From Dec 10, 2014: I’ve been moping since the news of another fallen punk rock comrade. Brian Goble, AKA Wimpy Roy, or Sunny Boy, of the Subhumans, DOA and Rude Norton, died Sunday. Heart attack. Taken too soon at the age of 57. It’s so hard to reconcile the exuberance of our youth with the cold hard facts of life, the hardest, death. It comes for us all, a fact we can’t possibly comprehend when we’re kids brimming with piss and vinegar. Nor should we. A wonderful part of youth-ignorance of our impending demise-provides a liberty which empowers us to speak, sing, write. Kick ass. Take action. Realize ourselves. When I die, I’ll die knowing that we accomplished that much. Sang our songs, rallied against injustice. Lived and loved loudly, unabashedly.
There was a time when my fellow Zellots and I ran with the uber intelligent, talented, honourable and driven Brian, Subhumans and DOA, all of who profoundly influenced and inspired me. And made me smile. Laugh. I am so privileged to have known him. We all are. Wimpy in all his guises rocked Vancouver in the most visceral way. And I know many people are in pain over the loss. I so wish I could offer more than heartfelt condolences to his family. But, fuck death. Brian Goble and his legacy will live on. Onward and upwards, and “Death to the Sickoids!”
Hairiness; much hairiness! Who has time for spring cleaning with all that’s been going on? I’m still recovering from the premiere of Susanne Tabata’s punk rock movie, Bloodied But Unbowed. I couldn’t decide whether, or how to wear the Subhumans-Incorrect Thoughts, Rock Against Racism and Avengers buttons I dug out of my collection. Hey, I didn’t brandish badges then, why start now? I didn’t shave my head or wear a black leather jacket either. I couldn’t afford one! I stuffed the relics in a pocket to share with my Vancouver punk rock homies.
I was delighted to see former band members Conny Nowe, drummer of my first group, the all-girl Zellots-who just happened to be visiting from Toronto-and The 45s Brad Kent and Randy Rampage. Conny’s been playing music, currently in an outfit called Swamperella with renowned bassist Rachel Melas. I marveled at how marvelous she looked as we chatted before the movie started rolling.
I’ve run into Randy a few times over the years but hadn’t seen Brad since I was nine months pregnant, my son, now 15. I’d been walking down the street near 12th and Clark in Vancouver when I heard a voice braying “Hollywood and Western,” the scene of a notorious east end rehearsal space the 45s used. I turned around and there was Brad! The meeting was a little awkward and fleeting but at Thursday night’s after-party, he came and sat with me, gave me a big hug and apologized profusely about breaking up the 45s on the eve of our gig with PiL at the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles. “I’ve been wanting to say that to you all these years.”
My biggest regret . . . Continue reading
The party’s over. Here we sit, post-Olympics, talk of legacy raging as the provincial government returns to the capital for further belt tightening, dickering with The Budget. It was a glorious party and I, to my surprise, swept up. Well, I had to watch the hockey, it’s in my DNA, being a Béliveau. I do regret missing the revelry downtown after the Team Canada victory last night. It was an incredible game, with an astonishing sudden death goal by the Kid, Sidney Crosby, decidedly a once-in-a-lifetime event. No next time. Boo hoo. I once passed up a free ticket to see Nirvana, to attend the premiere of Tombstone. Gawd. How can I admit such a thing? My only excuse, I’m a serious film buff and by that point, had witnessed enough wasted, wailing rockers for two lifetimes. “A film is never really good unless the camera is an eye in the head of a poet.” – Orson Welles. Hmm, I can’t remember who directed Tombstone, and see, I’m not even going to bother to Google it, but he, or she, was no poet. Oh, I have another excuse for screwing up; I just remembered I was pregnant, hormone-addled. I mean, more than usual.
Some people are smugly saying things like oh where are those pesky protesters now? Well, when I was at W2 for the Real Vancouver Writers Series last week we walked by the Continue reading