This story is abridged from the historiography Chasing the Muse: Canada by Lloyd Walton, multi-award- winning director/cinematographer, painter, and writer. Chasing the Muse: Canada is available through Amazon, Kindle, Chapters Indigo, and Barnes & Noble.
(Can a white boy have the blues?)
“Creativity won’t invite what wasn’t there before.” – Bob Dylan
Yorkville Avenue in Toronto had its place in time as a day and night entertainment fest. It was a string of poster and gift shops mixed with coffee houses with names like the Purple Onion, the Riverboat and the Mynah Bird. They introduced young, soon-to-be superstars Gordon Lightfoot, Joni Mitchell, and NeilYoung.
They also presented many longtime legends in the business, like Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee – two elder black musicians who played the blues of the U.S. Deep South. Sonny was blind and Brownie was crippled. I had seen them perform in the early Yorkville days, when I was in high school. Years later, when I was an art student, they were back in town; I was encouraged by a Riverboat waiter friend to see the show and meet them backstage.
Approaching the dressing room, I wondered, as a white boy, why would these two living legends be interested in meeting me? To make things even more awkward, I was aware that while they played together exquisitely, they did not get along personally.
SONNY FARTED WHEN I SHOOK HIS HAND
I shuffled into the dressing room and introduced myself. Sonny farted when I shook his hand. Taking this as a sign that he might be comfortable in my presence, I sat on an old couch and looked at the drab green walls. This was the same room where Joni Mitchell had written her tender ballad The Circle Game.
After an awkward silence, to make conversation, I stupidly asked Sonny if he sucked or blew on his harmonica.
Three of my high school friends and I spent the winter customizing a 1956 Chev to take down to Toronto for March Break – to see the Yonge Street strip, hear the music, and meet some of the fine big city women we have been hearing about.
“Well, son, I done suck and blow,” he gruffly replied, shaking his head.
“I’ve got to do better than that,” I thought.
Brownie spoke up, impatiently, “What’s on yo’ mind, boy?”
Aware that he had a reputation of not suffering fools gladly, I broke into a sweat.
In a wellspring of guile, I mustered a question. “Well, sir, I would like to know if a white boy can
have the blues.”
“What you mean by dat, boy?”
“I’ll have to tell you a story ...”
“Sho’, boy, you go ahead. You tell dat story.”
It was like he turned the light on me. I had to dance.
DOWN TO TORONTO FOR MARCH BREAK
“Well, Sonny, I come from the snowy North. Three of my high school friends and I spent the winter customizing a 1956 Chev to take down to Toronto for March Break – to see the Yonge Street strip, hear the music, and meet some of the fine big city women we have been hearing about. It was painted up metallic blue. What a bomb, we thought. Wait till the chicks on Yonge Street see this!
The drinking age was 21, and the oldest in our group was 18. Despite our snappy appearances, Yonge Street became a blur of bouncers turning us out into the cold, damp night.
“We also rented a canoe, lashed it to the roof, sped out of chilly Sault Ste. Marie, our hometown, and headed for a canoe race on the Credit River, just west of Toronto. Every 125 miles, we would rotate drivers, and my turn came at a place called Waubaushene. I speed shifted spinning out of gravel, making the tires “chirp” once they hit pavement. Up ahead, while climbing a railway overpass, a white wall of blasting sleet whacked the windshield.
“Someone in the back seat yelled, ‘Let up on the gas!’
“Against my better judgment, I did. With bald tires, the car went into a spin, doughnutting 360 degrees into the guardrail. The first hit crunched our shiny chrome grille and headlights, and popped the hood. Still spinning, we whipped around, denting the back bumper, then came to rest with a guard post dug into the driver door. As we emerged shaken, the trunk lid sprang open. The canoe was still lashed to the roof.
“No one was hurt. We were thankful we didn’t hit an oncoming car. After the police investigation -- ‘Yes, sir, we will pay for the guardrail’ – we were towed to a dingy garage nearby.
THE DOOR HAD TO BE WELDED SHUT
“With one hour left to closing time, we did a quick assessment. Front and rear bumpers were badly bent but still attached to the frame. The radiator needed a new fan and belts. The hood and trunk lids could be wired down. The driver’s door needed to be welded shut, and silver duct tape would hold two new headlights into place.
“There was a canoe race to win and a city to conquer, so we all pitched in to help the mechanic. Our broken dream waddled back on the highway at closing time – its grille a grin of broken teeth. By midnight, sombre and shaky, we arrived at Halton Hills, home of the Credit River Canoe Race.
A MAKESHIFT REPAIR SHED
“Well, wouldn’t you know it, in the canoe race a rock in the rapids tore open the fibreglass bottom, right down the middle. We had to turn our motel room into a makeshift canoe repair shed. While taking the doors off their hinges to fit the canoe into the room, the desk clerk became suspicious and called the owner. After a shouting match, over spilled plastic resin on the dresser and rug, we were evicted.
“Late Saturday afternoon, licking our wounds in a coffee shop, a group decision was reached. Hard times were over. It was time to let the good times roll. We found a new motel, stashed the canoe, shinedour shoes, put on our best spring ensembles – white shirts, ties – and Brylcreemed our hair. Back on the road, our mantra was, ‘Look out, all you Toronto women. Us “Soo” boys are coming to town.’
“A golden sun was setting behind us on a narrow country road when an oncoming transport truck roared past us, leaving a windy wake of dust and stones. In the swirling debris, almost in slow motion, the front hood lifted off over our heads. It whoomphed a deep bowl in the roof, bounced up, floating like a big blue leaf, then hit the road behind us in a trail of sparks.
“Flustered, yet intoxicated by the nearness of Toronto, we found a large boulder. With the road acting as a makeshift anvil, we pounded the hood close to its original shape. With our shiny shoes sucking mud in a ditch, we wiggled sections of a rusty farm fence free, to wire the hood back down in place. Lying on the seats with our feet kicking on the ceiling, we popped the roof back into place. On the road, once again, it began to snow as darkness fell.
THE DREAM MACHINE LOST ITS ALLURE
“Our dream machine, having lost its allure, was prudently parked off Yonge Street. The slush and snow deepening on the wet sidewalks made walking difficult in our slippery, sopping-wet, leather-soled shoes. The drinking age was 21, and the oldest in our group was 18. Despite our snappy appearances, Yonge Street became a blur of bouncers turning us out into the cold, damp night.
“Humiliated, wet, shivering and desperately looking for heat, fate delivered us to a coffee house in the Yorkville district called the Purple Onion. Performing that night were two black blues musicians, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee.”
I looked at them both smiling in the dim light, and opened my arms.
“It was the first time I heard the blues up close all around and through and through. You two played gospel, Delta, big city, small town, lost love, bein’ in jail, highway, and heartbreaking blues. Then in a howl you would whoop and sing songs of joy. You two had seen real trouble but you moved on. It was humbling, it was healing. Thank you. You brought us through.”
The inclusiveness in their smiles eased my soul.
There was a loud rap on the door. “Time to go back on, sirs.”
As they struggled to their feet, Brownie put his hand on my shoulder, and I helped him up. He shook his head and said, “Yeah, you boys sure done had da blues.”
That sure felt very good to know.
Sometimes, when the light shines on you, you have to get up and dance. But you have to have the moves.