Argh Fuck Kill: The Story of the DayGlo Abortions (43 page)

Combat boots and Doc Martins bounce lightly on the black rubber floor, which is easy to clean and prevents serious injuries in the pit. The front of the stage is packed with impatient fans waiting for the DayGlos. But where are the crotchety old punk rockers? Their equipment is onstage, but it is possible that the band might not show, especially if the rumours that The Cretin has injured himself falling off his bike again is true. Everyone knows that he is a better guitar player than he is a cyclist.

Then the door swings open and the DayGlos storm into the Cobalt. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that only
some
of the members barge into the pub, since one of them seems to be handicapped. A closer look reveals that it is indeed “The Cretin” Murray Acton clumping painfully along on slender aluminum crutches, sweat beading on his pale brow. Despite the fact that the singer is clearly in pain, he looks determined to do his thing, and is not at all ready to keel over and die. Unless some other tragedy strikes, there will be a punk rock show tonight.

Jesus Bonehead leads the way through the crowd, his snare drum tucked tightly under a tattooed and sinewy arm. Scowling, he elbows aside a clumsy teenager and climbs the steps to the tiny holding area behind the stage. This is not a dressing room, just a cramped cul-de-sac, open to drunken fans and all manner of intruders. The bandmembers make their way up the steps to the stage, Cretin trailing behind, cursing on his crutches. With a sudden squeal of amplifiers, the band begins a short but annoying soundcheck. Johnny the Soundman sets the levels and gives the DayGlos the thumbs up. In his years at the Cobalt, Johnny has seen many crazy things. The man should write a book.

At the moment, Johnny does not have time to write anything, at least not until the end of the month. Bonehead clicks his sticks and the DayGlos kick off the set with “Let’s Get Drunk,” angry guitars bursting suddenly from the speaker cabinets. The youths in the pit are quick to react and, in an instant, the heels and elbows are flying. The punks know the song the way a mother knows an unruly but beloved son. They raise their voices to sing along:

A young punk, perhaps nineteen years old, climbs onto the stage and stands there with his arms outspread, grinning down at his friends in the pit. Behind him in the wings, stage manager Ferris frowns. Stage-diving is tolerated just so long as the diver doesn’t linger. Ferris takes two quick steps and sends the kid flying. The punk soars into the pit but remains airborne, tossed about over the heads of his colleagues like a bag of dirty laundry. He is not angry at Ferris for pushing him, not that his anger would make any difference. The DayGlos own this stage, and all others are trespassers.

Without his crutches, a shirtless Cretin braces himself on the stage, his legs spread for stability. As always, the frontman is painfully thin, and the “Fuck You Pigs” tattoo stands out in harsh contrast on his flat, white stomach. Those standing in the wings can see that the paint and varnish is worn away from the neck of his guitar in places, exposing the hardwood beneath. Hunched over the mic, Cretin spits out the lyrics he has sung thousands of times, and those words mean just as much tonight as they ever did. So what if his cigarette-and-whisky ravaged voice is more of a monotone snarl than actual singing these days? The fans are here to see the legend, and technical details do not concern them.

Next to Cretin on bass guitar is Willy Jak. The DayGlo grins at a particularly fetching punker girl hanging onto the front of stage and pulls out a few rock moves just for her. Doomed never to gain seniority, the bass player is in his element, hamming it up in a carefree and easy manner. He seems comfortable, and not at all concerned that Cretin might topple over at any second. The song ends and Willy reaches for his beer, aware that he has earned his membership in this most exclusive and dysfunctional club. Unless there is a beer garden full of naked women nearby, it is impossible to imagine that he would rather be anywhere else.

On the other side of the stage, Mike Anus aka Mike Jak aka Mike Lehmen hits a power chord and stares out at the crowd. The ex-DayGlo guitarist, in town partly for the Jaks Team Skate Competition, will only be with the band for this show. Mike lives and runs his own business in Edmonton these days, away from the temptations of East Van. In 2005, Mike finally got clean and, a year later, he gave up booze as well. “I’m very proud of my boy,” Alice Lehmen tells this author, her voice choking with emotion. “He never stopped trying.” Bearing down on his guitar, Mike plays with passion and zeal. There is no way in hell he will return to the death and madness he left behind.

Behind him on the drums, Jesus Bonehead oozes sweat from every pore. Of all the DayGlo Abortions, he is the only member who has been with the group since 1980. Others have moved on or quit, but the drummer has never given up on the band that gave him a reason to live. Even his detractors will admit that without him the DayGlo Abortions would not exist today. So what if the veteran drummer seems to take little breaks mid-song from time to time? If Cretin can tour with just one guitar, then there is no reason why fans can’t cut Bonehead some slack as well. As the original drummer for one of the most dangerous and uncompromising bands in existence, the man has earned the respect of both fans and peers alike.

Nev the Impaler watches from the wings as his ex-bandmates tear up the stage. Older now, and wiser, he looks as if he would love to join the boys, if only he could remember the songs. It has been years since Nev has played such energetic music live, and he is not ready to take his place next to Mike Anus. In the meantime, he is working on a solo project that is half finished.

Even Ferris Jak has been clean and sober for several years now. The “stage manager” frowns from the wings when Cretin breaks a string. Since the singer has not packed a second guitar, Ferris tries to borrow one from another musician. Unable to find a guitar with normal tuning, he can only watch as Cretin continues to play. The kids in the pit don’t seem to notice or care about the broken string. The music is loud and the air is charged with electricity.

Since Mike doesn’t know the songs from
Holy Shiite,
the band sticks to songs from the first four albums, and this is just fine with the punks. The kids know every word, every blasphemy and potentially libellous slur. Hitting, kicking, punching, biting, and copping cheap feels, the males—and some of the girls—spray sweat, blood, and beer as Cretin hammers his guitar. He breaks another string, and now the poor instrument is as useful as a piece of firewood. Nevertheless, the singer carries on as if he hasn’t noticed, propelling the band from hit to hit, pushing everyone to the brink of madness. At last, and just as the kids are starting to drop from heat exhaustion, the band files from the stage, dripping sweat and searching for beer. They are tired.

But the show is not over yet. The punks yell and scream until the DayGlo Abortions return to the stage. Cretin abandons his crutches in the wings and picks up his nearly string-less guitar. Grinning out at the crowd through the blazing stage lights, the iconic frontman asks, “So whaddya wanna hear?” Then, ignoring the shouted requests, Cretin glances over at Bonehead and they jump into the next song. There will always be another song.

The DayGlo Abortions at the Cobalt Hotel, September 12th, 2009. (from left to right) Mike Anus, Willy Jak, and “The Cretin” Murray Acton. [Cat Ashbee]

*footnote: As of July 2011, Jesus Bonehead appears to have left the group, and Marc “Blark” Hlady has taken his drumstool. However, do not rule out a partial return of Mr. Bonehead at some point in the future.

It has been suggested that perhaps I should write about Canadian bands that have ruled the charts and sold zillions of albums. If I moved more books and made more money, then I could stop living like such a dog, and maybe, just maybe, I could get some of that fancy quilted toilet paper Axl Rose prefers. I could afford to buy a solid gold typewriter with the proceeds leftover from a Nickleback biography and still have enough left to send Mike Reno to the moon. I could snort beluga caviar and have lunch with music all-stars such as Rik Emmett or Lee Aaron. But fuck that.

I’d rather clean the floor of the Cobalt Hotel with my tongue than write about Canadian bands that do not interest me in the slightest. There are many worthy groups that have incredible stories to tell, and I will not waste my time on mainstream muzak. I am not proud of this; I would love to sell out and make assloads of money. I do not wish to die penniless in the gutter, with only a worn-out black leather jacket to keep me warm. Alas, my fingers and my brain will not let me write about the Matthew Good Band. I am doomed.

The good thing about this is that I can document any obnoxious punk band I wish. This is my fate and I will not shy away. Now, as an unshaded 60-watt bulb illuminates my worn keyboard and quaking hands, I type these parting words, knowing in my heart that I am as free as any man can possibly be, unshackled by common sense or excessive greed. Let the chips fall where they may.

I would like to thank the slaves at Gofuckyerself Press for making this book possible. They are, in no particular order: Jen Dodds, Rachel Shoemaker, Cheryl Waddell, Robynn Holmström, Pete Digiboy, Pam McKenzie, Dave Giesbrecht, Dan Shnier, Trey Agnew, Brian Kaplan, and lastly but no means leastly, Jason “Eagle Eyes” Crane.

I would also like to thank the following cool cats (in no particular order): Mike Wright, Ron Reyes, Mekare Acton, Kev Smith, Nick Jones, Kev Kosik, Adam Huges, Steve Dreger, Corb Lund, Colin Abrahall, Terry Johnson, Mike Lehmen, Murray Acton, Trevor Hagen, Brian Whitehead, Jim Correia, Willy Jak, Chris Prohom, Neil Burns, Mike Lambert, Keith Craig, Nigel Halloran, Terry Gibbard, Mikey Pratt, Chad Barton, Dr. Jim Simm, Jake Warren, Noel “Asshole” Watson, Mr. Plow, Marc Hlady, Brian Else, Bev Davies, Simon Carr, Trent Reeves, Ken Lester, Dan Harbord, Dominic Leblanc, Jason Kelly, “Metal Mike” Saunders, Neil Embo, Mark Davidson, Scott Hopper, Watkins, Serena Woodrow, Toby Lowe, Noelle Dietrich, Rylan Goudreau, Jeremy Flynn, Sam Smith, Wendy Thirteen, Tim Crow, Ferris Jak, Mikel Johnson, Hung Jak, Bob Garlick, Steve Goof, Shawn Scalen, Simon Snotface, Cheratra Yaswen, Chris Crash, David Steinberg, “Rancid” Randy Stubbs, Cat Ashbee, Sarah George, Mark Morr, Jay Eleuterio, Alice Lehmen, Garrett Grant-Downz, Mike Safagé, Doug Clement, Mel Schedel, Don Barrett, and J. Fowler. A very special thanks to Deborah Fielding for locating people who were not easy to find, and for her tireless enthusiasm and endless cheer.

Chris Walter
Vancouver, BC
May, 2011