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Dedicated to:
Peter, Ron and Bruce who have gone on ahead
and:
Steve, John, Geoff, Lindsay, Al & Jim.
Oh, the adventures we have shared.
Foreword
As I researched this book, I interviewed more than 40 people starting with all my old bandmates: Geoff, Lindsay, Steve, John, Howard the roadie and our manager, Jim.
We all agreed on two things: 1) The Seeds of Time played a gig out in the trees somewhere; and 2) I forgot my drum sticks. Geoff and Steve said it happened up on Grouse Mountain, Lindsay and John remembered it at a lodge in Lynn Valley, Jim thought it took place at a frat house and Howard couldn't remember where it happened – only that it did.
Geoff then told me how he saved the day by carving sticks for me out of kindling, Lindsay said it was he who did it from tree branches, Steve positively remembered breaking up a kitchen chair and whittling sticks out of the legs, John recalled chopping up a fire log with a hatchet and Jim insisted that HE carved the drum sticks from a picket fence. Howard couldn't remember how he did it, but was sure it was he who had somehow produced the sticks.
I only remember that I played the whole night with these big clunky hunks of wood for drum sticks.
I knew after those first interviews that the truth would be a moving target in this story and I would have to sift shit with a spaghetti strainer to make sure that I did not cross the line from fact into fantasy.
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The author wishes to thank the following people for sharing their memories of a wonderful life;
Donna Adam, Bruce Allen, Jim Allen, Ray Ayotte, Casey Boyle, Drew Burns, Warren Cann, Mick Dalla-Vicenza, Chuck Davis, Howard Diner, Geoff Edington, Rick Enns, Sam Feldman, Rob Frith, Dave Gilbert, Warren Gill, John Hall, Al “Horowitz” Harlow, Tom Harrison, Wendy Jones, Robert Kripps, Carter LaLoge, Gord Lansdell, Tom Lavin, Jeff & Judy Lilly, Kenny McColl, Craig McDowall, Lindsay Mitchell, Terry David Mulligan, Jeff Neill, Bruce Nessel, Skip Prest, Bill Reiter, Red Robinson, Sharon & Marion, Henry Small, Tracy, Trisha, Doni Underhill, Jim Vallance, Steve & Linda Walley, Basil Watson, “The Amazing” Jim Wilson, Mordecai Wosk;
and to these folks for helping to make this story a book;
Bill Allman, Doug Cuthbert, Greg Dixon, Janice Fontaine and Jim Wilson.
* If I forgot you please forgive me. Remember, I took 200 acid trips ...
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Please visit www.rocketnorton.com to view our ever-expanding collection of photographs. Most of these images have never been published and are private, behind-the-scenes pictures of life with the bands; others are personal memories of the story's participants and still others have been researched and acquired through hours of diligent work and in spite of police evidence rules.
Visit often!
Before There Was Me
The long, sleek, inky-black limousine careened down the winding dirt road at breakneck speed. Rocks spewed out in every direction and thick billows of dust choked the people who stood lining the path all the way from the Artist's Village to the backstage holding area. I was tossed around in the cavernous backseat like a bronc-bustin' cowboy.
I could feel the presence of the enormous mass of hysterical humanity awaiting our performance. I couldn’t see them but I could hear them, I could smell them. They produced a force so powerful it shook the earth and sent a surge of electrical energy crackling through the air. The excitement was mind-numbing.
The car skidded to a stop in the dirt. For a long time there was nothing but anticipation and we sat in silence trying to bridle the adrenaline; I didn't want to restrain it, I wanted to harness the rush and ride it for all it was worth. At last, the doors were yanked open and all of us in the band were dragged out into the pandemonium. People were running in every direction. Everyone seemed to be shouting orders at each other. I struggled to remain relaxed in the midst of the fury raging around me. Suddenly, we were pressed together at the bottom of the steep wooden staircase that would lead us up to the stage and our ultimate glory ... or obloquy, if we fucked it up. I was acutely aware that this show would make us or break us.
I focused on the top stair. It seemed so far. I thought, 'How did I get here? What fates conspired to lead me down what roads to this time and place?'
I heard someone yell, “Okay, this is fucking it boys.”
I thought about 'The Road' - Thousands of shit gigs, millions of miles travelled; the sex, the drugs, the music, was it real or a dream ... or a nightmare?
Then the voice screamed, “Let's fucking do it!”
A hundred thousand voices erupted as one. I scrambled up the stairs thinking, 'Where did it all begin?'
Chapter One 1964
I had no reason to believe that anything was ever going to happen to me. I was thirteen, a chubby, self-conscious kid with no ambition and less confidence. And worse, I played the accordion. I was just trying to grasp the significance of wet dreams and acne and wondered if they were connected in any way because I had a lot of acne. Still, I was happy to learn that my penis was good for something other than passing water through.
At five minutes to eight o’clock on the evening of Sunday, February 9, 1964, I waited anxiously in front of the family Philco television set somehow aware that this would be the most important night of my life.
It has become a cliché of my generation, but the heart-pounding exhilaration that overwhelmed me that night, when Ed Sullivan delivered his historic introduction and The Beatles exploded onto the screen, changed my life completely and absolutely. Like most, I saw instantly that The Beatles were more than great music. They were a raw, wild and uninhibited force of nature. History likes to paint The Rolling Stones as the bad boys and The Beatles as their tidy little well-mannered cousins; nice boys, good lads, but I sensed that they were dangerous and I liked that; I wanted to be a part of something dangerous too.
The next day I traded my accordion in on a snare drum and a cymbal. In my youthful enthusiasm, I forgot to include a snare-stand. Just as a baseball catcher’s equipment is called 'the tools of ignorance', it may also be said of a drum set. Before the day was out, I was up at the home of my friends, Owen and his brother Clyde, organizing a band.
Owen was eleven, had skipped up two grades and was still the smartest kid in school. When he was four he had told me he was going to be a nuclear physicist; I couldn't even pronounce it. Clyde was nine and was also at the top of his class.
Owen played the guitar and Clyde the piano. I should say that Owen had a guitar, one of those cheap little nylon-string folk guitars, and there was a piano in their house. Suggesting that they actually played these instruments was generous at best. The three of us struggled through old folk songs Oh Susanna and Camptown Races found in a Stephen Fostersongbook in the piano bench and attempted but failed to play a few contemporary songs like California Sun by The Rivieras and Be My Baby by The Ronnetts. It was
