Everyone who met the legendary Stan Rogers (1949-1983) has a tale to tell, many of them embellished over time:
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| Songwriter Stan Rogers (1949-1983) |
"I'm in," I said, grabbing my coat.
"Yes," offered Randy, "he's playing at the Parkview."
"I'm out," I said, tossing my coat.
How shall I describe this venue, later torched by its owner for insurance money? This was a place proscribed in life insurance policies. They shared a phone number with a suicide hotline. Even the cops wouldn't go into the Parkview. Hell, bikers wouldn't go into the Parkview. I certainly didn't go into the Parkview. (I'm not as dumb as I look.)
My friends became more and more insistent, but I was rooted to the spot. In a last ditch effort, I latched onto the door frame.
Minutes later we were cruising down to Bay Street: 5 idiots in a rebuilt wreck that was half Chevelle and half Beaumont, one of us still holding a door frame. (That would be me.)
We got to the Parkview. While entering, we saw two ruffians being ejected.
"Should we tell the bouncer?" I asked.
Randy rolled his eyes.
"You see the bigger of the two dudes lying face down in the snowbank?"
"Yes."
"That," intoned Randy, "is the bouncer."
"Oh," said I. "Maybe we should just get the waiter and order our drinks."
Blank stares from all. Finally, Randy asked:
"You see the SMALLER of the two dudes lying face down in the snowbank?"
"Don't tell me, let me guess. That is the waiter?"
( I told you I'm not as dumb as I look.)
I watched as a waitress, apparently new to the job, asked a patron for Proof of Age. The customer dragged the waitress out to the vestibule and showed her the RCMP's 10 Most Wanted List. He was wanted for adult crimes so, obviously, she had to serve him. (Why carry ID?)
The patrons would signal their desire for a refill by throwing their empty beer bottles at the skull of the chief server (hence the term "head waiter"). It seems that this was the only way for customers to specify their favorite brand while capturing the attention of a staff member who didn't speak Cro-Magnon.
The folksinger, one "Stan Rogers", didn't make a great personal impression on me at the time. All he spoke about was his family in Toronto and how much he missed them. This isn't what teenaged guys like us really wanted to hear. (Stick to sports.)
His performance certainly impressed me, though. Over the next decade I bought all of his albums. Upon hearing that he would be playing at the local Folk Festival I overcame my reluctance to attend--much as I adore folk music, 1,000 people sharing a Port-a-Potty isn't my idea of fun--and bought two passes to the event.
This was June 2nd, 1983. The rest, as they say, is history: en route to Toronto from Texas, days before coming here for the Folk Festival, Stan's plane filled with smoke. He died, along with 22 other passengers. I ripped up my tickets.
In my fondest dreams he made it here and I got to speak to him again.
"You don't remember me--"
"Sure I do," he would say. "You're the moron with the door frame."
Today's song is a defiant but tragic sea shanty, written by Stan Rogers because his drinking buddies wouldn't let him sing the lead in any established maritime tune. It may be particularly resonant with anyone who has fought a Washington (or New York) juggernaut, only to lose both the legs they stood on (centrist or progressive) in an unmitigated disaster.
At his parties, a certain abrasive actor from north of the 49th parallel used to out his compatriots by playing "Farewell to Nova Scotia" at parties. The Canucks, he explained, would be the ones crying. He added that "Barrett's Privateers" could serve in a similar capacity.
"Stick your head in the doorway of a bar and yell 'Oh, the year was 1778.' If no one hollers back 'How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now!' there are no Canadians in the place." When challenged on this he backtracked only slightly: "Well, no Canadians I'd care to know, at least."
Singing this song sober is considered close to sacrilege.
Lyrics: (Explanation here.)
Oh, the year was 1778,
HOW I WISH I WAS IN SHERBROOKE NOW!
A letter of marque come from the king,
To the scummiest vessel I'd ever seen,
CHORUS:
God damn them all!
I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold
We'd fire no guns-shed no tears
Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier
The last of Barrett's Privateers.
Oh, Elcid Barrett cried the town, HOW I WISH I WAS . . .
For twenty brave men all fishermen who
would make for him the Antelope's crew
(chorus)
The Antelope sloop was a sickening sight,
She'd a list to the port and and her sails in rags
And the cook in scuppers with the staggers and the jags
(chorus)
On the King's birthday we put to sea,
We were 91 days to Montego Bay
Pumping like madmen all the way
(chorus)
On the 96th day we sailed again,
When a bloody great Yankee hove in sight
With our cracked four pounders we made to fight
(chorus)
The Yankee lay low down with gold,
She was broad and fat and loose in the stays
But to catch her took the Antelope two whole days
(chorus)
Then at length we stood two cables away,
Our cracked four pounders made an awful din
But with one fat ball the Yank stove us in
(chorus)
The Antelope shook and pitched on her side,
Barrett was smashed like a bowl of eggs
And the Maintruck carried off both me legs
(chorus)
So here I lay in my 23rd year,
It's been 6 years since we sailed away
And I just made Halifax yesterday
(chorus)
Above all, do not die without hearing “Witch of the Westmoreland”, “The Lock Keeper", "Rawden Hills", “Fisherman's Wharf" and "The Last Watch". That would be the musical equivalent of never seeing Derek Edwards. YouTube awaits!
Links: Songs for a 4 Year Funeral
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