A Decade of Toronto
I was a year out of high school and had been taking a part time photography course at Ryerson to pass the time, and hopefully to find a new hobby (it didn’t stick). We learned about aperture settings and light meters and how to move around in a dark room, what chemicals did what etc. In between those classes and aimlessly wandering through Soundscapes and Sonic Boom, I worked the 3 to 11 shift at one of the last full serve gas stations in the city, down the street from the movie lots on Eastern Avenue—a job that allowed me to listen to music and chat up cab drivers while I waited for tanker trucks coming in for diesel, on their way to drop off generators and prop cars to a nearby shoot.
Running parallel to me wading into the waters of post-secondary education and work life, was my deep compulsion to make music. I had been writing songs for what would be my first ever album, ‘Teenage Hunger’ (released physically in 2011), which I had started making with Dave Clark at his house after school, in between our drum lessons and dinner with his family. I had a faint idea of what “making a record” looked like. I grew up in studios and dingy greenrooms, in home offices surrounded by boxes of merch and tape reels and blank Cd’s. I knew what it all looked like, but hadn’t yet known what it felt like.
Amidst all of this, I had starting hearing about this band from Dillon, my brother-since-birth. One of the guys, he was convinced, had one of the greatest voices in rock and roll, another guy would strut around stage with a bass that sounded like a guitar. They had 3 part harmonies, the drummer was amazing. As a 19 year old who was so hungry for something larger than himself, I was excited to hear about a current band, one that I could latch on to with my own two hands — not a band from the 70’s, or one of the ones that my parents knew, this was music that felt like it could be mine, and not some distant thing that was just out of reach.
I was the keener who snuck a film camera in to a rock show — I remember developing this photo and hoping it would come out ok, marvelling at how much these guys looked so much like a band without ever trying.
A film photo taken of Zeus, by me — Mod Club, 2010
While looking at this photo, I’m reminded of the very real possibility that this band changed my life course, or at the very least, corrected it a bit. I started going to the Magpie (RIP) on Wednesday nights that summer because that’s where Zeus hung out, during Mainsail’s summer residency. The bar had a chilled Jager tap. I decide that I would force this community to mentor me, whether they liked it or not (I’ve done that a few times since). I laugh at my former self’s audacity to have been able to just walk up to someone and introduce myself. I cringe at the thought of doing that now— when did we all get so scared of each other? Those nights at The Magpie led me to find out about The Golden Dogs, which busted open endless possibility as to the kinds of creative and musical autonomy that could be achieved. Those nights at the Magpie led to my very first bartending job, at that very bar, and then as a booker for a brief spell. As is the case with one's life trajectory, every moment is only a result of the one that came before. There have been countless moments that stemmed from those bands and that time.
I don’t know if I fit in at those shows, or if I just drunkenly embarrassed myself night after night, or if anybody even remembered me the next day, but this was a community that felt so comfortable to me, it almost didn’t matter. It reminded me of the bands I grew up around as a child, and of that idea of togetherness that had been instilled in me from birth. Looking back, at that time a decade ago, there was something very protective about it all — almost maternal. Im thankful for all the people I’ve stumbled into since, and am looking forward to be able to get back out there and stumble into a whole lot more.
Long Live Toronto, Long Live Rock And Roll.