Argh Fuck Kill: The Story of the DayGlo Abortions
Read Argh Fuck Kill: The Story of the DayGlo Abortions Online
Authors: Chris Walter
Tags: #Biographies & Memoirs, #Arts & Literature, #Composers & Musicians
Chris Walter © 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Published by Gofuckyerself Press
Vancouver, British Columbia
All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, saved in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without written permission from the publisher.
Printed and bound in Canada.
SECOND PRINTING May 2011.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Walter, Chris, 1959-
Argh fuck kill : the story of the Dayglo
Abortions / Chris Walter. -- 1st ed.
ISBN 978-1-927053-04-1
eISBN 9781927053041
1. Dayglo Abortions (Musical group). 2. Punk rock music--Canada. I. Title.
ML421.D275W23 2010 782.421660922 C2010-900903-7
Graphic design by Dan Shnier.
Cover art by Doug Clement.
Illustrations by Trey Agnew.
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Dedicated to the memory of Nigel Halloran.
(1968-2010)
Chris Walter
Beer
Punk Rules OK
Mosquitoes & Whisky
Kaboom
I Was a Punk Before You Were a Punk
Boozecan
East Van
I’m On the Guest List
Langside
Welfare Wednesdays
Shouts From the Gutter
Rock & Roll Heart
Wrong
Punch The Boss
Sins of the Poor
Up & Down On the Downtown Eastside
Biographies
Personality Crisis: Warm Beer & Wild Times
Argh Fuck Kill: The Story of the DayGlo Abortions
GFY Press
Simon Snotface
– Prisoner of Evil
Stewart Black / Chris Walter
– Destroy Canada
Drew Gates
–The Crooked Beat
Coming in June 2012
Chris Walter
– SNFU …What No One Else Wanted To Say
Feed Us a Fetus or Give Us a Beer
White Bread & Baloney Tour ’86
Here Today, Dragged Through the Law Courts Tomorrow
Corporate Whores and Other Smelly Beasts
Victoria, British Columbia is known more as a place where old people go to die than it is for its hardcore punk scene. This is a sleepy little burg, where elderly vacationers nibble cucumber sandwiches with the crusts removed as cruise ships float idly in the harbour. Retirees from across Canada do not move here because they wish to see bands such as The Fuck You Pigs or Alcoholic White Trash at the local bar, but rather for the mild winters and scenic landscape. Long a British stronghold, Victoria takes pride in its flower gardens and fancy hotels, not its active punk community. Glossy tourist brochures do not say anything about safety pins and razor blades.
To better understand this community of retirees and opportunists, a little history is in order. Incorporated by rejects from the 1858 gold rush, Victoria quickly became a haven for those with an eye for a quick buck. While the real go-getters forged onwards to gold rush-related bankruptcy and madness, the hucksters and con men stayed behind to fleece the miners of their money. The people of Victoria, who were cautious and smart, knew better than to go traipsing all over the mountains of British Columbia in pursuit of gold. Why hack at the terrain when foolish miners would gladly fork over the yellow stuff in exchange for goods and services? Any fool could see that prosperity was just around the corner.
But when the Canadian Pacific Railway opened a terminus on Burrard Inlet in Vancouver and ruined Victoria’s chances of becoming the commercial hub of British Columbia, the worried Victorians looked around for new marks. The gold rush was long over now, but no one actually wanted to work hard to put bread on the table. Luckily, the townsfolk soon realized that tourists were even easier to rob than the miners were. Unlike the miners, tourists arrived without the expectation of becoming wealthy, and seemed to want only the finer things in life. To meet this growing need, the clever citizens built a number of high-end establishments with which to attract the suckers, er, tourists. The world-renowned Butchart Gardens opened in 1904, followed by the elegant Empress Hotel in 1908. Opera houses, theatres, and ballet troupes popped up like calluses on a banker’s thumb. If it was culture they wanted, then culture they would get. Now, with the tourist bucks flowing, the townsfolk breathed a collective sigh of relief. The miners were gone, but now they had a source of income that was as lucrative as it was sustainable. Life was better than ever.
As the citizens began to age, their motivated offspring left Victoria to seek fame and fortune elsewhere. Victoria was too sedate for those with bold plans, and the new breed thirsted for action. The sleepy town let them go and remained as quiet and peaceful as it had always been. Those with excessive ambition need not apply.
Meanwhile, tourists returned home to inhospitable climes such as Regina or Winnipeg and decided they would move to Victoria upon retirement. Though it rained too much in Victoria, one didn’t have to shovel water, and snow in the coastal city was almost non-existent. The retirees eventually flocked to Victoria in much the same way Americans migrate to Florida, with flip-flops in hand and credit cards aplenty. Even during economically difficult times—partly because the capital city is also populated with civil servants and soldiers—Victoria continues to thrive. This is the place to be for those who wish to live out the last days of their lives in relative comfort. Call it Florida without alligators.
Yet for all its carefully cultivated gentility, Victoria harbours a dirty little secret. Since 1980, the tourist haven has been home to an unruly and obnoxious gang of punk rockers known as the DayGlo Abortions. Just why these angry musicians chose to inflict themselves upon the poor townsfolk is anyone’s guess, and the only time the city is truly peaceful is when these ruffians are on tour or in jail. And while it is obvious that the DayGlos themselves are not young men anymore, they are not at all ready to die. There will be no golden retirement for Canada’s most controversial and infamous hardcore punk band. Not while there are still innocent young minds to corrupt.
While it seems strange that any self-respecting punk band would purposely choose Victoria as a home base, none of the founding members of the DayGlo Abortions were actually born there. In fact, original DayGlo frontman “The Cretin” Murray Acton was born in Winnipeg. Murray’s family moved there after his father, Richard Acton, escaped the family farm in Saskatchewan to join the Canadian Air Force as a non-commissioned officer. While stationed in England, Richard met Joy Adlard, and the two were married. Richard was then transferred to Winnipeg where Murray was born on October 2nd, 1960. Mrs. Acton, of course, had no way of knowing that she had just given birth to the boy who would become perhaps Canada’s most infamous punk musician. By then, it was much too late to abort—dayglo or otherwise.
The singer’s only memory of Winnipeg—and it is remarkable that he has any recollection at all given his tender age—is of sitting in a plastic wading pool across from a little girl. Nothing else, just sitting there in the water. The memory surfaced after Murray and his wife separated in late 2004, leaving the guitar player in a fragile emotional state. “We shared the highest highs and the lowest lows, you know?” the singer says, not without regret. Under gentle prompting in a psychiatrist’s office, a flood of childhood recollections returned. “The weird thing is that none of those early memories involved my parents,” says the DayGlo, trying to understand. An outside psychiatrist Dr. Jim Simm offers a speculative diagnosis: “Perhaps Murray can’t bring himself to admit that he has some dependency issues and doesn’t want to see himself in the role of a helpless and needy child.” Whatever the case, even a layman might conclude that the singer’s parents did not play a major role in his early development. The same, obviously, cannot be said about Winnipeg girls.
Psychiatric matters aside, the senior Acton transferred to Greenwood, Nova Scotia when Murray was one. Unfortunately, there were no accommodations for the family in Greenwood, so Mrs. Acton took Murray and returned home to Kettering, Northamptonshire, UK to live with her parents. One can assume that this was not an ideal situation because Murray and his mother soon returned to Greenwood, and the family moved into a motel. This arrangement did not last either, and the boy and his mother flew back to England for another ten months before Corporal Acton finally secured military housing. United at last, the small family slowly settled into the small community. Murray’s first years had been anything but secure.