I Bificus

by Bif Naked

  When I met Peter, Annihilator had been touring, headlining large shows and festivals in Japan, Europe, and the United States. Peter came to see Chrome Dog perform, befriending us after the show and telling us stories about life in the music business. He kept us mesmerized with funny stories about his touring years before—stories about crazy shows and bar fights—and about a childhood filled with adventure, including burning down or blowing up more than a few barns after playing with matches or lighting stolen cigarettes. And life had been like that for him ever since, a big bonfire. I already knew the stories about him and his bandmates jumping off the stage to fight, basically being the bouncers at their own shows, in some of the roughest bars in Canada.

  Peter had been in show business for twenty years by the time my band met him, and we had all heard of him: he had a notorious reputation as a manager. He was fierce with promoters who tried to screw his bands for money, and on one occasion collected for an entire German tour, including for bands not managed by him, when the promoter tried to leave the last show of the tour without paying. Peter stepped inside the promoter’s office, locked the door behind him, and collected the money. All of the bands were paid, and were thankful that Peter was the type of manager who never lets his bands down. Notoriety and a reputation as being someone who gets things done go a long way in the music business. It’s kind of like being in the mafia or a crime family; some managers are like consiglieres, others, like hit men. I’ve met both types over the years, and Peter is definitely in the second category. He fights for his bands and never gives up until they get every opportunity they deserve.

  Even Jonny and Marsha Zazula, who later became Peter’s co-managers, and who co-managed me for many years with Peter, had reputations. I mean, everyone knew them; they were in the heavy metal history book. The Zazulas were managers of Metallica and Anthrax, among other famous bands, at the start of the thrash metal movement. They owned the legendary Megaforce Records and released a lot of great metal albums. Peter and Jonny and Marsha believed in me. They were kind, and I was honoured that they wanted to work with me. I always felt so lucky being with them, and felt protected by them.

  Good managers are like commanding generals who know how to take control. I have no basis of comparison and know little about managing other than what I know of Peter’s style of complete everythingness, which, over the years, moved beyond just our artist-manager relationship.

  Peter has often told the story of how he came to the decision that he wanted to manage me. “I was at a local recording studio and spotted her photo on the front cover of an alternative-music rag. It was the full cover, with the words ‘Bif Naked’ in huge type and, in smaller type, ‘Chrome Dog’ under a striking photo. I stared at the photo for a long time, at this image of a young woman covered in tattoos. I opened the paper up to the article and saw the inside shot, of a dirty, dingy graffitied washroom cubical, and there she was, sitting on the toilet. I read the article, walked into the studio, picked up the phone, called Mike Price, a well-known soundman in the Vancouver scene, and said, ‘Bif Naked.’ Mike said, ‘What about her?’ and I said, ‘Who manages her?’ He said that no one did, and I said, ‘Great, I am. Set up a meeting.’ And that was that. I knew it was going to be a great adventure, and I have not been disappointed.”

  Peter later bought the image from the photographer who shot the magazine cover. It was used on the cover of my debut Bif Naked album.

  Peter has been my manager ever since. I trust him completely. And everyone knows it. I wouldn’t change the relationship if I could. I had blind faith in him from the beginning. Why wouldn’t I? I knew I had to have complete faith in my manager, otherwise it would be silly to even have a manager. So I simply told him the first time we had a chance to speak one on one, without the Chrome Dog guys hovering around, “I want you to know, Mr. Karroll, that I have 100 percent faith in you.”

  His laugh was genuine and warm. “Well, that’s very good.”

  I laughed with him. “It’s true.”

  I had no experience with managers, no frame of reference. He believed in me. That’s all I needed to know. Jonny and Marsha Zazula also believed in me, and again that was all I needed to know. It was more than I believed in myself, and I had nothing to lose.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Cruel Elephant

  A LOT CAN BE LEARNED ABOUT A CITY BY GOING to its core, where social problems tend to manifest and the “invisible” people live. A separate community, with its own rules and ways, its own value system, Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside is a downtrodden place. It is like a city within a city, or even perhaps like a separate country, and we liked it that way.

  The smell of hot urine was in the air every night at the Cruel Elephant, along with that faint West Coast pot smell. Nothing I had seen previously compared with this mecca. It wasn’t a mecca for me, of course, the defiant, lone non-pot-smoker, but a mecca for many. And, especially at this “it” place.

  The Cruel Elephant was the local venue bands wanted to play at when they went through Vancouver on tour. It had relocated from Granville Street to Cordova, in Gastown, but it made little difference, really. Wherever it was, the shows were still put on, the people still came, and the bands were still loud. This was before bands like mine were viable enough to play the bigger venues such as the Town Pump or the Commodore Ballroom. Every city in the world has its local “it” place. And, I’m proud to say, I played at many of them over the years.

  At the Cruel Elephant, I was really coming of age, and the other bands that played there were a big part of why I wound up on tour. We were like family, and they were my brothers. And with them I shared sibling-esque camaraderie and fist fighting. I had to learn how to throw knuckle sandwiches from the stage like the best of them, and learn I did. Many of the greatest times of my young band days were spent at the Cruel Elephant: headlining for Gorilla Gorilla and Chrome Dog; on Mr. Chi Pig’s shoulders for the entire duet we performed of “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights” by Meatloaf and Kiki Dee; and during the early days of the Westex music expo. I cut my teeth at this local treasure and learned a lot there as a performer and as a female.

  I was a chick singer in the unique situation of singing with two up-and-coming bands. One was made up of skate punks, the other made up of thrashers. It was like having two boyfriends. Luckily for me, the scene at that time was really starting to evolve, and bands like Jane’s Addiction and Soundgarden were opening the ears of audiences to a bigger variety of music. People’s tastes were evolving, as was I, then barely twenty-one. The alternative-music waves were upon us, and I was a beneficiary of that eclectic evolution. It helped me find acceptance with the audience, and I am grateful to this day for my musical roots.

  Getting on a music festival gig was like winning on Wheel of Fortune. But once we were added to the lineup of Westex or, later, Music West, the other bands at the rehearsal space ostracized us because they hadn’t been accepted to play. We accepted the guilt because we felt, deep down, that they were right; we felt like we had sold out. Sure, the local punks accused us all the time of selling out, but they still came to the shows because they liked experiencing a packed club and a great performance. All the successful bands were accused of selling out, and it was how we knew we had made it one step up the ladder of success as a band.

  Playing the festival gigs allowed us to play a bigger show than the local all-agers at the skate park, and it gave the visiting record A&R reps the opportunity to see our band. The big-name A&R guys would want their names on the guest list, so they’d call the club and we would know about it and freak out. Even Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers put his name on the list to come see Gorilla Gorilla, in 1991, at the Cruel Elephant. Judging from the word on the street about Flea coming to the show, it was as if Jesus were coming, only for us even better.

  Knowing that Flea as well as record-industry people were going to be at the gig, I felt my crippling self-consciousness kick in. I was so nervous in anticipation. The afternoon lead
ing up to it, my Lola took me to the Cecil Hotel’s strip bar for a drink. Not yet a straight edge, I happily accompanied her. Predictably, she and I sat there all afternoon, drinking and spinning yarns about touring for all the dancers in the dressing room, pontificating and making asses of ourselves. I was again not able to handle the alcohol and got flat-out drunk and completely lost track of time—I arrived at the venue just minutes away from show time. Worse, I lost my voice—and my lunch on stage that night. Like a complete loser all around. Right in front of the audience, including Flea and the record-company scouts, I failed.

  This was the impetus for my years of sobriety. I quickly learned that nothing good ever comes from drinking. I learned a lot about myself and my capability as a performer and was grateful for my mistakes. I began to gravitate toward the straight-edge way of thinking and started to want to excel and improve myself, almost desperately. I never wanted to embarrass myself again (at least not on stage), and embracing the strictness and intensity of the straight-edge mindset was empowering and motivating for me. I was trying to reverse a lifetime of mistakes and shame.

  The start of the chain of events that led to my solo career was emotional, uncomfortable, and unstoppable. Chrome Dog was leaning toward self-destruction—or I should say, I felt like I was about to explode. Writing songs together was becoming daunting, as the guys were continually unhappy with my “girly” lyrics and insisted they had to be more universal if they were to represent the band. This caused me irreparable heartache.

  I felt extremely embarrassed and self-conscious a lot of the time, and the dynamic in the band was starting to change. Other band members were not so interested in practising anymore, and when we did, I found it uncomfortable, primarily because of some of the band members not seeing eye to eye, the bass player actively playing in five other bands (which, frankly, I thought was wonderful), and my having much more to say creatively than I could through the “universal” lyrics style being imposed upon me.

  Peter was generously adding us to a national tour in which we would be supporting Annihilator, and the dates were being booked. It was a rare and good opportunity.

  But we choked. I choked. I knew that there was no way I would survive being isolated in a van with such a negative, falling-apart group, and I became more and more anxious as our departure date approached. I dreaded making the call but knew I had to do the right thing and relieve the band from “the girl” they were so annoyed with.

  I wanted out but was sad about disappointing our new manager. Finally, after wringing my hands raw, I blew my nose, wiped my face of tears, and called Peter.

  “I thought you’d never say that,” he said when I told him I was quitting the band.

  I was dumbfounded. “I don’t understand. You’re not mad?” I was basically telling him we would be unable to go on the Annihilator tour.

  “I had to let you come to the conclusion on your own. It was only a matter of time.”

  I was so relieved, I cried. He wasn’t angry at all. In fact, he was happy.

  “Don’t worry about the band. I’ll phone them. Just take a couple of weeks off to catch your breath, and we’ll touch base then and have a meeting. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  But in less than two weeks, and before Annihilator even left on tour, Peter called. “There’s a band I want to introduce you to that is rehearsing in the same space as Annihilator. They need a singer. I think you should try out.”

  I was ecstatic. This was great!

  I went down to the rehearsal facility on Terminal Avenue the next night and met Peter out front. He took me through the place and introduced me to many of the bands. I met Annihilator’s guitarist, Jeff Waters, of whom I was a big fan. Then we went to meet a group called DTBV or Dying to Be Violent. I clicked with them right away. Dale Pleven was the bass guitar player and he had ties to Skinny Puppy. Harry Degan was the guitarist, and Chiko Misomali was on drums.

  I joined the band and we started to write songs. Their music was rather complex compared with that of Chrome Dog and Gorilla Gorilla. They weren’t quite a prog band, but the music was much more intricate than anything I had ever written to. I loved the challenge and started, once again, to enter a growth spurt. I was thriving creatively and blossoming musically. I felt like I had found my niche. Little did I know, my niche was actually looking for me.

  Peter had been corresponding with a producer and songwriter named John Dexter, who had an indie label in Canada (distributed by A&M Records), and John was a fan of mine. He had seen Chrome Dog perform at Vancouver’s Town Pump and had been following the band. But John wasn’t interested in Chrome Dog. “We would like to offer you a record deal for Bif Naked,” John told Peter. Peter let him know that I was rehearsing with a new lineup of musicians going by the name Dying to Be Violent.

  John was not concerned about which musicians I was with on stage; he was interested only in offering a recording deal to Bif Naked.

  Peter called me and said, “Plum Records wants to sign you to a solo recording contract.”

  I asked him what he thought I should do.

  “I think you should face the facts. Bif Naked is bigger than any band you have ever been a part of, so you can either be a solo artist with a record deal or you can be in a band with no record deal. It’s your choice.”

  The next words out of my mouth set me on a path that changed the course of my life. “I don’t care what I have to do; I want a record deal.”

  Peter called a meeting with DTBV and explained the situation: they could be a part of the next phase, which included recording and touring, but it was going to be a solo album and the artist’s name was Bif Naked.

  The guys were all supportive and considered the offer, then came back to Peter saying that it wasn’t how they saw the future for the band they started. They had a vision of how DTBV would progress and wanted to see it through to the end. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to find anyone who would play with me on tour or record with me as a solo artist, but Peter told me not to worry. “There will be lots of people lining up to tour with you, Bif,” he said, “and I’ve never seen a musician turn down a paycheque for recording in the studio.” Peter was absolutely right.

  The album was recorded, with John Dexter producing it and a two-thousand-dollar video for a track that went against all odds. “Tell on You” was a stark and emotional song about sexual exploitation, which was lyrically very personal for me. The video was shot in a closet with a locked-off camera. The video captured the isolation and emotion of my earlier experiences. MuchMusic added it to its playlist immediately and my solo career was launched.

  Everything was amazing until one day Peter told me that John Dexter was considering closing Plum Records, as he was interested in moving in a different direction. John was a creative individual, a songwriter and producer, and I think he should have been also in a band. I can’t think of anyone who is more about music than John. The problem, Peter said, was that running a record label had little to do with music and everything to do with business, and John was in it for the music. So all of a sudden, with one video under our belt and a well-received Canadian tour opening for another of Peter’s bands, Rhymes with Orange, I was orphaned from my record label.

  Peter called me up and said, “Let’s start a record label for licensing your album. What do you want to call it?” After some thought I called him back and said, “Her Royal Majesty’s Records.” I already had drawn the stick-girl logo. He laughed and said, “Perfect. Love the name.”

  Peter tried to incorporate the company under that name but learned that in order to do so, the name could not imply any connection with the Crown. Thus, HRM Records was born.

  Peter always makes things happen; he is that guy who never gives up, who will not quit until he’s solved the problem at hand. Peter immediately began doing outreach to record labels to license the Plum Records album. He contacted Jörg Hacker, who was high up at Edel Records in Germany, which had distribution throughout that countr
y. Jörg had a strong interest in me as a recording artist. It was during this time that Jon and Marsha Zazula and Peter started talking about working together. Peter told me, “I sent Jon Zazula the Annihilator album to see if he was interested in some more heavy metal and he said, ‘What else you got?’ So I said I have the most interesting punk, alternative girl on the planet. Her name is Bif Naked.”

  Soon I was in New Jersey, and Peter, Jonny, and Marsha Zazula were my new management team. Jonny brought his New York City music connections to the table, and he and Peter had connections with European labels, and both were good friends with Jörg Hacker.

  Once Edel signed me to the European deal, Peter did a deal for Aquarius Records out of Montreal for the rerelease of the album. Mark Lazare ran Aquarius, and René LeBlanc was the radio and promotions guy. At the time, Donald Tarlton, also known as Donald K. Donald, was the owner—and the godfather of music in Quebec. I loved these guys—they were my new family, and René, my new big brother. A host of people worked with us at Aquarius as part of the promotions team, and they became close friends. I felt like I was in the best possible hands. With Jörg and his team at Edel Records, Mark, René, and Donald at Aquarius, and Jon, Marsha, and Peter all working to push my career as a solo artist, I was overwhelmed by gratitude and did everything possible to make sure I never let them down. I wanted to live up to the expectations of these professionals and meet head-on the amazing opportunity that had been given to me.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Europe and Best Ever Fever

  BASED ON MY EXPERIENCE, I THINK IT WOULD BE incredibly difficult to navigate a comprehensive European tour without the gift of a tour bus, supported by a press tour. A press tour on a tour bus would in fact be ideal, provided there’s alcohol. Not for me, but for the entourage. Frankly, I don’t even know if record labels actually do press tours anymore for artists who are just starting out. I was so truly lucky to experience the power of a label’s promotion machine, coordinated to support the release of a new album, and tour dates to support the release of the album.