DRAMATIS PERSONAE:

THE RED LIGHT RIPPERS (Toronto)
We first struck up a friendship with Staci, Rip, War and Ter back in the winter when they assisted us in tearing Hamilton a new asshole one night at the Underground. We later swore a blood oath to do more gigs together in the future, all in the name of further outraging the bourgoisie. Take my word for it, these fuckers are a force to be reckoned with, epitomizing all things loud, sleazy and gratuitous in rock’n’roll. They also make us glad we don’t have daughters.

THE LORRAINAS (Hamilton)
“If we were girls,” Loaf recently opined, “we’d be The Lorrainas. Only not as cute.” Four PVC-clad cool-as-Joan-Jett rocker chicks and their token male drummer (known as the Peen – draw your own conclusions) churn out poppy punk gems that make you pour beer on your head and hump the furniture. They’re fronted by Lasha, who never – NEVER – stops smiling, leading to much whispered speculation that she must be secretly shacked up with Dirk Diggler. Guitarist Lisa also pulls bass duty with The Punk Rods, another of our fave Hamilton bands.

SPIN DIZZY (Hamilton)
More authentic Steeltown beer-swilling rock-punka-roll, fronted by the only lead singer on this bill taller than 5’6”. Sure, he looks like a serial killer, but he’s actually quite pleasant. Guitarist and bass player appear to have attended the same rock posture school as Loaf and myself. Perhaps we’ll cross paths with them at that upcoming Pete Townshend master class.

FILLMORE SLIM (Detroit)
On Friday and Saturday the bill was rounded out by this Rock City band who added some authentic G’n’R/Faster Pussycat skank to the procedings. Several of them brought really hot girlfriends along, and the drummer has possibly the best metal hair we’ve seen since Dee Snider. Y’know where you are? You’re in the jungle, baby…

THURSDAY – BRAMPTON

Ever been to Brampton? I couldn’t recommend it with a clear conscience myself.

Brampton isn’t so much a town as a series of frumpy, low-slung mini-malls populated by every retail store, restaurant and bar chain you can name, a few you’ve probably forgotten and still more that would elicit only the shrugged shoulder of unfamiliarity and the raised eyebrow of utter bafflement. SuperLube, Sizzlin’ Charlie’s, Jack Astor’s, Ultra-Mega-Super-Lo Discount Mart – they line the streets, block after block, waiting to pounce. The houses and apartment buildings, if they do in fact exist, appear to have gone into hiding. Okay, so even after living in Toronto lo these fourteen years I had never been to Brampton before this. Can you blame me? I mean, it’s just not the kind of place you go without a really valid reason. With a bare minimum of fucking about and some valuable sonic inspiration from AC/DC Bonz and I locate the evening’s venue, Raxx. (Bonz expresses no small amount of dismay that there aren’t at least three x’s to be had in that name.) The place is a motherfucking gigantic pool hall, and we’re informed that we’ll be playing in a “smaller” room, which still turns out to be about the size of Lee’s Palace. The DJ actually plays some cool stuff – The Donnas, Rammstein, Kiss – in stark contrast to the dismal onslaught of Linkin Park and Nickelback we’ll be force-fed between sets the following night at the El Mocambo.

The Red Light Rippers are soundchecking as Bonz and I arrive. We tell Staci to turn up his amp. The sound guy – or, in Pariahs-speak, “soon-to-be Post Traumatic Stress Disorder victim” – subsequently turns up the vocals, drums and bass. We tell Staci he should turn up more and he graciously complies, so then the sound guy responds by… well, you know. Hey, we have our methods.

More Pariahs trickle in, and we introduce ourselves to sundry Lorrainas and Spin Dizzy personnel. We’re already familiar with Lovely Lisa Lorraina from various gigs we’ve done with The Punk Rods. Lisa immediately collars me to check out her guitar case, a Coffin Case like mine, but it’s the contents of said case that give me an instantaneous envy woody. The various Les Pauls lying around the place are immediately forgotten as I drink in the sight of a jet-black BC Rich Warlock, an eighties metal dream machine with more lethal pointy bits than Jennifer Anniston on a really cold day. Bonus: this majestic rock beast is adorned with a portrait of Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. What could possibly be cooler than that? Well, feeding Bono to the sharks would be hard to top, I guess, but that’s still just in the planning stages.

Lisa expresses some dismay that I’ve neglected to bring her any Rue Morgue issues, and I promise to bring some the next night. I don’t think she hears the word “no” very often. If you knew her, you’d understand why.

As they say in the industry, ticket sales in this market are a bit soft tonight. Flaccid, even. Sufficiently flaccid, in fact, that aside from a few stray punters who seem to have drifted in by mistake after taking a wrong turn en route to The Gap, the audience consists largely of the other bands. Oh, there’s the staff too – a couple of bartenders, the aforementioned unfortunate sound guy and a devastatingly beautiful waitress with pigtails. (All the filthy fantasies I’ve ever harboured about Pippi Longstocking immediately go into overdrive.) We’re on first tonight, and bulldoze through our set before an appreciative throng of Lorrainas, RLRs and SDs. Bonz and Matt depart shortly after we finish – day jobs fucking blow – but Mike, Loaf and I stick around to partake of some great food and very cheap drinks while getting our asses rocked back to the stone age by three stellar bands. The evening concludes with everyone bum rushing the stage for a celebrity sing-along during the Red Light Rippers’ set-closing cover of Pills by the New York Dolls (via Howlin’ Wolf).

The trip home is drunken (except for Loaf at the wheel) and largely uneventful, save for finally seeing Mike’s new place, inadvertantly waking up his girlfriend (sorry, Cat – now be a good girl and put down that crowbar) and meeting their new dog, James Bond, for the first time.

G’night John Boy, g’night Mary Ellen…

The good news: the renovated El Mocambo features vastly improved sight lines and a bigger stage. The bad news: the room sounds even worse than it used to, which none of us thought was possible.

Fillmore Slim from Detroit joins the bill tonight, cock-rockin’ things off to a scorching start. (No, they didn’t name themselves after my day job.) They finish and… what the fuck, we’re hearing Korn and Linkin Park over the PA between sets at the ElMo? Dan Burke would NEVER have let this happen back in the day. He’s only a few doors away, and I’ve half a mind to go find the fucker and goad him into orchestrating a hostile takeover.

But never mind the bollocks, tonight is ALL about the Lorrainas, who blast through their set with even more conviction (read: testosterone, an important quality in a woman) than the night before. It’s only their second Toronto show so far and yet the crowd response borders on religious. The Lorrainas came, they saw, then came several more times. Loaf and I agree that Brains’s selection of a Strat over any variety of Gibson – the usual punk rock weapon of choice – serves her well in solo land. Hey, it worked for Ron Asheton…

Between sets Spin Dizzy front man Tyson reveals that he’s a strip club DJ just like me. What the fuck were the odds on that? We swap anecdotes and knowing smirks until it’s time for them to go on. I promise to drop in on him at Hamilton Strip, and he promises to come and scare the shit out of the bouncers at Filmores.

Highlight of the evening had to be when I gave Lisa some Rue Morgue back issues, causing her to throw her arms around me and squeal, “Ooh, John, you’re the best, you’re the BEST…” I consider telling her that I can also breathe through my ears, but that would be gratuitous even by my standards.

Blame it on Electric Six – that’s Loaf’s story and he’s sticking to it. I mean, how do you not only get lost driving from Toronto to Hamilton, but coming back as well? I had just recently become quasi-religious about Detroit’s Electric Six over recent weeks, and made the mistake of putting on their album while Loaf was driving. He immediately became a hardcore E6 devotee and all other considerations – including getting to the gig on time – were suddenly secondary.

A dozen wrong turns later, we pull up to Hamilton’s legendary Corktown Tavern, easily one of the top ten coolest venues we’ve ever played. We’re barely out of the car when we run into Ed and Mimi, old friends of ours from the earliest Pariahs days. Warm greetings are exchanged, as are recent updates on Tom Wilson’s love life.

Fillmore Slim are just finishing up as we enter to find the place full of rounders and revellers rockin’ out in ways a Toronto audience could scarcely imagine. Celebrities spotted among the throng include Mickey De Sadest of the Forgotten Rebels and Teenage Head’s Frankie Venom, and the presence of such legendary figures may explain why everyone is in rock god overdrive tonight. Hometown faves the Lorrainas and Spin Dizzy whip the crowd into a froth, although the rowdiest audience member appears to be RLR front man Rip, who’s out front devil salutin’ and headbangin’ like it’s 1989. Any fears that he might not have anything left for his own band’s set are put to rest as the Red Light Rippers hit the stage and deliver the best show we’ve seen them do so far. Trailer Trash Trixie has officially become a singalong crowd favorite.

Rip’s down front throughout our set as well, shit-disturbing like a true believer. Plenty of fists in the air and beer-throwing throughout, and Matt seems to be the only one who notices how I completely, unforgivably fuck up the intro to Joan Jett a song of ours I’ve only played about a thousand times over the last eight years. Mea fuckin’ culpa, dude, mea maxima fuckin’ culpa. (Perhaps it’s not coincidence that the next time I see Matt he has the first four bars of this very song tattooed on his right arm.) Everyone sings along to Knives and Teenage Death Song, thereby warming the cocksuckles of our hearts and prompting Mike to gush – in genuine sincerity – between songs about how much more fun Hamilton is than Toronto. The set feels rather short by the time we finish with Ace of Spades, although we’re immediately summoned back for an encore of Heart Attack and the Stooges’ Loose.

As gear is carted out, last call inhaled and goodbyes exchanged, the Lorrainas corral all five bands onto the stage for a comemorative group photo, and Lou the booker assures us of more Corktown gigs to come. Casting common sense to the wind – a pastime at which the Pariahs excell – we listen to Electric Six on the way home. Mike is travelling with us now, and he becomes another immediate E6 convert. Loaf celebrates by taking another wrong turn. And several more. We arrive home safe and sound several days later.