Argh Fuck Kill: The Story of the DayGlo Abortions (21 page)

Incidentally, the girl who had loaned the DayGlos records to the Nepean police officer’s daughter was at the Carleton University show. “Spud was hitting on her,” recalls Cretin, shaking his head. Unfortunately, the girl could not be contacted for the purposes of this book. How could she ever have known that her generosity would result in such a massive uproar? No deliberate act of sabotage could ever cause as much damage.

Despite Cretin’s messed-up face and arm, the band was obviously in fine form. Nev and Cretin were drinking at Barrymore’s after a show in Ottawa when former Sex Pistol Steve Jones walked over to say hello. The famous punk guitarist bought the awestruck Canadians a pint of beer and bestowed upon them the highest accolade possible. According to Nev, Jones told them the DayGlos were the best punk band he’d ever seen in his life, and that he was handing them the punk rock torch. Cretin and Nev’s heads exploded at that point. “It just doesn’t get any better than that,” says Nev, recalling the moment fondly.

With three guitars, the DayGlo Abortions were the Blue Oyster Cult of punk rock. On this tour, the set included a twenty-minute Black Sabbath epic that started with Mike Anus playing an instrumental version of “Into the Void” by Black Sabbath. After maybe thirty seconds of this, the band would come in with “Acting Like Black Sabbath,” which morphed into “Paranoid,” before switching back to “Acting Like Black Sabbath” again. The other DayGlos knew they sounded great with Cretin at the helm but, as much as they wished such a thing could happen, they knew that he could not be persuaded to join full time. This was a reality they were still learning to accept.

Cretin, still mending from his injuries, soon flew home, leaving the rest of the band to finish up the engagements in southern Ontario before heading back across the endless prairies. Winnipeg, Calgary and Edmonton were the same as ever, and the beer was still free. The females were still friendly, and the cops still weren’t. Things changed very slowly or not at all on the prairies.

The band arrived home in Victoria to find that they had become overnight celebrities. Everyone was talking about the charges, and everyone felt just a bit famous for knowing them. Spud’s family found the proceedings extremely humorous, and one of his sisters even phoned from the United States to say that she’d seen him on TV. “That was all fine and dandy, except my sister saw Cretin on TV, not me. She didn’t even recognize her own brother,” laughs Spud. Cretin’s father was not amused at all. Richard Acton’s pals at the legion, much to his annoyance, kept bringing up the subject and wouldn’t let him forget about his infamous son. As far as Richard was concerned, his son had brought great shame upon the family. If he never heard the words “fringe” or “dayglo” again, it would be too soon.

Despite the media feeding frenzy, the band set about getting Myrtle ready for the US leg of the tour. Spud tightened bolts, oiled bearings, and checked the old bus from top to bottom for possible problems. During this time, the various bandmembers also spent time with friends and girlfriends, knowing that soon they would be gone for months on end. Bonehead, at the time, was dating a blonde vixen named Angie, and the relationship was apparently serious. Spud, unfortunately, didn’t get along with Angie and recalls trying to evict the girl from a party on Mason Street one night. “I threw Angie’s coat and purse out the door and wanted to throw her out too, but Bonehead said he’d keep her in his room. She was just being Angie, but I’d had enough.” The bassist, who had a few girlfriends of his own, was not about to marry any of them. Romance aside, the DayGlos tidied up their affairs and prepared to hit the road.

Spud, in fact, was beginning to tire of cheap sex. “I was starting to get bored; not just with the girls at home, but with the girls on the road as well. I’m not sure if I was aware of it, but I think I was looking for something real,” reflects the former cocksman. “Not that there’s anything wrong with meaningless sex,” he quickly adds. There were worse things in the world.

For this tour, Fringe Product hired an American booking agent to make the arrangements, and the boys hoped that things would run a little smoother. The DayGlos didn’t know it yet, but the new promoter was almost criminally incompetent, and even Johnny Stiff had his shit together in comparison. In fact, the bandmembers hated the blundering fool so much that they blocked his name from their collective memories. Cretin didn’t even write a nasty song about him. He was that bad.

At last the time came to leave. The boys loaded Myrtle with toilet paper and porno magazines, and waited for Mike Anus and Ferris to arrive from East Vancouver. When the lead guitarist and the road manager finally arrived, they hit the highway. Though the band was looking forward to the American tour, there was still the border to overcome. This time, rather than cross into the USA from Vancouver like they usually did, Spud wanted to try the Anacortes Ferry, which ran from Sidney, British Columbia, to Port Angeles, Washington. The plan was worth a try, but the band ran into problems when the American border guards learned that Jesus Bonehead had a conviction for possession of marijuana and refused to let him pass. Fate intervened in the form of another border guard, who just happened to be an old classmate of the drummer’s. Things were tense for a while but, after a lengthy wait, the customs officials allowed Myrtle and her rowdy crew to enter. The bandmembers rolled down the highway towards the first show, amazed to be in the USA. Maybe now, the tour would run smoothly. They should have known better.

The DayGlos hit Seattle, where the promoter seemed embarrassed when he couldn’t pay the group more than they usually received. Spud astutely realized that the band had moved up several notches in ranking, and therefore could command more money for shows. Groups such as Bad Religion, who had previously headlined over the DayGlos, were miffed to learn that the situation had been reversed, and now it was they who had to open. All of a sudden, everyone—except maybe Bad Religion—loved the DayGlos. Strangers bought them drinks like never before, the girls were friendlier, and even members of the press were almost respectful. The DayGlo Abortions were a beloved but largely unknown punk band one minute, and overnight sensations the next. For better or worse, they really couldn’t say.

On August 24, 1988, as everyone had feared, criminal charges were brought against Fringe Product and their distribution arm, Record Peddler for possession and possession for the purpose of distribution of obscene material. At first, the band didn’t take the charges seriously, but they eventually began to realize just how important the case was. If Fringe Product was found guilty, artists and distributors alike would have to severely limit themselves or risk criminal charges. Given the potential impact of the charges, it is not surprising that a number of civil liberties groups leaped forward to offer support, and even good ol’ Jello Biafra would eventually participate in a benefit to raise funds. After all, the future of artistic freedom depended on what legal defence Fringe Product could muster. The DayGlo Abortions believe that Fringe received three times as much as they spent on defence, but deducted the full amount from DayGlo Abortions royalties anyway. According to Spud, owner Ben Hoffman actually
made
money on the case. Still, if Fringe Product had money, it seems odd that they didn’t spend more than they did, especially given the gravity of the charges. At the risk of sounding dramatic, it is safe to say that Canada would be a very different place had Fringe lost. Nothing less than artistic freedom and freedom of speech was at stake.

Still, for the rank and file within the band, things weren’t so awful. All this attention was sort of flattering, even if many of the stories were negative. The way things were going, Mike and Nev thought they might even arrive home with a few bucks in their pocket. The guitarists couldn’t see any real downside, as they had no stake in the royalties for
Feed Us a Fetus.
However, since they had contributed to
Guano,
both were theoretically entitled to future royalties—or at least they would have been if the album was still being sold. The loss of sales was a blow to the group, and the only consolation was that the press coverage they were getting was greater than any publicity the new album might attract. Hell, the press coverage the DayGlos were getting was greater than a terrorist attack on Capitol Hill would have generated. TV camera crews and eager news reporters were fairly crawling out of the woodwork. The Cretin wondered if he could still work for Defence Research Establishment Pacific if he was declared an enemy of the state. Time would tell.

The difficulties with the booking agent continued to escalate. “Every show was messed up,” recalls Spud. “Whether it was the money, the promotion, or whatever; something always went wrong, with every single gig.” Though it seems likely that the young booking agent was simply inexperienced, he made a number of serious gaffes. For example, he arranged shows in two college towns, which normally would have drawn reasonably large crowds. Sadly, the man made the mistake of booking the gigs on a long weekend when all the students were home visiting Mom and Dad. “Those shows were a total bust. You could see tumbleweeds rolling down Main Street,” Spud moans. “We barely got gas money.”

On the DayGlos went, from one ineptly-promoted show to the next. Despite all the publicity generated by the court case, the tour began to feel like an ill-fated exploration mission in which the stronger members devour the weaker members for nourishment. The weary musicians kept hoping that maybe the next show would be better but they never were. The tour was a reoccurring nightmare. And still they pushed on.

In Arizona, the club was run by the manager of Jody Foster’s Army. The show went all right, and then Mike and Ferris found out that the manager had a half-pipe in his backyard. The chain across the ramp didn’t keep Mike and Ferris out, and soon they were skating up a storm. “The guy told us not to ride it, but me and Mikey were on it all the time,” recalls Ferris. “The bastard kept giving us shit but we ignored him.” Sadly, road manager Ferris had to say goodbye to the band at this point. His seniority as a longshoreman was increasing, and there was no way he was going to give up a job that paid $80,000 a year for the privilege of touring with the DayGlos. The boys dropped Ferris off at the Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix, where he caught the next flight back to Vancouver. Ferris was crazy but not insane.

The band rolled on, through New Mexico, Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, and Indiana. By now, Spud and Bonehead had become very tired of trying to sort out problems with every engagement. Even though the DayGlos were not unknowns anymore, and should have been able to earn more, it seemed that they had to fight tooth-and-nail for every dollar. Chasing money took the fun out of playing music, and it didn’t seem fair to them that they should have to work so hard just to get paid. Was it like this for all musicians, or was it just this way for punk bands from Victoria?

Through West Virginia and Pennsylvania into New Jersey. The turnout in Trenton was good again, and the band even made a little cash without having to threaten anyone. Still, the shows were bad overall, increasing stress levels within the group. The band packed up and hit the road for the next gig, which was in Athens, Georgia. A hushed silence fell over the bus.

Travelling down the highway, the bandmembers wondered what disaster might befall them next. They didn’t have long to wait, and Jezebel soon threw a rod on the New Jersey Turnpike. This was the second engine she had gone through, and Spud could not repair the vehicle with parts from a nearby auto supply store. Against all odds, a Highway Patrol car came along, and the cops arranged to have Jezebel towed to a garage in the next town. The police told the bandmembers that it was far too dangerous to stay where they were, since they would probably be robbed and murdered. Under those circumstances, the boys were more than happy to accept a lift. The tow truck arrived, and the bandmembers joked about highway marauders and serial killers as the bus rolled towards safety. Locked securely inside the garage, the gang drank beer and waited for the mechanics to arrive in the morning. If the engine could not be replaced in a timely fashion, they would have to cancel a few engagements, and that was not something they wanted to do. More than ever, the DayGlos needed money.

The next day, hungover and worried, Bonehead phoned Fringe for help. Ben Hoffman, who didn’t even know that Cretin wasn’t with the band, claimed to be hemorrhaging money from the impending court case, and would only provide $1500. This left the DayGlo Abortions to raise the remaining $1000 for the rebuilt engine elsewhere. Only with a desperate phone call to Rancid Randy were they able to “borrow” the cash. The DayGlos were extremely lucky to have Randy as a friend.

While Jezebel was being fixed, the group rented a van to play a gig 700 miles away in Athens, Georgia. Distances like this meant nothing to the DayGlos at this point, and they drove off without a second thought. Luckily, they had arranged for Jezebel to be delivered to them in Athens and would not have to return to Trenton. The gang arrived at the show and loaded in with some trepidation. As the reader may recall, Nazi skinheads on the previous tour had taken a dislike to the DayGlo Abortions and their song “Wake Up, America.” This time, however, the show went off without a hitch and the turnout was good. The band even came away with a good chunk of change, which was a pleasant surprise. The notoriety generated by the pending court case followed them everywhere and sometimes it even helped.

With time to kill and a few bucks to spend in Athens, the boys hit a local bar. According to Spud, Nev was trying to pick up a punker girl by pretending to be sad and lonely. “He would pull this little pouty thing, and then walk away, hoping that she would follow. It actually worked sometimes because females wanted to mother him,” recalls Spud. “Anyway, he was trying to steal the girl away from me, and I wasn’t very happy. Suddenly, a guy comes over to the table and tells us that someone wants to meet us. Turns out it was Mike Mills, the bass player for REM.” Mike made his introductions with the various Day-Glos, whereupon Jesus Bonehead proceeded to berate the hapless pop star for subjecting him to “This One Goes Out to the One I Love,” which seemed to be playing non-stop on every radio station at the time. “Bonehead had a bone to pick with Mike about that song,” laughs Spud. Surprisingly, the REM bassist was a remarkably good sport about the ribbing, and hung out all night drinking beer with the DayGlos, even though he was the butt of endless jokes. “Mike was having a gas,” says Spud. “Maybe he was sick of everyone kissing his ass.” The pop star certainly didn’t get that from the DayGlos.