Argh Fuck Kill: The Story of the DayGlo Abortions (11 page)

As 1981 became 1982, the DayGlos continued to play locally, drawing noise complaints and nasty reviews. In June, Cretin graduated from Camosun Col-lege and found employment as an electronics technologist for Defence Research Establishment Pacific—a daunting company name and job title if there ever was one. “I worked in a military research lab building gadgets for scientists,” admits Cretin, revealing this detail about his sordid past. Somehow, the former juvenile delinquent was able to obtain a top-level security clearance, which doesn’t say much for the military screening process. Anti-nuke activists might not have approved of the job, but the pay was good and Cretin loved electronics. Though Cretin worked for the military, he claims that his section built devices for civilian aircraft and he was not directly involved in the manufacturing of weapons. “I was never,
ever,
in the military,” he insists. Still, for a guy who wanted to save the world, the DayGlo had an odd way of showing it.

Cretin met a girl named September MacIntosh around this time, and the two began to date casually, without any serious expectations. Though employed now, Cretin was still just a kid with a funny haircut and a vulgar band. Neither Cretin nor September were planning to start a family, not just yet.

One upcoming show in Victoria was worth getting excited about. As it happened, the BYO (Better Youth Organization) would be passing through town on a North American tour, and a young promoter (who liked to piss on dry ice) named Tim Crow was organizing a show with Social Distortion and Youth Bri-gade. Would the DayGlo Abortions like to play? Of
course
the DayGlos would like to play—wild pigs couldn’t keep them away. As it turned out, sadly, pigs would indeed ruin the evening. Obviously, the cops—along with the entire city council—had spent way too much time watching the adventures of Sid Vicious on TV. These punk rockers were obviously nothing but crazed drug addicts who wanted to stab their junkie girlfriends. The dirty punks needed to be stopped now.

On August 21st, 1982, the scene was set for the show. The kids piled into the Old Age Pensioners Hall, revved up to see Social Distortion and Youth Brigade, who were clearly better than any Canadian punk bands simply because they were from L-fucking-A. That the DayGlo Abortions were also playing was just a bonus—not that they didn’t see the band every week or two anyway. The DayGlos themselves were thrilled and more than a little nervous about the gig. Cretin had a bad case of the jitters about the high-profile show, which he did his best to chase away with plenty of beer. Not only was he anxious about the gig, but where in hell were the bands from LA? Were the Yanks on the ferry, or did Canadian Customs turn them back? No one knew.

As it turned out, the Americans were having plenty of problems. Tim Crow, sixteen-years old at the time, remembers the difficulty: “Vancouver punk rock scenester Claudia Brown drove Red Tide default manager Dave Craggs to the border at Blaine, Washington to make sure there were no problems. There were all sorts of hassles, and it took five hours to get Social Distortion and Youth Brigade into Canada.” The punks might never have been allowed entry if the Better Youth Organization’s Stern brothers hadn’t done some fancy talking. These days, of course, they would have been summarily rejected if not locked up indefinitely as subversives.

Back at the gig, no one in those pre-mobile phone days knew what was going on. Red Tide played first and did what they could to stretch their short set. The American bands had still not arrived by the time they finished, and though the DayGlo Abortions stalled as long as possible, they eventually had no choice but to take the stage. Cretin’s anxiety disappeared as he struck the first chord and 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, the punks drove to the Sooke Potholes for a day of cliff diving and beer drinking. On the way home to Head Street later, Bonehead also barfed out the window of the BYO vehicle, further defiling the poor girl. The Americans said goodbye and motored away in the old yellow bus. Now it was time for the DayGlo Abortions to get down to serious business. The world was waiting.

As 1983 drew nearer, the DayGlo Abortions made it across the water for a show at the Smilin’ Buddha with No Exit. The band did not have as many problems finding shows as before, and were starting to become a solid draw. At this point, the group had risen to the status of headliner on many occasions. Since there still weren’t a lot of venues, they travelled to Vancouver whenever they could. The Island was not big enough to contain them.

The New Year brought the usual round of local gigs and, in early February, the gang did a show at Fernwood Centre with Gentlemen of Horror (who later became The Grapes of Wrath). Although the DayGlos would never find the commercial success enjoyed by some of their contemporaries, they had the satisfaction of outlasting them. There is much to be said for longevity, and it takes stamina and guts to survive.

Winter was for practicing and drinking, but the gang did more of the latter than the former. Still, they managed to put together a number of songs, such as the classic “ Argh Fuck Kill,” which would appear on the next album. The Day-Glo Abortions also managed to play a few gigs, just to stay in shape.

When spring eventually arrived, the band gratefully accepted an offer to support the Angry Samoans in California. Without a vehicle of their own the boys prevailed upon Rancid Randy to give them a lift. “I was unemployed at the time and had nothing better to do,” says Randy, explaining why he agreed to what surely would be a suicide mission. Together with September MacIntosh and a mountain of gear, the young punks climbed into Randy’s 1600 cc VW Microbus and set off for California in late June of 1983. Since many motorcycles have bigger engines than the four-banger equipped VW, they weren’t moving fast. Horsepower inadequacies aside, the group of misfits reached the border without breakdowns or fistfights, where they told the customs officials that they just wanted to pick up some cheap beer. This was common practice for punk bands in those glorious pre-911 days. “We’d come back months later all sunburnt, and they wouldn’t say a word,” Cretin recalls wistfully. Nowadays, terrorists must have their false documentation in order.

The little van crossed the border and toiled down the I-5, struggling mightily on even the slightest of inclines. “I had cars passing me on the shoulder. It was a fucking nightmare,” laughs Rancid Randy, who earned his nickname long before the emergence of a certain Bay-area punk band. Miraculously, the DayGlo Abortions finally reached Seattle, where they picked up Samantha, the stripper Bonehead was dating. Now the little van was positively overflowing with passengers and cargo. Rolling onwards, the VW made its way down the Washington coast and into Oregon. The boys hadn’t even bothered to find gigs in Seattle or Portland to help pay for gas—not that the tiny engine burned much fuel. Stopping only to piss or eat, the Canucks eventually reached California. Adventure lay directly ahead.

On July 4th 1983, the DayGlos arrived in Sacramento for a show with the Angry Samoans. Unfortunately, the band soon learned that for one reason or another, the gig had been cancelled. “The tour didn’t pan out the way it was supposed to,” Rancid Randy recalls dolefully. Do they ever? At any rate, a local group of skateboarders offered the use of their indoor skate spot for a show, and the bands passed the hat to raise gas money. During the afternoon, the DayGlos and other punks drove around the city running errands. “We seemed to pick up more beer at every stop, and we eventually had quite a pile,” recalls Rancid Randy. At last, the gang headed back to the skate spot to set up the gear. The gig was much smaller than anticipated due to the change in venues, but the evening would not be without humour.

That night, the kids began to arrive as the DayGlos hit the stage. Despite the terrible heat, all was going well until Jesus Bonehead shredded a snare skin as if it were made of paper. Fortunately, the drummer for MIA stepped forward to lend Bonehead a replacement snare. The DayGlos blasted into the next song, but it wasn’t long before Bonehead broke that snare as well. No one thought that he could possibly shatter another skin, so Angry Samoan Bill Vockeroth unwittingly surrendered his snare to the Canadian drum killer. “I don’t know if you’ve ever met Bill, but he doesn’t break many skins, and he’s a big fucker,” recalls Spud. The band started up again and sure enough, Bonehead broke
that
skin too. Everyone was dumbfounded. Had the wee fucker done it on purpose? When the set finally limped to its conclusion, Bonehead removed the broken snare from its stand and put his head through the gaping hole. “He was wearing the fucking snare drum like a lampshade!” laughs Spud. Somehow, all the bands managed to play that night, but snare skins were extremely scarce.

“Metal Mike” Saunders of the Angry Samoans doesn’t recall the snare skin drama, but the guitar player does remember fronting the DayGlos some cash for a Modernettes single and a copy of
Out of the Womb,
which was already out of print. “Decades later, they finally sent me a copy of
Stupid World, Stupid Songs,”
says Mike, unimpressed.

The next day, the bandmembers and their girlfriends packed up and headed for San Francisco. “We left four garbage cans full of empty beer cans behind,” Randy remembers. The DayGlos drove all day and arrived at the club Mabuhay Gardens around 4:00 PM, long before the place was due to open. Standing on the corner wondering what to do, the guys were shocked to hear the electronic chime of “Hockey Night in Canada.” Following their ears, the crew entered a nearby pinball joint and found a brand-new bubble top hockey game. The excited Canucks quickly commandeered the machine and gave it the workout of its life. “None of the Yanks had ever seen anyone play the damn machine before, and they gathered around to watch us beat the hell out of it,” laughs Randy. “They had absolutely no concept of hockey at all!”

Anyway, Sam decided to earn some cash by stripping at the bar across the street. Randy and a friend named Ian went over to watch the show, but were initially denied entrance when they couldn’t afford the two-drink minimum. Only by begging were the boys finally allowed to watch Bonehead’s girlfriend take off her clothes for money. Sam did her bit, got paid, and they all went back to the Mabuhay Gardens to watch the show. Upon arrival, the trio were surprised to learn that a friend and photographer named Gregor Schmidt and several of his pals had followed the DayGlos all the way from Victoria in Gregor’s VW station wagon. “Here comes Gregor, goose-stepping towards us with a sloppy red mohawk and a thick German accent!” laughs Spud. “His dad had lots of money, so he could afford to do what he wanted. What a guy!” Gregor would not be the last fan to follow the DayGlos on tour. Jerry Garcia eat your heart out.