I Bificus

by Bif Naked

  The stars need to align. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. It all comes down to luck, and I most certainly always felt lucky. There is never any guarantee that anyone in the media will want to interview you, even though you, or the label, or your manager, or your mom, may think your record is relevant. My records were not likely all that relevant to anyone other than the people working on them, or to my mom. I was always amazed, and appreciative, when the press was interested in my music or in me as an artist. This made me feel that my music was at least somewhat relevant to the publication or to the interviewer, and that made me feel lucky because they have the power to shape public opinion. They’re influential; they’re the tastemakers.

  It’s the big publications that can make a difference for a budding artist, and what gets covered is determined by the editor, the space available, the advertisers, and, again, whether you are worthy of being discussed or talked about or reviewed. Good thing I’m a chick. And a solo artist. Less fighting over who would be the interviewee.

  When we were first licensing my debut CD, Canadian labels were not especially interested in it. A&M Records, the distributor of Plum Records, which initially released it, did not want to pick up the album, so we managed to pick up a licensing deal with Edel Records in Germany, as I mentioned. Edel was successful but considered primarily a dance label. I was definitely not a dance artist, though I enjoyed dancing immensely. But to me, nothing could have been better, as there were no other artists in my rock punk alt style on the label yet. This would be a fortunate position for any artist, and especially for a nice Canadian girl such as myself because of the fact that I was a girl. It made people curious. It was a bit of a novelty. It made them go all funny too, like I was some kind of pin-up girl in a room full of wise guys. No matter what I did or said, it always seemed like the men at the label thought I was flirting with them. They sure were friendly to me.

  I had encountered this unspoken energy frequently in punk bands and thrash, and had overcompensated and fist fought my way out of it since I was a teenager, but this was a bunch of professional people and I couldn’t actually punch anybody. I was mindful of what a privilege it was to even be part of the meeting, the press conference, the photo shoot, or the show. I was generally pretty pragmatic. I simply had to be smart enough to not take it personally, to know it wasn’t really about me. It would be the same for any chick in any band. It’s show business; I got it.

  It probably didn’t help that I have a curvy figure, big green eyes, and overpainted fish lips. Did I have to overpaint my lips? Did I have to wear black eyeliner and false eyelashes? Of course not, but doing so was part of my self-expression and self-identity as an artist and as a female. I would dress the same way whether I was making pancakes for breakfast or going on stage—like an adult version of a Kewpie doll, but with Bettie Page bangs and lots of tattoos.

  Lots of girls, including my girlfriends, were dressing like this, like vixens from a Russ Meyer film, like tattooed Bettie Page wannabes. We knew we were being somewhat provocative; it was part of our personal empowerment, and part of our armour. And we had a lot of fun with it—our goal was to be able to ollie a skateboard in heels.

  My opportunity to stand out in the music business was an accident, and a gift. I say gift because it really was, is, and always will be such a luxury to work with people who are impassioned about the recording industry. I say it a lot: being in the music business is like being in crime, or in a crime family. It gets in your blood and no matter how many times and ways you try to get into another field, either the music business just drags you back or you go crawling back to it, begging to be taken in again.

  Little did I know when my manager, Peter Karroll, and I formed HRM Records as a vehicle for licensing our little record that life would find us all wrapped up with the Germans right out of the gate. Germany was the third biggest music market in the world at that time, so it was pure genius on the part of Peter and Jonny to align us with key German record people, like Jörg Hacker, with whom I would eventually become dear friends.

  Both Peter and Jonny and Marsha had worked with Jörg before, and loved him. Jörg was quite famous; everyone knew him and Jörg knew everyone, it seemed. He was well liked and well respected. He was a six-foot-four, good-looking blond. His loud, warm laugh boomed from his soul. Jörg would prove to be my greatest advocate aside from my managers.

  A great way to introduce a new artist is to find a forum where lots of different types of industry people convene. Fortunately, the music industry holds many conventions, one of the most famous taking place in Germany in late summer. In 1995, Pop Comm was held in Cologne, and I attended. It was the first time I had been to Germany, never mind Europe, and the trip was life-changing for me on many levels. I felt like I was capable of achieving my dreams, yet I was also immersed in the game of promotion—meeting people, and smiling nicely while my managers talked about me as if I was not standing there next to them. It was marketing plain and simple and had little to do with music and a lot to do with connections, relationships, and the good old boys’ network.

  Back in my hotel room after my first-ever day in Europe, a long day of standing around making small talk with a different person every ten minutes, I was exhausted. I felt like the walking dead. I’d never experienced bad jetlag before, so I was surprised when I couldn’t fall asleep. I started feeling anxious, as I had to get up early in the morning for a full day of press interviews, photographs and videos, and television appearances. This was the first time that my anxiety would keep me locked all night long in its grip. I moved my pillow and blanket to the bathtub, to the hallway floor, then back to the bed. No matter how I positioned myself, I simply could not sleep. It wasn’t the hyperventilating, panicky type of anxiety, but rather, a chattering monkey in my mind that would not shut up. I lay there worrying about doing a good job and behaving so as to be liked. Then the sun came up, and I was out of luck.

  This anxiety would continue to plague me, and still does. It would also eventually lead to further disordered behaviours, or perhaps just enhance the ones that were already there, just waiting to be turned up to ten on the dial.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Columbia Hotel and Metallica

  EVERY BAND HAS SIMILAR STORIES ABOUT TOURING Europe: the go-go dancers, the countries, the fist fights, the deli trays, the bus fever, the sound checks, the puking, the overnight bus drives, the language barriers, the catering, the fans, the crews, the alcohol, drugs, criminal element or lack thereof, and the hotel. And everyone, and I mean everyone, at one point or another, has stayed at the Columbia Hotel in London.

  The Columbia is the band hotel. Located across from Hyde Park, it’s a legend. Some of the rooms have up to four single beds. And it has bus parking, which was a big deal for all touring bands. Bus parking is the prized feature of any hotel for a band touring Europe. Since tour budgets for opening acts usually do not accommodate both the bus costs and the cost of hotel rooms for the band, we typically rented one room only, sleeping on the bus and taking turns going to the room and showering while the rest of the band and crew hung out, usually in the pub in the lobby.

  We stayed at the Columbia every time we played in London and every time we were just passing through on a tour, usually scoring a room with enough beds to accommodate us. We met several bands there over the years, but the biggest deal for me was being introduced to James Hetfield, the lead singer of Metallica.

  We were staying at the Columbia and so were COC (Corrosion of Conformity) and Metallica. The Donington Music Festival (now the Download Festival) was scheduled that coming weekend, and every heavy metal band worth its salt was starting to descend on London en route to Leicestershire and Donington Castle. All these bands together, packed into an eighty-seat pub. It was a dream come true for any fan and most especially for me, on the tail end of my promotion tour. My managers were scouting the Scottish guitarist X-Factor from Warrior Soul, on the bill to play the main stage. COC was to play first, and it was
a show I did not want to miss. Luckily for me, my managers and record label deemed it important that I be added to the guest list for backstage, where I could meet other bands and be seen.

  Jonny and Marsha had known Metallica since they were a young band, and I was enamoured with the band’s rich history. Jon and Marsha were known far and wide as the parents of thrash metal. I felt lucky to be working with them, and fortunate to be at the same hotel on this unique night.

  Peter was sitting in the corner of the pub at a table by himself, working, when Hetfield came over and asked if he could join him. I was sitting at the next table over, with my back to them, chatting away with another band when Peter tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Bif, this is James,” said Peter.

  Hetfield extended his hand. “Hi, nice to meet you,” he said, smiling.

  “James, I would like you to meet—”

  Before James could finish the introduction, I stammered, “BBBBBBBBif. . .”

  Peter started laughing. “She’s usually much better at talking,” he said.

  After I had been introduced to the rest of the bands, I made my way to the door and quickly made an exit, convinced I looked ugly and that everyone had felt how greasy and sweaty my handshake was. I was so self-conscious, I simply returned to the room. I locked the door and sat on the bed, feeling like a loser. I didn’t return to the pub that night. The next day Peter reassured me that I had handled myself well and that Hetfield thought I was cute, in a little sister kind of way. I felt better.

  The Donington festival that year was one of the biggest events of my life. I harassed my managers in the wee hours of the morning to leave for the festival. I desperately wanted to get there early enough to get parked and into the VIP area in time for the first band. We even had our own parking pass, which read “METALLICA—VIP” and which I sentimentally saved for years. I sat side stage, cross-legged like a little kid, chin on hands, watching each band in turn, and watching the crowd throw wine skeins and big plastic bottles filled with hot pee.

  The concert-goers would be drinking wine, beer, water, or whatever, from various containers. Sooner or later they’d have to pee, and instead of moving out past the thousands of people jamming them in—the sloping grounds of Donington Castle make for a natural amphitheatre—those at the front or in the centre of the crowd would urinate into their now empty drinking vessels. At one point at some festival, maybe even at an earlier Donington festival, a fan decided it would be funny to send one of these containers flying through the air. Even funnier was that they’d leave off the cap and send the container spinning high up in the air so that it sent a spray of pee onto people’s heads. Eventually, the experience was enhanced by the punching of holes in the containers before they were whipped into the air, to rain piss onto everyone.

  Metallica arrived at the site in a helicopter. Forgetting that they were covered in piss, now drying in the cool dusk air, the thousands and thousands of fans went crazy as the chopper hovered above them. A tremendous sound came from the crowd, a roar and a cheer mixed together. It rang in my ears, and in my memory for many years to come. I will always also remember the colour of the sky that early evening—magenta and orange.

  I could never have guessed that a decade later I would record Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters” for my Superbeautifulmonster album. This was at Jonny Zazula’s suggestion, and Metallica loved the idea. Lava Records, my American record label, was generous enough to ask Dave Fortman, an American rock producer famous for working with Evanescence, Mudvayne, and Slipknot, among other bands, to produce the song. I loved Dave and I loved New Orleans, where he and his family lived and where we recorded—in Piety Street Studios. I was a huge fan of his, and even knew of his first band, Ugly Kid Joe, in which he played guitar.

  My cover of “Nothing Else Matters” became a fan favourite. The video consists of live concert footage from a summer tour. The song remains one of my most requested ballads.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Bertie Baderschneider and Stories from the Motorway

  THE BAND AND I WERE A MILLION MILES AWAY FROM home. We had played in Helsinki, Oslo, Copenhagen, Stockholm, Malmö, and now we were in Rostock. It was my third or fourth European tour, and we were pretty familiar with the whole deal: the promoters, the bands, the catering, the bus bunks, the label guys, the languages, you name it.

  We went to Germany a lot. It was becoming a good market for us, and we were privileged enough to get the coveted main stage on both the famous Pock am Park and Rock am Ring festivals. Sweden’s Hultsfred Festival was also a bucket-list gig, and I was excited to be there. I felt so happy to be touring, especially as a female in the same lineups as male bands and not just delegated to being a novelty act. It meant I had a great deal of credibility, which was of the utmost importance to me.

  The first time I saw Brett after our marriage ended was at the Hultsfred Festival, in fact. I was performing on the second stage, in a giant tent with room for about two thousand people, and it was rammed. Brett was doing monitors for Pennywise, playing later that evening on the main stage. In Copenhagen the night before, knowing that Brett would be at Hultsfred, I had asked Peter if we could take the song “Chotee” out of the set. The album hadn’t come out in North America yet, and Brett had never heard the song. Peter laughed and told me to get out there and do what I did best to tell the story. And I did it: I sang the song and even dedicated it to Brett, sitting side stage with his crew and band guys. “Chotee” remained my favourite story to tell for years.

  Bertie Baderschneider was our faithful bus driver on many of our tours. He was one of the best coach drivers in Europe and many bands requested him as a driver. We always requested him as ours.

  One morning during this particular tour week, Bertie pulled the bus up in front of his apartment in Püttlingen and took us all up for special coffee he made with his Italian espresso machine. The walls of his home were adorned with maps of North Africa, as well as with dozens of incredible photographs of the deserts there. And pictures of Bertie in places like Tangiers, where he wore a scarf that billowed in the wind like Snoopy as the Red Baron. We asked him to tell us the story behind the photos, but he just laughed and asked us how we liked the coffee. His life before becoming a bus driver remains a small mystery to me. Maybe he was a prince, or a priest.

  We just loved Bertie. He was a big and gentle man with twinkling eyes and a shining spirit. He was always smiling, and he never argued with Peter, which was big. As far as Peter was concerned, the bus was hired to serve the band and he, Peter, was the captain of the vessel. So any anarchy eventually resulted in the captain squashing the rebellion. But even Peter loved Bernie.

  Bertie always called me “Mrs. Bif,” partly to be funny and affectionate. But he also used “Mrs.” as a form of respect, having discerned the pecking order in the band, and that I was considered by the rest of the band as more like a little sister than a solo artist. Even though the guys were essentially backing me up, I was never the band leader per se. Instead, I overcompensated and tried to keep everyone happy. Part of my personality and lack of self-confidence, I guess.

  Talking to the artists he drove around was somewhat new to Bertie—bus drivers were sometimes not allowed to speak to the bands. This was especially true with the big American and British bands, bands that were legends in their own minds, and including some I toured with or opened for at festivals. That is some rare level of bullshit ego indeed.

  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I have always had the impression that the more successful the band, the nicer they are toward others. The musicians I was fortunate to work with and I always made up a close-knit group, handpicked by my devoted manager, who also acted as tour manager, front-of-house soundman, producer, publisher, business partner, martial arts trainer, co-writer, father figure, and yes, sometimes boyfriend. Ours was a 24-7 job, and we were together every hour of it. We were enmeshed.

  Peter had managed me since I was in Chrome Dog, and he knew
each and every one of the musicians and crew guys who worked with me. The boys, especially the ones touring with me after I started releasing records, were my brothers, my best friends. After the first Bif Naked album was released, the band and I were often on back-to-back tours, with just enough time after ending one to either travel by tour bus or fly overseas to start the next series of dates. We were in the opening slot on many shows and, embarking on a new tour with a new headliner, never knew what insanity was ahead of us.

  No matter what, we were all in the trenches together. It was like we were in the military, a combat unit but without the guns. Of course we never had guns, being good Canadians, but there were a couple of American bands along the way that pulled out a pistol or two. Not on us but just being crazy with weapons outside the tour buses.

  In the summer of 1999, we opened for The Cult and drove straight to Lilith Fair for some shows, then over to the Warped Tour, then to FUEL in the early fall, and on to tour with Days of the New, through November. One of the guys from the tour pulled shenanigans on the bus driver after a show and made the man turn the bus around and drive him and the unsuspecting sleeping band members to the band’s hometown. Instead of waking up in the next tour stop of St. Louis, Missouri, they woke up one or two states over. This wouldn’t have happened if Peter and Jonny were his managers. No way would they have tolerated that. Nor would it have happened if Bertie Baderschneider was the driver. Bertie would never tolerate that either. The band rejoined the tour a few days later and continued on with the shows.

  On another tour with another American band a short time later, the singer, who had a history of violence, apparently pulled a gun on a bunch of fans right after a show in Arkansas. Right outside the venue, where our buses were parked. The police turned out in force, and the result was even more craziness. I was bummed. We were in the same Little Rock neighbourhood as the house in the TV show Designing Women, and I wanted to get a photograph of it to send to my mom. That imbecile ruined my chance at that photo, as a police lockdown ensued. I never did get a picture.