Who among us has not dreamed of being a rock star?
When I was a kid my favourite pastime was lip-synching Trooper songs using my Superman hairbrush as a microphone. My sisters’ records were my source material, so if I tired of hard rock I would slap on some Burton Cummings and sing a rock ballad or a lullaby to weeping secretaries. And yes, I would cleverly disguise it so it’d not been heard before.
It was a guilty pleasure. But the opportunities were slim. To do it right you needed the house to yourself. That involved the whole rigamarole of pretending you were sick so you could stay home from school. Because you can’t jump up and down in your tighty-whitey Y-fronts while wearing a Halloween boa if your siblings are in the house. Imagine the mortification if one were observed.
But the real rock stars? They did it in public, in front of thousands of adoring fans. Could there be a better job?
My first rock concert was Tom Cochrane and Red Rider, followed by April Wine. Classic Canadian rock. Straightforward macho stuff. But my first near-riot rock concert was at the age of fifteen, when I went to see Platinum Blonde at Memorial Stadium in St John’s. It was a mob scene. You’d swear the Beatles had landed. Every girl on the Avalon Peninsula (and me, apparently) wanted a piece of these hyper-androgynous, skinny dudes with huge heads of bleached hair.
They were stars. They were dangerous. They wore copious amounts of blush. The lead singer was such a badass that he walked out onstage, screamed, “Hello, Newfoundland!” and proceeded to chug an entire forty-ounce (1.14-litre) bottle of our world-famous Newfoundland screech, an extremely dark and potent rum.
We went wild. We chanted, “Chug! Chug! Chug!”
Of course, now I realize it was all an act. The lead singer weighed 106 pounds. Had there been actual screech in that bottle, he’d have been legally blind halfway through it and dead by the end.
But it was so much fun. The debauchery, the bad behaviour, everything we knew about rock and roll was personified by these five guys who wore more eye shadow and lip gloss than the sauciest girls on the bus. This was theatre, and we were an appreciative audience.
They were playing into a rock and roll cliché. They were bad boys. And everyone wants to either be a bad boy or be with one.
Which is why rock and roll beckoned.
Of course, lacking any talent in that area, I never did become a rock star. But Canadian show business being a relatively small world, I’ve crossed paths with many of them.
And there have been some close encounters.
I once spent thirty minutes in a shower with Bruce Cockburn.
And when it comes to huge egos, bad behaviour and complete debauchery, the Canadian musicians I know fail completely. Whoever coined the phrase “sex, drugs and rock and roll” wasn’t talking about the Canadian music industry. A more apt descriptor might be “in bed by ten.”
For years my friend Heidi Bonnell and I produced a yearly benefit concert in Ottawa to raise money for Fertile Futures, a charity providing fertility options for young people fighting cancer. Amazing musicians came and helped us out. Household names. People with boatloads of Junos and gold records. Gord Downie, Sarah McLachlan, Ron Sexsmith, Alan Doyle, Randy Bachman, Jim Cuddy, Serena Ryder…the list goes on and on.
Total narcissists. Every time you turned around, that crowd were flying to the nation’s capital and raising money so young women with cancer could freeze their eggs.
I’ve met more musicians at benefit concerts than I can remember. The first time I met Gord Downie from the Tragically Hip was at a benefit when I was twenty years old. It was for Friends of Medicare Toronto, held in a small theatre in the basement of Hart House.
I remember seeing Gord there and thinking, My career is just starting. I take every gig that comes along including the free ones. But why is our greatest rock star here?
Turns out he was there because he believed in universal health care.
In my world, the comedy TV world, the phone rings regularly with people raising money for a good cause. In the music world it never stops ringing. I swear Jann Arden could do a benefit concert every night of the year. As it stands, she does a whack of them. And literally every single day, she takes time to record celebrity messages on her telephone, wishing her fans everything from a happy Hanukkah to a happy gastroplasty. All the money goes to animal charities. She’s saved more donkeys and horses than I’ve saved Club Z points.
And that’s in a regular year. When something tragic occurs—a famine, an earthquake or a deadly tsunami—a bat signal of sorts goes out and every working musician is required on deck.
Benefits happen everywhere. From the smallest pubs to the biggest rooms.
In 2005, after the tsunami in Thailand, I was asked to co-host a pair of benefit concerts in Calgary and Vancouver. When shows like this are put together at the last minute, they can be unwieldly and difficult. In a perfect world, shows on that scale would be planned and rehearsed over a period of weeks or months. In this world, in a crisis, they came together overnight.
No easy feat. Internationally famous musicians have famously hectic schedules and even more famously complicated needs and wants from a production standpoint. Getting a bunch of them on a bill on short notice requires a miracle. Or in this case, Sarah McLachlan, who was first in and was also the woman who made personal calls to her fellow musical legends. Everyone who was asked said yes and not a single stupid showbiz request was made.
I was incredibly flattered to be the co-host along with comedian Brent Butt. Another one of those “how did I get here?” situations.
To give you an idea how big the show was, Vancouver was sold out in a matter of minutes, even before the lineup was confirmed. A lineup that would go on to include Barenaked Ladies, Avril Lavigne and Sum 41. The reason for having two hosts? I was one of the faces of CBC TV and Brent, the star of the monster hit sitcom Corner Gas, was the face of CTV. Both networks were going to carry the concert live and simultaneously. For the CBC and CTV to air the same show at the same time was unheard of. Thanks to a horrible natural disaster on the other side of the planet, peace in our time had broken out in the Canadian broadcasting world.
Preparing for the first show was a bit of a mental nightmare. The host’s job is to direct traffic and keep the night moving along while full bands are brought on and off the stage. Bringing full bands on and off seamlessly is practically impossible. There’s a reason why there is always a break between an opening act and the headliner in a traditional rock concert. It’s not just so you can get a beer—it’s so one giant, unwieldly rock band can be moved off the stage and replaced with another.
In a show like this there would be headliner after headliner. And the networks wanted non-stop entertainment, no breaks. Both Brent and I knew that when the inevitable happened—when a drummer disappeared or a microphone stopped working—we would be called upon to “stretch” in front of eighteen thousand people on two of Canada’s largest networks. No pressure at all.
Meanwhile, both Brent and I were in production on our respective TV shows. We had day jobs to attend to.
A few days before the Vancouver show I got a call from Gerald. He had just spoken with the concert organizers. They wanted to add yet another show. But this one would happen first, the day before.
This made no sense to me. How could we do two shows in Vancouver in two separate venues? He said some of the acts on the Vancouver bill had agreed to come in a day early and appear. They wanted me to host. Gerald said, “Timewise we can make it happen. You’ll just fly in a day early.”
This all seemed a bit odd.
“Where is it?” I asked. This is always a pertinent question. You want to know the size of the venue, to give you an idea of how much money might be raised.
“It’s at a guy’s house in West Van,” he said. “It’s in his living room.”
My suspicions were confirmed. I was surprised Gerald was pitching me this as a real thing.
“Oh for god’s sake,” I said. “I’m not playing some guy’s living room.” I like to think I’m down-to-earth, but this seemed a bit absurd. We were going to do a show for eighteen thousand people in Vancouver—why would we play some guy’s house?
“What am I supposed to do, stand by the couch and tell jokes?”
“I think you should do it,” Gerald said. “They have a good lineup.”
“Really? Who said yes?”
“Barenaked Ladies, Sarah McLachlan, Chantal Kreviazuk so far.”
By this time Sarah had sold over thirty million records. She was one of the biggest stars in the world.
“There’s also a few surprises. Rod Stewart is flying in, and so is Robin Williams.”
Suddenly my perspective changed. “I guess if Robin Williams can tell jokes standing next to a couch, so can I. After all, it is a good cause.”
For the umptieth time I took Gerald’s advice.
And so it came to be that the evening before playing BC Place we went to businessman Frank Giustra’s house in Vancouver and put on a little show. A little show in a big house with, if memory serves me, a Renoir hanging over the fireplace. Also, it was on the water. And in the water were actual frogmen, like in a James Bond movie.
Giustra is a Canadian mining executive and founder of Lions Gate Entertainment. He is one of those very wealthy men who have decided to hedge their bets and buy their way into heaven. Either that or he’s just a very generous person. He has donated literally hundreds of millions of dollars to charity over the years. And on this night, in his home, with the help of some flush friends, he was raising a couple of million dollars. The same amount of money we would make in both Calgary and Vancouver. Attention, rich people—be more like Frank.
The audience was small by concert standards but large by living room standards. My guess is around ninety. The backstage area was cramped, as you can imagine. How I ended up in a powder room talking to Rod Stewart and one of my comedy heroes, Robin Williams, I will never know. I remember looking across the small talent-holding area at Steven Page as he picked up a pair of seriously beaten boxing gloves. They were Muhammad Ali’s.
The show was lovely. To see Sarah in a room that small was magic. The Barenaked Ladies were spectacular, as was Chantal.
I did some of my old stand-up material about Canada-USA relations. Ending with the joke “The thing about Canada and the United States is, we are bigger than they are, and we’re on top. If we were in prison, they’d be our bitch,” I heard a sound that I would have known anywhere. I looked to my left and saw Robin Williams laughing. Put that on the list of things I’ll never forget. And when I did introduce Robin, the crowd predictably went crazy. You could see Giustra vacuuming the cash out of their pockets as Robin paced the stage and gave us some of his greatest hits, including my personal favourite—the Scottish golfer. Later he riffed on my bit about Canada-USA relations, saying it’s true we were on top but adding, “Canada is the nicest country in the world. You’re like a really nice apartment over a meth lab.”
Killer joke.
And Rod Stewart? He brought an energy that would not have been out of place in Wembley Stadium. Who has Rod Stewart play in his living room?
I have to say it was the greatest house party I have ever attended. I have no expectations I’ll ever experience one remotely similar.
I can’t speak for anyone else on the bill but I left the show on a crazy high. But there was no time to sit back and relish it. The next night we were playing BC Place.
The show turned out to be phenomenal. Robin had such a good time the night before he stuck around and made a surprise appearance, to the massive delight of fans. The air in the stadium was electric. Everyone knew how special this show was. The artists on the bill had sold over seventy million records combined. The fact that they were on the same bill was nothing short of historic. Also, Vancouver is Sarah McLachlan’s town; they love her there more than the mountains they never stop talking about. This show was her baby and the audience was all in. And for those who prefer something a little harder than a classic Sarah McLachlan love ballad there was Sum 41 and Avril Lavigne. Both at the time were at the height of their staggering popularity and they took the opportunity to show everyone exactly why by taking the roof off the place.
And the moving parts? No gears were jammed and no drummers were lost. Everything went so smoothly, you would swear the transitions had been rehearsed for weeks. At no point were Brent and I asked to “stretch.” Thank God. We would have gladly sold our souls to avoid such a fate. But it was not necessary. It all came together because everyone involved on the production team brought their A game.
And then it was off to Calgary to do it all over again.
It was exhausting but fun. The week allowed me to vicariously experience the life of a rock star. It didn’t disappoint.
I remember walking up to the venue in Calgary because the weather was spectacular. If you believed in omens, this was a good one. It was the middle of winter, but the sun was shining and it was a balmy fifteen degrees. An Alberta Chinook. It kills the trees but it’s good for the soul.
This show was even more tangly than the BC show because I was doing double duty. I still had a TV show to do that week so Don, John and I planned to wander around backstage and grab interviews with the performers. How I was going to host this live rock concert and shoot my own TV show at the same time wasn’t entirely clear, but somehow we had to make it happen.
Of course, the first thing I did after entering the Saddledome was get lost. It is the story of my life, really. Eventually, deep in the bowels of the stadium, after wandering around for twenty good minutes, I came to the door with my name and Brent Butt’s on it. I went inside.
Because the venue was an arena, this was not a conventional dressing room; it was a team locker room. While I was hanging my suit up on the clothing rack, I heard someone clear their throat. It seemed to come from the bathroom, so I gave a cursory “Hello?”
“In here,” a voice shouted back. “Come on in.”
I hesitated for a minute but then thought, What the hell, maybe Brent needs a spotter.
I went to the wet area of the locker room, walked past the line of toilets, through an open archway, and on the left and right were two communal showers. There were benches on either side. And it was there that I found Bruce Cockburn. Sitting on the bench. Fully dressed.
“Okay if I borrow your shower?”
Bear in mind I had never met this man.
“Of course,” I said. And really, what else would one say to Bruce Cockburn in a shower?
“Good acoustics in here,” he said. “Take a seat if you want.”
And I sat down across from the legendary Bruce Cockburn and watched him rehearse. He is a guitar virtuoso who has played the greatest stages and theatres in the world. He’s played all the big rooms, including, that day in Calgary, my designated bathroom. And that day he delivered his hits—“Lovers in a Dangerous Time,” “If I Had a Rocket Launcher,” “Rumours of Glory.” It was one of the greatest concerts I have ever had the pleasure of attending. Besides which, when someone asks, “Have you ever seen Bruce Cockburn at Massey Hall?” I can say, “Yes, but have you ever seen him in your shower?”
No matter what happens tonight, I thought, no matter how I do, no matter if we get a piece for the TV show or not, thirteen thousand people are going to see Bruce Cockburn play and we are going to raise a ton of money.
After the show began, when I wasn’t onstage, I was shooting for RMR. Everyone on the bill did a cameo. They were all happy to do so. The tsunami horror stories didn’t stop coming, neither did the visuals. Everyone was just happy to be there raising money for victims.
We shot Sarah McLachlan, in jeans and a T-shirt, playing Ping-Pong with guys from the crew. And beating them. She is so beautiful and eloquent. In our interview, I offered to give fifty bucks to tsunami relief if she would touch the tip of her tongue to her nose. She tried her best; it was worth the cash. She also showed the country, without prompting, that she can cross only one eye. As I said—elegant.
I told the Barenaked Ladies I would be entering their dressing room with a camera in ten minutes and that they should just act the way they normally would backstage. When I came in with the camera rolling, they screamed, “Hey Rick! Come in!” and started to jump up and down. Which was flattering, to say the least. Also, the Barenaked Ladies were, in fact, naked. Stark naked with bags of chips and milk bottles hiding their bits. Great gag. For months after the segment aired we received mail from people complaining they had been subjected to a cavalcade of penises in prime time. I assure you, none of the Ladies’ penises were seen—or indeed, harmed—during the taping of that show.
These experiences at benefit concerts large and small over the years have shown me time and time again that in this country it is the musicians who always step up when needed.
Why is that? It’s my theory that no Canadian who makes a living in show business—whether they are a global superstar or eking out a living in pubs on George Street—takes it for granted. When I think of the biggest stars I’ve shared air with, all their egos combined wouldn’t match your standard-issue junior cabinet minister in a minority government on Parliament Hill.
And when I say stars, I mean some of the biggest stars in the galaxy.
I mean the members of Rush.
At one time or another they all appeared on RMR.
That members of this iconic band would even agree to do it says so much about who they are. They are the opposite of flashes in the pan. They have had one of the longest, most impressive careers in popular music. The band was formed the year I was born. By the time I was five they were producing radio hits in both Canada and the United States. Three goofy Canadian kids from Toronto who’d disappointed their parents by forming a band went on to sell forty-two million records worldwide.
And their fans? I don’t think the word fans does them justice. Disciples might be more apt. There are families in South America who have exactly three sons, named Geddy, Neil and Alex. After Alex is born you get the vasectomy. Why carry on when you have completed the perfect set?
Across North America, the Rush logo has been tattooed on more men of a certain age and girth than any Japanese symbol for wisdom.
Their fans love them. For them, Geddy Lee is the greatest vocalist in the world, Alex Lifeson the greatest guitarist, and drummer Neil Peart is just a god. Fans of Neil Peart have been known to cross themselves while singing his praises.
And the thing about the guys in Rush is—and everyone who has ever known them reports this—they never changed.
When we were making up the list of guests we wanted for the “Celebrity Tips” segment on the Mercer Report, Geddy Lee was near the top. We had him down as a long shot. But to quote the great Ontarian winemaker Wayne Gretzky, you miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take.
I tracked down a number and called. I resisted the temptation to gather the writers around and put the call on speaker so everyone could hear his voice. Honestly, at this point it was exciting just to hear a voice mail greeting that said, “Hi, this is Geddy. Leave a message.”
So I did. “Would you like to do a Celebrity Tip?”
And this is the amazing thing: he called back about an hour later.
“I like those tips,” he said. “What will I do?”
I thought about it. This is a man who could spend his winters in Saint-Tropez, hot-tubbing with Elton John and Liza Minnelli—but no, he’s sitting here in Toronto, complaining about the snow, watching the CBC and returning his calls personally.
“You will teach Canadians how to toboggan safely,” I said.
“Ha! I love it. I’m in,” he said.
It was a hell of a negotiation.
Two days later, on a very cold Saturday morning, a small crew was assembled in Toronto’s Riverdale Park, home to a famous toboggan hill. We were waiting for Geddy. And it was cold. I remember it as one of the coldest shoots I was ever on—and I have fifteen years of cold shoots under my belt.
In true rock and roll fashion, Geddy showed up a few minutes early, completely sober and driving his own car. He came over, shook everyone’s hands, we talked about the weather, and then we got down to business.
Very quickly. He knew the script. He had come prepared.
There were plenty of kids tobogganing that morning. And Geddy and I were talking about how different kids were these days when it came to the media. When I was a kid, if I saw a TV or film crew, I would be like a moth to the flame. I would have been in their face and in their way in a heartbeat. But kids today don’t get worked up over such things. Geddy and I bonded like two old fellas over this “kids today” chat. He was an incredibly down-to-earth guy and loved the idea of being the face of toboggan safety.
And standing at the top of the hill in his parka and toque, he looked every bit the part of a hoser father watching over his kids and not one iota the front man of a world-famous band.
Eventually a few kids, who were probably twelve or so, came over to check out what it was that we were up to. The glamorous sight of two cameras and a director and a few grips wandering around piqued their curiosity.
I wasn’t entirely surprised by this. From the very beginning of RMR, hungover teachers the nation over began to use segments of my show in the classroom. These kids knew who I was. They appeared happy to meet me.
One of them had a digital camera and Geddy offered to take pictures of the kids and me. The lead singer of Rush was offering to be the photographer. Clearly, the man had a monster ego.
When Geddy had finished taking the pics, I pointed to him and said to the kids, “Let’s get one with this guy too.” And I asked a member of our crew to take it.
The kids went along with me. I guess they decided to humour the old man.
The bit was a gas to shoot, and Geddy was a total sport, sliding down the hill and having to hoof it up again. And again. And again—these things are never simple. And he repeatedly turned down our offer to have a production assistant pull his toboggan back up the hill for him. For Geddy, it was a Canadian point of pride to walk his own toboggan to the top of the hill.
At the top of the hill he delivered his lines with a great deadpan delivery: “Remember to always keep your hands and feet in the toboggan. And then let out a scream and don’t be afraid to give ’er.”
And with that he would hurtle down the hill—his famous screaming vocal reverberating over the entire Don Valley.
His final line in the toboggan video became an RMR classic. Standing next to a metal toboggan, he said, “And remember, those of you with a metal toboggan: never touch it with your tongue.”
And then, of course, he did just that. And the sucker froze. For real.
His final line was delivered without much help from his tongue, his ability to enunciate reduced to “I’m gepppy leee, and I luppb wintaaar.”
Only in Canada.