Argh Fuck Kill: The Story of the DayGlo Abortions by Chris Walter Page B
Authors: Chris Walter
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the fans rushed forward. Truthfully, those in attendance were so excited they would have slamdanced to Nana Mouskouri, but the DayGlos were much better than that. The youths in the pit hammered each other like minor league hockey players on steroids, just like the punks they’d seen on
Quincy.
The band played on, but when the Americans failed to arrive, they did an extra-long encore that included covers they had dropped long ago. Then, just as the boys had almost run out of songs, the police came surging into the hall with billy clubs at the ready. The officers took a quick look around and saw several beer bottles on the floor, and maybe even a teenager or two with open liquor. These minor infractions were all they needed to shut everything down. Unplugging the PA, the red-faced and obnoxious policemen began to rudely evict paying customers onto the street. The show was over.
At that moment, naturally, the American punks arrived. Surely, as the Yanks watched the cops herd punk rockers from the hall, they must have wondered if they had somehow taken a wrong exit back to Los Angeles. The LAPD hated punk rockers and never missed an opportunity to break up a gig. Mark Stern of Youth Brigade brushed a tear from his eye. This was enough to make him homesick.
Tim Crow, the young promoter, was also in tears. He begged the police to allow him to clear the booze from the hall and start over. The cops, naturally, ignored the whiny brat and continued to clear the place. In fact, since Tim was too young to charge, the cops tried to pin the rap on Fred from the Metropol, and Fred’s friend, Loris. Since the adults were Tim’s financial backers, the cops figured they must be guilty. The policemen took the pair downtown and held them for several hours before releasing them. Cooler heads finally prevailed, concluding that the attempted hall show was not the worst crime ever perpetrated on Victoria soil. Tim, however, was devastated that his big event had been ruined. The police were not his friends.
The DayGlo Abortions and their American guests agreed that there was nothing left to do but drink some beer. They climbed into their respective vehicles and, with the yellow bus lumbering after the DayGlo van, set off to procure a few boxes of suds. At the vendor, the Americans were dismayed to see the high price of beer. Grumbling bitterly, the Yanks loaded up with the expensive Canadian suds and proceeded onwards to Head Street. So far, Canada had turned out to be a total bust.
Despite the shaky start, the Americans felt better once they got a few beers down. In fact, they started to feel a little
too
good. They were used to guzzling weak American beer as if it were water, but something was wrong here. Had the long drive affected them? Why were they getting so drunk? Soon, much to the amusement of their Canadian hosts, the Yanks were staggering around bumping into things and falling over. “They were hammered, all of them,” Spud remembers. By the time someone finally explained that Canadian beer is considerably stronger than the stuff the Yanks were used to, the damage was already done. The Americans lurched to the yellow bus to pass out while the DayGlos had another beer. The night was still young.
The next day dawned slowly, and the revellers from both countries were late to rise. When Spud finally woke up, he got a beer and went outside to see how the Americans were doing. “They were terribly hungover,” the bassist recalls. When Spud walked around to the side of the bus away from the road, he was puzzled to see pale pink streaks down the side. He asked what happened, and someone mumbled sheepishly, “Pepto Bismol.” The hurting Americans had not been able to keep the popular stomach remedy down. “Those guys were pretty cool, though,” Spud adds, who wants everyone to know that he doesn’t think any less of the Yanks because of it. Anyone could have made that mistake.
Later, when they managed to clear their heads a little,
Quincy.
The band played on, but when the Americans failed to arrive, they did an extra-long encore that included covers they had dropped long ago. Then, just as the boys had almost run out of songs, the police came surging into the hall with billy clubs at the ready. The officers took a quick look around and saw several beer bottles on the floor, and maybe even a teenager or two with open liquor. These minor infractions were all they needed to shut everything down. Unplugging the PA, the red-faced and obnoxious policemen began to rudely evict paying customers onto the street. The show was over.
At that moment, naturally, the American punks arrived. Surely, as the Yanks watched the cops herd punk rockers from the hall, they must have wondered if they had somehow taken a wrong exit back to Los Angeles. The LAPD hated punk rockers and never missed an opportunity to break up a gig. Mark Stern of Youth Brigade brushed a tear from his eye. This was enough to make him homesick.
Tim Crow, the young promoter, was also in tears. He begged the police to allow him to clear the booze from the hall and start over. The cops, naturally, ignored the whiny brat and continued to clear the place. In fact, since Tim was too young to charge, the cops tried to pin the rap on Fred from the Metropol, and Fred’s friend, Loris. Since the adults were Tim’s financial backers, the cops figured they must be guilty. The policemen took the pair downtown and held them for several hours before releasing them. Cooler heads finally prevailed, concluding that the attempted hall show was not the worst crime ever perpetrated on Victoria soil. Tim, however, was devastated that his big event had been ruined. The police were not his friends.
The DayGlo Abortions and their American guests agreed that there was nothing left to do but drink some beer. They climbed into their respective vehicles and, with the yellow bus lumbering after the DayGlo van, set off to procure a few boxes of suds. At the vendor, the Americans were dismayed to see the high price of beer. Grumbling bitterly, the Yanks loaded up with the expensive Canadian suds and proceeded onwards to Head Street. So far, Canada had turned out to be a total bust.
Despite the shaky start, the Americans felt better once they got a few beers down. In fact, they started to feel a little
too
good. They were used to guzzling weak American beer as if it were water, but something was wrong here. Had the long drive affected them? Why were they getting so drunk? Soon, much to the amusement of their Canadian hosts, the Yanks were staggering around bumping into things and falling over. “They were hammered, all of them,” Spud remembers. By the time someone finally explained that Canadian beer is considerably stronger than the stuff the Yanks were used to, the damage was already done. The Americans lurched to the yellow bus to pass out while the DayGlos had another beer. The night was still young.
The next day dawned slowly, and the revellers from both countries were late to rise. When Spud finally woke up, he got a beer and went outside to see how the Americans were doing. “They were terribly hungover,” the bassist recalls. When Spud walked around to the side of the bus away from the road, he was puzzled to see pale pink streaks down the side. He asked what happened, and someone mumbled sheepishly, “Pepto Bismol.” The hurting Americans had not been able to keep the popular stomach remedy down. “Those guys were pretty cool, though,” Spud adds, who wants everyone to know that he doesn’t think any less of the Yanks because of it. Anyone could have made that mistake.
Later, when they managed to clear their heads a little,
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