by Bif Naked
I loved Lava Records and everyone there. As I say, we were family. It was as close as it gets on a platonic level between record-label president and aspiring artist. But regardless of feelings, wishes, or dreams, I was out the door. At a time like this, an artist might find herself left out in the cold in terms of management finding her new projects, and the next step would be to gracefully fade from sight while younger, fresher bands and artists rose up. But Jonny Zazula took advantage of the guilt the company felt over ending my contract to negotiate the solution. I was sent on my way with a packed lunch bag containing the rights to my next album and a cash payout. I have so much respect for Jason Flom, the founder of Lava; to me, he was—and remains—a class act. I look upon every minute of our time together, in the music business and in friendship, as a gift.
Andy Karp was an important part of the group too. If Jason was the father figure, Andy was my big brother. This was my family and it felt like we had disintegrated. It was devastating for me, but as long as I had Jonny, Marsha, and Peter as my managers, I still felt cared about, supported, and loved. They always fought, dug, and pushed for me, taking every opportunity they could to continue my career along the musical path, no matter what.
In America, once you’re dropped, you’re damaged goods. Especially after releasing two high-profile albums and several videos by a hot music label such as Lava. When you’re abandoned, you’re considered to be washed up. Many things can contribute to hardships, such as radio not reacting quickly to a single—and suddenly this is a very bad thing. Or a major movie doesn’t get the push or marketing from the distributor and wham!, your lead-off single and video are not getting added to a station playlist. When you release an album, it’s all about set-up and momentum of the singles, and although many of my singles and videos were supported by radio and video stations in Canada, they didn’t receive the same support south of the border. Your label can’t be your friend, unfortunately, no matter how much you love each other: business is business.
I knew we still had the Pro Tools studio, so we could record and edit and mix right on our computer, as well as a great circle of musicians who were considered inner family. Doug Fury on guitar was key in the whole process of writing and recording the album, and Peter had been involved with many songs on the past albums, including co-writing, producing, and mixing several of the hits. We didn’t have distribution, and we were now 100 percent indie all over again. Peter and Doug and I had to write a new record. It was a time of regrouping, reflection, and change.
Then, one evening in late January 2005, I found myself playing an acoustic set at a private corporate party at a restaurant in Vancouver. Peter had been getting offers for weddings, funerals, prisons, you name it. There were a lot of requests for corporate events, which he hated. He was not ready to sell me out, not yet. An email came in saying, “We would like to have Bif Naked play at our office party at a restaurant in Yaletown next week.” Peter turned to Naz and said, “I must have received five requests for Bif to sing at funerals and weddings in the past two weeks, now an office party in a restaurant four blocks from here!” He later told me he was so fed up that he almost threw his BlackBerry over his balcony onto the street below.
Sensing her husband’s frustration, Naz calmly said, “I have a good feeling about this, so write back and see if you can book it.” Peter wrote back, asking for a very large fee for a thirty-minute acoustic set that would include his daughter Brittin on guitar, Doug Fury on guitar, and drummer Scotty Sexx on the congas. Fully expecting to be told that this was way over budget, Peter was surprised when the person emailed back and said to please send over the contract. And that’s how we met Calvin.
At my performance—the office party, as it turned out, was a party for Calvin Ayre of Bodog.com, the boutique online gaming company—Peter stood beside Calvin and the two of them started talking about a joint venture between HRM Records and Bodog, to create Bodog Music, and also to form Bodog Entertainment, encompassing Peter’s other entertainment companies.
Two months later, Bodog Music was launched, and I was back on the road doing tour dates, videos, television, and interviews. Peter opened a Berlin office with Jörg Hacker, who had left Sony the year before; a London office; and an office in New Jersey with Jonny and Marsha. It was an incredible time. Bodog Music was kicking ass and taking names—it had the capital to send bands on tour, a wonderful thing and a rare opportunity for many artists. I was once again resurrected, pulled back from the brink, the precipice, saved and redeemed. I was embarking on another exciting rollercoaster ride. Only this time, it was Peter behind the wheel 100 percent, and driving at a deadly high speed.
THIRTY-FIVE
Bodog Battle
JOHNNY ROTTEN SNEERED AT ME AND I SMILED BACK. Johnny was a red-headed firecracker, hurling obscenities and spitting when he spoke. And, Johnny made me cry in front of thirty people in a quiet room, on film. It was fucking brilliant television, apparently. We were shooting a reality-TV show together, along with The Cult’s Billy Duffy, called Bodog Battle of the Bands, a talent contest with celebrity judges and a one-million-dollar recording contract awarded to the group considered the best live band in America. Peter Karroll had created and packaged it, much like the other television shows he created at Bodog Entertainment, Bodog Music’s parent company. Bodog Battle was destined for America’s Fuse Network. The bands would compete through tasks and performances, travelling all over the United States on tour buses to play in clubs and other venues, everyone fighting tooth and nail to win the Bodog Battle recording contract and a lot of publicity.
The promotion for this television series was huge, larger than anything I had experienced. Peter arranged for a giant billboard in New York City’s entertainment district, with a photo of a rock guitarist standing on top of a tour bus, the roof of the vehicle blazoned with the words “Bodog Battle.” Everything at Bodog was supersized—including the gorgeous “Bodog girls” and the parties Bodog was famous for. Calvin Ayre was the founder of the Bodog brand, and Peter ran the entertainment divisions, and the music, television, touring, and live events, using our record label, Her Royal Majesty’s, as the infrastructure for Bodog Entertainment. “Why reinvent the wheel?” Calvin would say. Calvin would also say, “You can build it, rent it, or buy it,” and in this case Peter and Calvin merged it. I really liked Calvin; he was a real man, as Peter used to tell me. Calvin had balls of steel. I’m assuming Peter was referring to Calvin’s business acumen.
Calvin was the final judge of the final episode of Bodog Battle and rightfully so. He essentially put up the money for the production so that he could see Bodog become the broad entertainment brand he hoped it could be. But prior to that final episode, the celebrity judges had a roundtable at the end of the performances section of each episode, where we discussed our favourites. Usually, this was quite jovial; even our debates were playful. Unfortunately, my opinion differed tremendously from Johnny’s, and on that specific day, he went over the Johnny Rotten top and really let me have it.
I felt too humiliated to argue or retaliate. I just looked at my feet and hoped my tears would fall straight to the floor rather than across my face, ruining my TV makeup. I wanted to die from shame. The bottom line was that I just wanted to do a good job and help Peter and Calvin with their show. It really was that simple for me.
True to reputation, Johnny was not going to waste one second before telling me I was a “glorified groupie whore” when I disagreed with him over which band to axe. I felt like I was hit by a shotgun blast.
I wasn’t a groupie or a whore but I did feel completely discredited, belittled, and diminished in front of the cast and crew. I think everyone in the room was shocked, including Mr. Rotten himself, when my big, slow tears made an appearance. In fact, they stole the show.
Billy was clearly embarrassed for me, but Johnny couldn’t back down in front of everyone, and I understood that. I ate my feelings and let him savour his triumph. Naturally, I got scolded by Peter, and by Jonny
and Marsha too, for letting myself be such a victim; they wanted me to stand up for myself. But it just wasn’t in me, and I was crestfallen by Johnny’s remark. Nevertheless, I pulled myself together and the shoot wrapped. Johnny and I pretended it never happened.
The rest of the episodes were more enjoyable. The shoots took us to Austin, Los Angeles, Toronto, among other places. Every band played earnestly, with all their hearts. It was impossible not to get wrapped up in each band’s story, in their triumphs and failures, in their lives. I loved the show and I loved being a part of it. It hadn’t been that way in the beginning, though. When I was asked to be on the panel, I had only two days to get myself to Cleveland, Ohio, and was panicking about my dogs. I mean, I had just got home from being on the road shooting BodogFight, another of Peter’s inventions, and had just moved into a new apartment. I was stressed.
My dogs had been my life for all these years—ten and counting—and I carried around so much guilt about leaving them whenever I was away for work. I took them with me when I could, but that wasn’t often, as they couldn’t come in the airplane cabin, both being over the weight limit, and so were relegated to the cargo hold—which was not an option. So I was stuck.
As luck would have it, I had just started seeing a guy after five years of being single (my neurologist boyfriend, as it turned out, was not cut out for a relationship with a travelling girl), and he offered to stay with the dogs. I was sold. What a mensch! I was so relieved, I decided right then and there that I was in love with him. With my dogs taken care of, I was free to fly all over the United States to film the show and do my best to assist the bands, the producers, and, most importantly, Peter. Free to be myself and get to know my co-stars, I was in my element.
Johnny Rotten was not really that rotten after all. The final episode was shot in Vancouver. Calvin chose the winning band and presented it with the recording contract, and I was able to relax and go home to my new apartment, for about a minute anyway.
THIRTY-SIX
The Man Who Married a Rock Star
I MET IAN WALKER INNOCENTLY. I HAD MY EARBUDS shoved in my ears during my workout at the gym when this cute surfer dude in flip-flops bowed to me and mouthed the word namaste. He was doing bench presses and smiling and waving at me in the mirror as I stood there, trying to get through my supersets of front dumbbell raises, and completely oblivious to him at first. Then I noticed him waving at me. It was kind of annoying and adorable at the same time. But really I just wanted to finish my workout. When he eventually came over to talk to me, I got the impression that he was just a regular guy. Besides being cute, he was funny and respectful, and the best part was that he had never heard my music or seen one of my videos, or so he said.
Although I politely refused to go on a date with him, in part because of my schedule, I gave him my telephone number anyway—I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He called twice, asking me out. I declined, again because of my schedule more than anything else: I was halfway across the world, in St. Petersburg, Russia, shooting the television series BodogFight with MMA heavyweight champion Fedor Emelianenko. Ian was persistent and even went so far as to call me at my hotel. I asked how on earth he had found me, at the Kempinski, and he said, “I’m a reporter, it’s what I do.” Our conversation was short, as I had a set call at five o’clock in the morning, and he’d called at about four. I was not impressed with his timing but quite charmed that he had gone to the trouble. His persistence was endearing.
Having dated MMA fighters and bodybuilders, and having a history with athletes and sociopaths, I felt I might have more in common with someone like Ian, who was a gym rat, a Vancouverite, and a bit of a hippie like me. We even looked alike and were about the same height, which I thought was sweet. And he seemed to like me for myself, not for being Bif Naked. Plus he was physically fit, easygoing, and not a musician, which made me assume that he wouldn’t be competitive about our respective careers.
The fact that he continued to maintain that he’d never heard my music or seen any of my videos or live shows made my manager skeptical. “In Canada? In Vancouver? He’s a sports writer? He listens to CFOX and he’s never heard your music or heard of Bif Naked?” Peter laughed.
I am pretty gullible, and if anyone knows this, it’s Peter. Peter had had to troubleshoot my love life from the get-go. He has physically removed more male invaders, stalkers, and snake-oil salesmen from my presence than I can count. He has removed them from the front of the stage as they climbed up, from the dressing room as they talked their way in, from the autograph lineup where they jumped in front of the young girls who were waiting patiently, from the tour bus, from the washroom, from the parking garage, from the airplane aisles, from my vehicles, and even from my apartment. Therefore, Peter definitely had evidence that I could sometimes be a bit gullible.
On my first date with Ian, after I returned to Vancouver, we went to see the stage show Aladdin, starring Bret “The Hitman” Hart. As luck would have it, Peter and Naz also had tickets, so we accompanied them and two of their daughters, still very young, at Peter’s suggestion. This was a safe situation for me, so it was easy to agree to it. The girls took a liking to Ian right away, from that point onward always referring to him by his full name: “Is Ian Walker coming over?” It was sweet, and Ian seemed more comfortable with the little kids than he was with the adults. The girls recognized Ian’s childlike qualities and loved him for it. In their eyes, he was like a comic book character, and he was funny.
By the spring, we were engaged to be married. Ian had asked Peter and Peter’s father-in-law, Afshin, for my hand. They both decided this was a fabulous idea, and the champagne flowed. It was so perfect that I started to fantasize about having babies. I wanted to be a mom; I was thirty-six years old and it was time. But my history was daunting. I mean, what if I couldn’t even get pregnant? What if something was wrong with me? I had not had a period for years, had night sweats, and zero sex drive.
But now, engaged again and romanticizing about having a baby, I wanted to investigate my potential for getting pregnant. Never mind that I had resigned myself long ago to the idea that God would never give me a baby because I had terminated a pregnancy years before. I never forgave myself for having an abortion, and I felt that the universe didn’t either. I thought it must be karma. Why else would I have never got pregnant again? Like, not ever? How weird was that? None of my boyfriends ever even wore condoms when we were together. My generation of girls grew up on the pill, and we never used condoms, ever. And now I wanted to find a way to have a baby. I knew it was a huge undertaking but decided to go for it. I told my GP about my absent period, asked for a referral to a specialist, set up the appointment, and then braced myself for the long wait to see the OB/GYN.
It seems that there are many women my age who have trouble getting pregnant—every second couple seems to either be on fertility drugs or having triplets as a result. No matter, I was ready. When it finally came time to see the specialist, I sat in the exam room, staring at the greyish walls. I looked at the magazines, at the pile of folded blue gowns, at the boxes of latex gloves affixed to the wall, sizes small, medium, and large. I wanted to steal some for chopping beets. I shifted in the plastic chair. I pulled my hoodie sleeves over my hands, looked at the stirrups of the exam table, and shuddered.
The door opened. She was sorry to keep me waiting, the doctor said, followed by an “ahhh!” before she was even fully through the doorway. Looking me up and down, shaking her head, she said, “Come back when you’re serious.”
“I’m sorry?” I was floored.
“You’re too skinny; you will never get pregnant.”
She was now seated, looking over my file. “Look, Ms. Hopkins, you’re wasting your time, and you are wasting mine. Go gain twenty pounds, and come back to see me when you’re serious.”
“But I am serious. I’m getting married, and I’m thirty-six years old.”
“You don’t look serious; you look like you need a turkey sandwich.�
�
“I’m a vegan.”
“Then you’ll never get pregnant, I’m afraid. If you want to get pregnant, you’re going to have to eat some dairy and a little meat.”
I stared at her.
Her face softened. “Listen, I’m not trying to burst your bubble, but vegans have a lot of fertility problems. Given your age and your body fat, well, it is highly unlikely you will get pregnant.”
“I get a lot of protein and fatty acids from my food. I’m a raw-food vegan,” I replied.
She rolled her eyes. “Well, I see we have a real effort on our hands, then, don’t we?” she said.
Usually, there is no use explaining vegan diets to doctors if they are meat eaters. I just sat there watching her and her French manicure. I was no longer listening, instead trying to think about what I would make for dinner.
She told me I needed to get bloodwork done, then paused and looked at me. “He is going to have to get tested too.”
“He eats meat,” I said. I thanked her for her time and left with my lab requisition.
When I was in town for a few weeks in a row, I went and got the tests done—the pelvic, the pap, the bloodwork, the works. I was into it and enthusiastically went for the exams. I wanted a baby, and I thought about it constantly. I still wanted to adopt a baby as well, given my karmic responsibility as an adopted kid. But this was different.
Eventually, the doctors needed structural imaging of my lady plumbing, a hysterosalpingogram, a special X-ray using contrast dye, to look at the structure of the fallopian tubes and uterus. But before doing the imaging, they needed to be sure I was not already pregnant, as the test could cause irreparable damage to an unborn child. So I was sent for bloodwork the day before to determine if I was pregnant.
I was very much looking forward to any insight that might be gleaned from the hysterosalpingogram, which I had the next day after the staff checked my chart. The X-ray itself took no time at all.