometimes you just can’t stop fate. Fate is fate, and that’s all there is to it.
Gorilla Gorilla had decided to relocate either west or east. I can’t remember if it was heads or tails on the coin toss, but all I know is, whichever it was, it was meant to be for reasons that unfold to this day even as I write this.
Vancouver in 1990 was a place not far enough north of Seattle to be immune to the infection of grunge. Post–punk thrashers and Prairie skate punks like us were beginning to show the signs of this dreaded “grunge infection” in the form of mid-tempo and drop D–tuned distorted fuzzy guitars—and growing out our mohawk hairstyles. The choice to move to Vancouver instead of to Toronto was a risky one for the band, and at that time I had no idea it would be where I’d finally root and stop running away. It would become my home.
Vancouver had a rich music scene and band culture, and its proximity to the United States was taken advantage of by American bands, which added to their tour schedules a couple of shows past the usual Portland-Seattle-Tacoma-Spokane circuit. This was always welcome by both the bands and the fans. And it was great for Gorilla Gorilla. We had so many opportunities to get on shows by opening for bands like 24-7 Spyz and Bad Religion. We opened for Canadian bands too. One infamous night we opened for NoMeansNo at the Commodore Ballroom. Infamous because Kent Jamieson, our bassist, fell backwards down a flight of cement stairs, banging his spine on each one. It was only by sheer luck that it was not me tumbling down: one of the bouncers had grabbed me by the neck of my hoodie and spared me the trip to the bottom.
Bouncers and I had a bit of a history by this point, not because I was always in fights but because I was constantly trying to break them up. One enchanted evening, my beautiful sidekick, Lola, and I managed to weasel our way into some show at one of the Vancouver clubs. I can’t remember if the band playing was Faster Pussycats or Skid Row, but Lola and I were having a typically riotous good time. “Here’s to us, kid! Here’s to us. No muss, no fuss!” she’d say, flinging her long red hair from her eye. And we’d drink a shot, laughing at her genius wit.
It may really have only ever been Lola and I who thought we were funny. No one laughed as hard at our silly remarks to each other as we did. In fact, she and I never stopped joking and laughing, even when we went to the washroom. The lineup for the women’s washroom at bars always seemed longer than it needed to be, but the time waiting passed quickly, as Lola and I just continued on with our asinine talk.
That night at the club, though, some monstrous oaf of a meathead came barging into the women’s washroom, right past the lineup. All of us girls did the usual hen clucking. “Hey, man. Back of the line.”
Undeterred, he banged on a stall door. “Get out! Get the fuck out here!”
The door opened and a girl’s face emerged. “No!” the girl declared.
The man reached in after her, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her out. She lost her footing on the greasy honeycomb-tile floor, and he held her down, practically on her knees.
I didn’t think, I just jumped in. “Let her go!” I said, grabbing his wrists and trying to pull them off the small girl.
He immediately let go of her hair and grabbed me around my neck, picking me up with both hands. I kicked my feet out at him as I tried to pry his hands off me.
Lola jumped in and whacked him on the back with clenched fists. “Get your fuckin’ hands off her, asshole!”
It was no use: he would not let go. I started to lose consciousness.
The commotion caught the attention of a big bouncer, who proceeded to kick the crap out of my strangler, then dragged him out of the washroom, leaving me clutching my neck, coughing and in tears. “Just go on home,” I kept thinking, “we should just go on home right now.”
The club manager came to talk with Lola and me, saying that nothing “bad” had actually happened to anyone, so we might as well accept the club’s apology and offer of a night of free alcohol, and, in fact, “If you don’t say anything to the cops or can’t remember, you’ll drink in this bar for free for life.” I felt sick.
“Great.” Lola said. “We’ll drink to that!”
I just felt sicker. It’s not that I wasn’t happy about free drinks for life. More likely it was nausea from the vascular injuries I had sustained. It never occurred to me to get checked out at the hospital.
“C’mon,” said our new best friend, The Promoter. “I’ll give you girls a lift home; my Cadillac is just outside.” We both wanted to call it a night, so we happily followed him to his long brown car.
The three of us sat in the front bench seat. Just when we were almost home, he was pulled over by the police.
“Ooh, Bif!” Lola squealed, squirming in her seat. “It’s your lucky night, girl!”
I kind of chuckled but was still rubbing my throat.
She leaned into The Promoter. “Bif has this thing for cops,” she said and started laughing.
He wasn’t paying attention to her, just fumbling around in his pockets. He pulled out a small baggie of powder and threw it across the seat into my lap. “Here, kid, hold this.”
I was so shocked I couldn’t speak, and then the police officer was tapping at the raindrop-covered window.
“Licence and registration, sir. Have you had anything to drink tonight?”
“No, sir, I don’t drink alcohol.” His smile made him look even older than he was, and his teeth were quite yellow.
I sat still, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I mean, what could have been in the bag? Baby powder? I had never even done cocaine or heroin and here I was about to get nailed for this? I just couldn’t believe it.
The cop left with the promoter’s papers, then returned. “Here you go, sir. Thank you for your time.” He went back to his car, but I continued to hold my breath for a moment.
Our new friend was embarrassed and said nothing else. He just put the car into drive and took us the remaining eight or nine bloc
ks. Our cheerful mood had vanished.
“Thanks for the ride,” said Lola.
“Don’t be a stranger, ladies. Please remember to come by any time.”
Lola walked away and I stood there in the rain, car door open, fumbling in my purse. I leaned over the front seat and handed him his baggie with great care lest it get wet from the rain. “Here are your belongings,” I said quietly. Then I looked him right in the eye and said, “I will never do drugs.”
He was silent.
“They make a person do horrible things.”
I had never liked pot, even though my crowd smoked it. Frankly, I think marijuana was one of the reasons the band considered moving to Vancouver in the first place. We had a lot of skate friends, and most of those from Vancouver smoked pot. I never caught on to the stuff, though I now liked beer just fine. Besides, I would fall dead asleep the minute I smoked anything and had a real fear that guys would take advantage of me. I had to look out for myself, and doing drugs could mean a repeat of me being in a very bad situation at a party. And I wasn’t going to experience that again if I could help it.
NINETEEN
Chrome Dog
AT THE NOW DEFUNCT ARTS CLUB ON SEYMOUR STREET, we played with the perils of skinhead fights, drug busts in the backroom, and old punk rockers crawling onstage with us, so blind-drunk their presence altered the show every time. Many times I drank so much sherry straight out of the bottle to show off on stage that I wouldn’t remember the show afterward. I still can’t.
There were many great bands in Vancouver during this era, including Chrome Dog, which was advertising for a vocalist in the local scene paper, Georgia Straight. Chrome Dog was an up-and-coming grunge/thrash band. The guitar player, James Yauk, originally from Winnipeg, came to Vancouver via a band called Beyond Possession, and I was a huge fan of his. By this time, Gorilla Gorilla had just completed yet another gruelling Canadian winter tour, and tensions between Brett and me were riding so high, I finally had enough and stormed out of the tour van on the way back home, taking a Greyhound bus the rest of the way, from Winnipeg to Vancouver.