Fred Heller now billed the show as “Blood Sweat & Tears featuring David Clayton-Thomas,” and the bookings rolled in once again. We worked constantly. I was on the road so much I didn’t even bother with a home. I lived in first-class hotels around the world, and whenever I was in Toronto my room at Bill Pugliese’s house was always available. We landed a new record deal with Jerry Goldstein, the producer of War, the band from LA that had several big hits, like “Cisco Kid Was a Friend of Mine.” Goldstein obviously knew how to record a funk band.
This new band with its Toronto-based players was much funkier than the earlier editions of BS&T. These Canadian boys were much more in tune with my blues roots than the New York guys, and the Toronto music scene had always had deep R&B roots, going back to the Bluenote days. Even my tunes like “Spinning Wheel” and “Lucretia MacEvil” were more soulful, with a bluesy fusion-jazz sound. There was also a new depth to my singing. The flash and theatrics of the glory years had given way to a more mature and sober David Clayton-Thomas. I was relaxed and comfortable with these guys and it showed onstage. Bruce Cassidy and Rob Piltch, both talented arrangers and composers, began working with me on new songs for the Goldstein album. We planned to record the tracks in Miami and mix them at Goldstein’s studio in Hollywood. I drove the Porsche down to Florida to record the tracks. I had beaten the hell out of her driving all over North America the previous summer, so that winter I’d had the battered old sports car totally rebuilt from the frame up by a custom shop in Toronto. She was an absolute beauty!
The ’74 Porsche Carrera 911S Targa had been punched out from the stock 2.7 litres to 3.3. It was now powered by a 500-horsepower turbocharged engine, 19½ PSI boost with titanium bearings and forged pistons, a tuned exhaust system and a high-performance suspension. It was wicked fast, 0 to 60 mph in under five seconds, top end around 175. The body had been flared and carried a diamond black paint job. It had BBS gold mag wheels, low-profile Pirellis, Recaro seats and a killer Alpine sound system. That car was very special to me. It had been my therapy, my companion on a very personal voyage of self-discovery, and I just couldn’t part with it. I only carry on about the Porsche because it would take me on another adventure and would figure prominently in what was about to unfold.
We finished recording in Miami and then had some bookings that would take us across the southern States—New Orleans, Houston, Phoenix, winding up at an outdoor street festival in Los Angeles, where Goldstein planned to record the show for a “live in concert” album before we mixed the Miami tracks. I drove the Porsche out to LA, tailing the band’s tour bus. The gigs were well spaced out so there was no pressure. It was a nice leisurely drive along Route 10 across the southwestern deserts with the Targa top off all the way. I had a chance to reflect on some of the lessons I had learned in that first aimless drive across America. I had been so busy running away from my past that I’d never stopped long enough to deal with it. Maybe I had to hit the wall to stop running.
I arrived in LA sunburned and fit. We recorded a kick-ass concert in downtown LA, then checked into a residency hotel in Burbank to begin mixing the Miami album, by now entitled Nuclear Blues. I was for all intents and purposes homeless. I had been living in five-star hotels and travelling all around the world with the Canadian edition of Blood Sweat & Tears. We had been playing concerts in South America, Australia, South Africa and all over the States. It was a fine band made up of guys I’d known most of my life. We were nearly all Canucks and shared a very Canadian mindset. We laughed at jokes that only a Canuck would get, despaired for the Leafs like a Bostonian despairs for the Sox, and travelled as a tight-knit group of friends.
A memorable experience for us all was our tour of South Africa. Bruce Cassidy was so deeply moved by the experience that he returned to live there for the next twenty years. The controversial tour, organized by the Quibell brothers from Jo’burg, was groundbreaking. This was pre-Mandela South Africa, and the Afrikaner government in Pretoria ruled with an iron fist. Concert tours had previously been organized with black artists performing only for black audiences and white artists performing for exclusively white audiences. The popularity of local artists like Johnny Clegg, who performed with mixed-race bands, had already forced Pretoria’s hand. For the first time blacks and whites were buying tickets for the same concerts. Pretoria’s idea of a compromise was to paint a line down the middle of the theatre, whites on one side, blacks on the other. This was a last-ditch effort by the government to hold back the tide of freedom that was sweeping across the country, and it was a complete failure. Once people were inside the hall, the only way to stop them from mingling was by use of force, and that didn’t look good on the evening news. The old system of apartheid was breaking down, and music was playing a large role in its destruction. South Africa was ready to take a giant step forward in its struggle for racial equality, and we had a chance to participate.
The Quibells offered us the first fully integrated tour of South Africa. Tickets would be sold on a first-come, first-served basis, without prejudice, and there would be no separation of people in the hall. Thelma Houston would be our opening act. This was a brave move in 1980. The promoters received hate mail and death threats and took a lot of heat from the all-white government, but they defied Pretoria and went ahead with the tour. It was a resounding success. The country was hungry for change, and when it came to showtime the controversy evaporated and it was all about the music. I’ll never forget the sight of thousands of young people, white and black, standing and cheering for the same music, their hands linked in the air. Even the audience in conservative Pretoria responded to the show with flowers and beaming faces and standing ovations. We hung out with many South African musicians who had been on the cutting edge of the revolution sweeping their country. Mixed bands like Johnny Clegg’s Savuka, and Soweto township groups like Ladysmith Black Mambazo had long carried the message of racial equality in their music. They welcomed us like family and took the band to clubs in the “township,” where we jammed all night with the local players. We went on an unforgettable camera safari in the Kruger National Park, bouncing across the dusty Londoloza in an open Land Rover with lions and elephants so close you could almost touch them. We all fell in love with Africa, its incredible beauty, its warm and generous people and the tumultuous changes they were now experiencing. We felt a tremendous surge of pride and accomplishment in being able to participate in our own small way in such a historic effort, and returned to LA to finish mixing Nuclear Blues a happy and satisfied band.
While we were working on the album I began going out with Jennifer Goodson, a vivacious, good-looking girl from Madison, Wisconsin, who I met through Jerry Goldstein. She was recently divorced and had a great sense of humour, and we had fun together. We laughed a lot, and she was just what I needed. At the time I wasn’t up for another heavy relationship and neither was she, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about affairs of the heart, the best-laid plans mean nothing.
After a few weeks, the Nuclear Blues album was completed and it was time to hit the road again. I realized I was really going to miss Jennifer and she felt the same way. We had been living together at the apartment in Burbank for several weeks. She came to the studio with me every day and we had grown very close. Neither of us really had anything permanent in LA. So one day out of the blue I asked her, “Hey, Jen, want to drive to Toronto with me?” She didn’t hesitate. She said, “Sure, let’s go!” Jennifer was always up for an adventure, one of the things I loved about her. I said, “Pack a bag, baby, we’re outta here.” And just like that, Jennifer Goodson and I ended up driving the Porsche crosscountry from LA to Toronto. After surviving the ultimate train wreck, things were definitely looking up. I had a hot new girlfriend, a mean turbo Porsche, an ass-kickin’ band and a new album in the can, and I was headed back home to Toronto.
Ashleigh’s Song
You’re my child little girl, you can be what you want to be
You’re my life little girl, you mean a
ll of the world to me
And may you grow up strong and true
And may the world be good to you
And when you’re safely on your way
Remember how I used to say
From my heart into your dreams, flowered fields, golden sunbeams
Butterflies, unicorns too, golden dreams I give to you
I’ll be here little girl, even when I’m away from you
I’ll be near little girl, making all of your dreams come true
And in the mornin’ when you rise
It’s puppy dogs and sunny skies
But now it’s time to close your eyes
Or you might see your daddy cry
From my heart into your dreams, starry skies, silver moonbeams
Charming prince, sand castles too, golden dreams I give to you
From my heart into your dreams, golden dreams I give to you
Lyrics by David Clayton-Thomas. Copyright © Clayton-Thomas Music Publishing Inc., 1986.
21
ASHLEIGH’S SONG
Jennifer and I rented a small apartment in downtown Toronto. It was only temporary, but I’d been living in hotels for the past year and we needed a place to get organized and figure out where we wanted to live. I got my furniture out of storage, stashed the Porsche in the underground garage and hit the road again almost immediately. We did a lot of international touring that year, so I spent the summer of ’81 flying all over the world with the Canadian band. I wasn’t home a lot in those first few months, but Jen made the downtown apartment a nice comfortable place to come home to. She quickly became a member of the BS&T wives’ club. With their men on the road constantly, the girls all banded together in a support group and they made her feel right at home in Toronto.
By the end of the summer we found out that Jennifer was pregnant and it felt right for both of us. We loved each other, and Toronto’s a good place to have a baby, with fine health care, my Canadian medical plan and lots of friends around to give advice and help out. Like most anxious young parents-to-be, we became very concerned with Jennifer’s health and nutrition. We decided to move up to the country for the fresh air and healthy lifestyle. I bought a rustic old Canadiana farmhouse thirty miles north of Toronto and just a few miles from Bill Pugliese’s place. Bill’s wife, Linda, had raised five kids, so she was a good companion for Jen and could keep an eye on her when I wasn’t around. Touring became impossible during Jennifer’s pregnancy. She really needed me while she was carrying the baby and I wanted to be there for this miraculous event. So at the end of the summer tour I disbanded the Canadian BS&T, shook hands with Fred Heller and we all came home. It was very amicable with the guys. We had been travelling the world for nearly three years and everyone needed a break. We were all friends, and we loved being back home in Toronto with our wives and families. It was time for us to get off the road for a while.
Jennifer and I settled into our rural farmhouse and awaited the arrival of our blessed event. It was a good time for us. Fine local produce and healthy home-cooked meals were a way of life. Bill and his family were close at hand and we spent a lot of time with them. In the fall there were corn roasts and family dinners at the Puglieses’. Doc and I went to hockey games that winter and hung out with our musician friends at the downtown jazz clubs. For the first time in years there was barely a mention of the music business. Jennifer and I got married in a small private ceremony attended only by a few of our closest friends. We were a family now, and all our attention was focused on Jennifer’s health and nutrition, and having a healthy baby.
That winter I covered the Porsche and put her up on blocks in the barn on our property. A high-powered sports car wasn’t much use in rural Ontario, where six-foot snowdrifts were not uncommon. I bought a four-wheel-drive Jeep Cherokee (much more useful in farm country), and by spring we were ready for the arrival of Ashleigh. We knew we were expecting a girl and she was already named. The tour manager for the Canadian band was a guy named Stuart Murray. He was a class act. He would later go on to become a member of parliament in Canada. We travelled the world together for three years. His fiancée was a girl named Ashleigh. Jen and I thought the world of Stu and Ashleigh. They were smart and classy people. We both loved the name and the traditional British spelling, so Ashleigh it was.
On the evening of March 9, Ashleigh Clayton-Thomas decided to announce her presence to the world right in the middle of a wicked blizzard. Jennifer thought her time might be getting near and we were hoping to get her to the hospital before the storm got worse. We made our way down Highway 400 in the Jeep Cherokee at 15 mph in a whiteout—zero visibility, sixfoot drifts and Jen having contractions in the passenger seat. The snowplows weren’t out in Toronto yet, and by this time it was coming down too fast to clear anyway. We made it as far as Doc Riley’s house and banged on his door at 1:00 a.m. That’s when you find out who your real friends are. For several hours that night we thought Ashleigh might be born right there on the Rileys’ sofa, but by morning the streets were cleared and we made it to Toronto Western Hospital, where Ashleigh Victoria Clayton-Thomas was born on March 10, 1982.
She immediately set about changing my life. I fell completely under the spell of this little charmer. I had stopped smoking cigarettes during Jennifer’s pregnancy, booze and drugs were a thing of the past and I would never go down that path again. I’ve heard it said that abused children often grow up to be abusers themselves, but in Ashleigh’s case the opposite was true. The cycle of abuse that had been passed down from father to son in the Thomsett family was over. I was determined that she would never experience the kind of fear that I had grown up with.
I’ll never forget the time when Ashleigh and I drove up from New York to spend Christmas with my family in Canada. She was about eight years old. I wasn’t looking forward to dinner with my father, but my mother hadn’t seen Ashleigh since she was a baby and I wanted Ash to know her grandmother. My father and I barely tolerated each other. We had never spoken about the brutality of my childhood, and there was never a word of pride or approval from him even now, when I was a successful and respected artist. We were halfway through dinner and Ash was pushing her food around her plate with her fork. She had always been a picky eater and maybe she sensed the tension between Fred and me. “Something wrong with your dinner?” my father asked her, his voice low and menacing. “I don’t like peas,” my daughter answered. BAM! My father slammed his fist down on the table, the dishes jumped and Ashleigh sat frozen, her eyes wide with shock. “You’ll eat what’s put in front of you in my house, young lady,” my father barked. “I work hard to put food on the table.” It was the same old tyrannical Fred Thomsett, and it made my blood run cold. Ashleigh’s eyes welled up and my father glared over at me. I stood up abruptly, knocking my chair over, and glared right back at him, my fists clenched on the table. He saw something in my face that he’d never seen before, and I’m sure his life flashed before his eyes. In that moment, had he raised his hand to my daughter, I would surely have killed him. The blood drained from his face. He got up from the table without a word and went downstairs to his workshop. We didn’t see him for nearly an hour. Ashleigh ran into a back bedroom and my mum and I went in to comfort her. She was sobbing and shaking. She’d never been spoken to like that. With hugs and kisses from her grandma she soon calmed down, and Mum and I went back to the kitchen. My mother was still shaken. She said to me, “David, I’ve never been afraid of you before, but there was a look in your eyes I hope I never see again.” I hugged her close and told her, “Mum, it ends here. The Thomsett bullshit is over. Now you know why I changed my name. My daughter is a Clayton-Thomas, and she won’t be raised the way I was.” My mother nodded. She understood. She’d been living with the Thomsett temper for more than forty years, and while she loved Fred and would never leave him, she’d had enough too. I think she was secretly glad that someone had finally stood up to him.
An hour later I looked into the living room and Ashleigh was sitting in her g
randfather’s lap. He was holding her tight and there were tears in his eyes. Well, I’ll be damned! Maybe after all these years Freda’s faith that he would mellow someday had finally paid off. Maybe there was hope for the mean old bastard after all. My relationship with my father changed from that moment on. We would never be all warm and fuzzy, but at least I could visit them from time to time and we could actually be in the same room together. The thing my mother wanted most in life was to see some kind of reconciliation between my father and me. When she lay dying in the hospital, her happiest moments were when my dad and I would visit her. She was in hideous pain and heavily sedated, but a smile would light up her face when she saw Fred and me arrive together. When I was inducted into the Canadian Music Hall of Fame in 1996, my father finally told me he was proud of me. My mother had passed away a few years earlier, so she never lived to see the moment she’d always dreamed of. It had been a long time coming and it was way too late, but with a man like Fred Thomsett you take what you can get.
It’s Only a Song
Seems like I’m always leavin’ town
Seems like I always let somebody down
Blood, Sweat and Tears Page 18