Cover Of The Rolling Stone Part 3, King Biscuit Boy and Crowbar

November 1970 issue of Rolling Stone with the full page ad, right, of the Official Music Album featuring King Biscuit Boy and Crowbar both that played Bracebridge High School

"ROLLING STONE" REMINDS US BABY BOOMERS WHERE THE HELL WE WERE IN 1960'S AND 70'S - STIRRING US TO SOCIAL/ POLITICAL CAUSES

BUT IT REALLY WAS ABOUT THE MUSIC, RIGHT? - MAYBE YOU EVEN HAD A GURU OF CHOICE

     I love most of the (legal) chances I'm afforded these days, to re-visit the past, as you probably know. I wear history on my sleeve. I'm good with that! Maybe I dwell there too much for my own good. I just know what I like, and I don't have to smoke anything, to get that wonderful ethereal feeling, of being pleasantly adrift in time and space; especially when, for example, I start reading back issues of papers, and connect with articles which rekindle the remarkably still-keen spirit of discovery, I thought was long since retired; or even deceased. I have always felt a little cheated, that life has passed much faster than it should have (in my opinion anyway), and my bucket-list would reveal, (if you yanked it out) that most of the pencilled-in entries, of projects yet to do, are ones that I should have taken care of, back in the 60's and 70's. I was too busy with financing, and then getting an education; working constantly to pay tuition and residential fees. Too much so, methinks in retrospect, to stray far off course. Suzanne was brought up the same, and she began working at the family business in Windermere, in her early teens. We didn't get to Woodstock because of previous commitments you might say. Both our parental units, wanted us to be successful at university, and reap the rewards, higher education would prevail upon us as graduates. We didn't get a lot of time off, back in those years, to, for example, travel, attend music festivals, join communes, or perform, in community theatre productions of "Godspell", "Barefoot in the Park", "Hair," or "Jesus Christ Superstar". The period was kind of a blur, and although our respective parents weren't doing anything wrong, pushing us toward higher education, it did imprint upon us, that we couldn't afford to fall behind. Ever! Our futures depended on it! They weren't wrong, let's be clear about this! But it did make us a little more conservative than we might have been, if, for example, our parents had subscribed to the philosophies of Indian gurus, like the great Maharishi Yogi, and I'm not referring to the Jellystone Park bear, who had a partner named Boo-boo! And liked to swipe campers' picnic baskets.
    A sort of mild high for historians, is to come upon a pile of old newspapers, by happenstance, to rekindle the magical days of our youth. I don't know. Maybe you feel the same. I have been enjoying the opportunity of looking through these amazing back issues of the "Rolling Stone," magazines, from the late 1960's to the 1970's, that son Andrew bought as a collection several weeks ago.
     "SAN FRANCISCO -  Janis Joplin's friends said goodbye to her in the only way they knew how; with a rocking good party at the Lion's Share, a small club in suburban San Anselmo, about a month after her death," notes a small article on page 20, beside larger editorial pieces, such as "Pink Floyd - the Interstellar Band," and "Fifty Arrests at Grand Funk Show". This can be found in the November 1970 issue of the "Rolling Stone".
     "The drinks are on Pearl,' said the invitations to the Lion's Share, a favorite spot for Big Brother and the Holding Company. Pearl was the nickname by which Janis' closest friends know her. In her will she left $2,500 'so my friends can have a ball after I'm gone.' They did; it was Janis' kind of party. It began around 8:30 p.m., and continued past sunrise the next morning, with Big Brother playing their asses off, joined by members of the other San Francisco bands that, with Janis, sparked the whole scene here."
      On page eight, the headline, on a small bottom right corner articles, reads, "Dink Stover Meets BB King." "NEW YORK - The Lawrenceville School, in New Jersey, best known as a setting for Dink Stover's escapades in Owen Johnson's 'Tennessee Shad,' and 'The Varmint,' is now acting host to the Robert Thiele Center for Popular American Music," notes the article in "Rolling Stone." "According to Thiele, an ex-Lawrenceville alumnus, now head of Flying Dutchman Productions, whose artists include Ornette Coleman, Joe Turner, and Leon Thomas, in the Center's 'initial impact, will be in the rock and jazz area,' although Thiele and the Center's sponsors hope to fill the need for a 'comprehensive repository and research archive,' for all forms of popular American music."
     The article continues, "Thiele conceives of the Center as a 'living library,' containing books, records, tapes, scores, composers notes, and memorabilia relating to American composers and performers. He, personally, has already contributed his entire record collection, of close to 5,000 LP's, and an equal number of 78's, including complete early sets of Bessie Smith, Duke Ellington, and early blues. Major record companies and private collectors have promised records and tapes as well. The Center will be officially inaugurated on November 20th, with a benefit concert given by B.B. King, at Lawrenceville's Kirby Arts Center." Of course, you will probably know, that B.B. King died this month, May, 2015.
     Rolling Stone writer, Vince Aletti, was responsible for the page 12 article, "Jackson Five: The Biggest Thing Since The Stones," which reads, "NEW YORK - At one point during the Jackson 5 concert at Madison Square Garden, October 19th, a ten, or eleven year old girl, standing on the seat in front of us, turned to one of her equally young friends, and grasping the other girl's hand, in excitement, said, 'Feel my heart!" That's what it was all about: Heart Throbs. I hadn't heard such ecstatic, passionate, 'I can't stand it' screaming, since the Rolling Stones played New York's Academy of Music in 1965. Police fortified the stage, people clogged frantically, screeching, over seats to get closer, no one downstairs was standing, still much less sitting down. It's one of those Phenomenons again folks, and a fan letter is more appropriate than a critical review."
     What was neat for me, was the full page advertisement, for Paramount Music (pictured on Currie's Antiques Facebook page today), featuring some new releases, for that news making November of 1970. It boasts that "We've heard 101 reasons why you'll dig the new album by King Biscuit Boy and Crowbar."  Gosh, I saw both bands back around this time, playing in the auditorium of Bracebridge and Muskoka Lakes Secondary School. Add to this, the time I drank with some of the Crowbar members, while they were at Milford Bay's "Inn on the Bay," tavern. My reporting colleague, for The Herald-Gazette, introduced me to several bandsmen, when they sat down at our large table. Brant Scott had got to know them, when they played BMLSS in the past, and I'm pretty sure he did some sort of promotion, via his Herald-Gazette high school themed column, a "Wee Biscuit," back around this time. When he and I schmoozed with Crowbar, gads, it was the 1980's, when both of us were running the contemporary, upbeat version of the community weekly, The Herald-Gazette. The next time I ran into Crowbar, was when they played at Peter's Players, (entertainment venue), here in Gravenhurst, a couple of winters back, and I got a chance to chat with them here at our studio before the show. Get this, I talked with a band member about winter tires, and the crappy driving conditions on Highway 11; when I should have been asking them music related questions for my blog. The full page ad kind of blows me away, because its in the "Rolling Stone," so it pretty much tells you how big these Canadian lads were, back at the time of Janis Joplin's death, Nixon's crackdown on the broadcasting industry, regarding the propagation of the drug culture via the music and bands they provide air time, and the break-out of the heart throb "Jackson Five". The album release was for the Crowbar / King Biscuit Boy combination album, "Official Music," from Paramount, having the motto then, "Keep on truckin'." I sat for a half hour this afternoon just thinking about how these two bands, who played small town high schools throughout the country, were in Rolling Stone magazine, at a time when there was a revolution in sound going on, and they were part of it! I can honestly say, "I saw them when......" Now the kids dance to the music of disc jockeys at their dances. We had live bands, and some incredible ones, that yes, had even made the pages of the Rolling Stone.
     There is a huge article written by Pete Townsend, of "The Who," in this same edition, starting on page 24, entitled "In Love With Meher Baba." Townsend opens, "I first heard about Meher Baba from Mike McInnerney in Autumn 1967. Mike later became very involved in the development of my own work on 'Tommy,' and it was in the knowledge that he was a Baba lover, and able to grasp the needs of the evolving album, that I asked him to do the art work, connected."
     Townsend writes, "I was at his house with my lady (now my wife), and he and his partner were finishing the proofs for a shop window decoration for a Kings Road tea shop called The Dragon. I was ranting and raving about, talking too much, and finding in Mike someone who talked just as much as I did (although he'll never admit it). I was heavily into flying saucers, believing them to hold a key somehow to the future of humanity. At the time I sincerely believed I had seen several in the Florida area; today I don't really care. It seemed that between freaks at the discovery of my first John Fahey record, and someone who could out-rap me. I was getting stabs of infuriating condescension from Mike. Every time I came up with a world wise theory that had taken me years of thought to get clear, he would say, 'That's such a coincidence man, this guy Meher Baba, said something similar to that in his book, 'The Good Man.' After I had heard my very last precious revelation hit the dust, at the sound of Mike's voice declaring that Baba had already said it, I just had to look at the book. What I saw apart from a photo in the front cover of a strange and elderly man, was shattering. Sure enough, each theory that I had expounded, many to do with reincarnation and its inevitability when considered in the light of law of averages, were summed up on one sentence. (I know it will irritate most people when I say I've forgotten the sentence.)"
     "What was so sneaky about the whole affair was the way Baba crept into my life. At first his words were encouraging, his state of consciousness and his claims to be the Christ, exciting and daring, later they became scary. I began to read his words, read of his astoundingly simple relationship with his disciples (Mandali) and of his silence for 40 years. It became clear that the party was over. If I read any more lines like 'What I want from my Lovers is real unadulterated love, and from my genuine workers, I expect real work done.' I would have to decide once and for all whether the whole thing was really me or not. As is normal with coming to Baba, I didn't have to make any decision. No sooner had the thought entered my head than it left. It's just not that cut and dried. Baba has to be adjusted to, over a few months, or maybe some older Baba lovers would say a few lines, and it is never apparent at any given moment, how real or genuine your own affections are. One thing can be taken for granted; no matter how hard you try, you will never love him as he should be loved. Baba only asked people for their love, not their possessions or even their lives. Just their love. Maybe I should try to talk about how Baba effects my life, and how his presence helps or changes things in my work. The thing Itell people that ask me this question, is that nothing ostensibly changes when an individual hears about Baba, and starts to devote time to thinking about him and his work. Not all-prevailing joy creeps into life, no formula for solving difficult problems. In some cases, it seems to bring problems to a head. At least they are over with that way."
     Townsend writes, "The facts are that any focused attempts to get more out of life, more results, from events and emotional chapters, whether it be by following Baba or doing what comes naturally, will start to bring visible results in life. When you are getting things done, you can't help but enjoy life more. When you begin to realize that your own suffering has a purpose, you can bear it with dignity and poise, admit defeat, or that your were wrong, without feeling that your life is worthless. Just as human suffering can be borne without too much trouble, so can human ecstasy. Both are fundamentals of illusion, of the world we live in. They are not part of reality. Balance, as always, is the key."
     The next paragraph, In Townsend's article, is headed, "MY LAST DOPE-SMOKING DAYS."
     More on the collection of Rolling Stone magazines, for us baby boomers currently without a guru, in tomorrow's blog. Please, don't tune-out. Tune in, and turn on. Timothy Leary I presume.

Jeff Moore & The Youngest Son and The Revolution of Sound That Haunts Us!

THE MUSIC WE WERE EXPOSED TO, IN THE LATE 1960'S, EARLY 70'S

AND THE UNANTICIPATED EXPOSURE THAT WENT THE MILE EXTRA, TO WHO WE BECAME

PREAMBLE EXPLANATION

     My parents weren't particularly religious, at least that I'm aware of, thinking back. The only time I ever attended Sunday School, was because I had a crush on a girl named Donna from public school, who also attended the Burlington United Church.
     Merle and Ed didn't think of rock 'n roll as "devil's music," and the only reason ever given to me, why Janis Joplin and Jimmy Hendrix records would never be played on our new console record player, was that they couldn't stand the racket. They wished not to be disturbed in their recreation time. Their perception was, you see, that if it was rock 'n roll, or something from the period of my teenage-hood, the records would have to be played loud; aggressively so, that might also damage the speakers. Seeing as we were paying Banks Brothers Television and Audio, of Bracebridge, monthly installments, Merle would have ripped the last few hairs out of her balding head, if I had broken the unit, before it was paid for. You could play a Dean Martin, or Al Martino record at low volume, and the sound was adequate. But how could you play Joplin and Hendrix without cranking it up? Damn it! They had a good point. When they were out, I used to stick a couple of K-Tell records on the turntable, but I lived in fear, of a neighbor ratting me out to my mother, when she got home from work. So like drinking luke warm beer, which makes me gag just thinking about it, I listened to my favorite songs on very moderate levels. Same with the radio. It lost its oomph, as you can imagine. But it certainly wasn't because of any concern about rallying forth the devil, or that it would make me a drug fiend; just the audible carnage to the ear drums, of my ultra conservative parents, who wouldn't even have a whistle on the tea kettle, because the noise it created was ungodly to their taste. Crazy eh? I didn't have any brothers and sisters to break trail for me, so I had to live with the decisions, and bylaws I found rather unfair. I still have authority issues, and absolutely hate municipal bylaws. Maybe it does go way back with me.
     But by golly, I had a couple of portable radios, that had enough beef in their batteries, to draw in American signals from stations like "WLS," in Chicago, that played the big hits of the day. Merle and Ed were kind enough to buy me a radio that had an earphone, which was a little tinny and the static sounded like machine gun fire, up close and personal. I did get my share of contemporary music but most of it was off the radio. Remember how we used to answer the telephones, "I listen to CHUM," (radio), which made us eligible for a cash prize, but I can't remember how much. I always had "Chum Charts," for the week, listing the top popular songs of the time period, and as a matter of fact, Andrew has a few on display in his music shop. When I got to drive our boat of a car, a 1969 Oldsmobile 98, that looked like a Mafia staff car, I used to wind-out the eight tracks of my favorite bands, which I was able to buy off a friend, and despite the clicking and clacking when the channel changed, in the middle of a song, gosh, the volume I could get out of that unit was wild. A couple of my dad's colleague's at work, told him they heard the booming of rock n'roll, when I was stopped at an intersection uptown, with the window down of course. My dad then figured out, that if I was cranking up the volume, I must also be racing through town. It became a whole ugly thing, not suited to this column about the greatness of music, to set the incarcerated soul free. Mine really needed to be liberated. I think I might have exploded if I hadn't been able to take off to university in my late teens. And yes, I got a small record player for my room at York University, and by this point, I was also able to afford a few records, and some nifty headphones that looked like giant ear-muffs.
     To begin this look back at the music of the period, courtesy son Andrew's newly acquired collection of "Rolling Stone" magazines, I wanted to set the record straight, about how a fellow like me, having survived a rather confining, limited exposure to the music of my generation, could then inspire my two sons, Andrew and Robert, to make a career out of rock 'n roll, and music generally. I give more credit to their mother Suzanne, who had parents highly supportive of her music interests. I needed to draw back on some confessionals I wrote previously, generated and inspired, by son Robert's vintage vinyl collection, and the fact he helped me relive portions of my youth, via music he researched for me, to listen to, in our Gravenhurst music studio. I was astonished at the thoughts being generated, and the recollections coming back to me, as if a flood gate had been suddenly opened. I began writing, as the records were playing, and I was pretty honest with myself, how music had always provided both an escape and safe harbor, and my dreams could always be played as loud as I so desired. Here now, is what the music of another era, my era, reminded me of, sitting here in the contemporary sense, and feeling rather out-dated and a little crusty; sort of like my parents but a lot more liberal when it comes to volume control.
     Music is the great alixir to what ails you. Complacency, has been, for me, my latest, greatest enemy. I will take what music can give me, and thank all the musicians who have companioned me on so many wonderful trips, in so many different directions, sometimes all at once. I think at times, during this exercise of re-discovery, some of my writing was automated, like those who write down, in wildly scribbled lines, what the spirits are messaging during a seance. My mind was filled with all kinds of neat stuff, and it had been brought to fruition, because of a giant, bright, lovely spark; it was the music I had forgotten, that had once meant something to me, beyond its pleasant recreational enticements. Music I hadn't heard or thought about, for more than forty years.
I needed this re-boot, me things, to gain back my insight, about a lot of retrospectives I've been having recently.

One of the rarest of Canadian Records, 1974 Pressing of 99 copies-see story

THE YOUNGEST SON - THE RECORD I'VE BEEN LISTENING TO ALL MORNING

     SON ROBERT, WITH SPINNING "WILD" EYES, HELD HIS NEWLY ACQUIRED, "1 OF 99" (POSSIBLY EVEN I OF 50) COPY, OF A PRIVATELY PRESSED RECORD, FROM 1974, TITLED "THE YOUNGEST SON," BY ONTARIO MUSICIANS JEFF MOORE, AND CHRISTINA BECKER. IT WAS A PSYCH-FOLK RECORD, BY TODAY'S RECKONING, DEDICATED TO "SANDY, CHRISTMAS '74," FROM JEFF. THE RECORD IMPRINT, DIRECTS THANKS TO BAYVIEW SECONDARY SCHOOL, (RICHMOND HILL, ONTARIO) AND INDIVIDUALS, DOUG LIPPAY, WAYNE WHITAKER, AND A.GRANDINETT. "JEFF MOORE - LEAD VOCALS, ACOUSTIC GUITAR; CHRISTINA BECKER - LEAD VOCALS, ACOUSTIC GUITAR; JIM LINDERMAN - BACKGROUND VOCALS, ACOUSTIC GUITAR; JUDY IMESON - ALTO SAXOPHONE, BARITONE SAXOPHONE; WENDY JONES - FLUTE; PAUL MCDONALD - PERCUSSION; A.J. SMITHERAM - ELECTRIC GUITAR; DAVE BERARD - BASS. COVER DESIGN DONE BY WAYNE HILLABY."      JEFF MOORE AND CHRISTINA BECKER (BOTH SIXTEEN YEARS OF AGE, IN 1974), WERE HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS AT THE TIME OF THIS PRESSING. IT IS BELIEVED THAT ONLY NINETY-NINE RECORDS WERE PRESSED ORIGINALLY. A LATER PRESSING CAME A FEW YEARS AGO, WITH THREE HUNDRED BEING RELEASED. TODAY, AN ORIGINAL COPY IS WORTH UPWARDS OF TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS IN EXCELLENT CONDITION. EVEN POOR CONDITION COPIES CAN SELL FOR AS MUCH AS ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. IT IS CONSIDERED ONE OF THE TOP FIVE RECORDS IN CANADA.

     WHEN MUSIC SENDS SHIVERS THROUGH AN OLD GNARLED BODY, LIKE MINE, THESE DAYS, IT'S EITHER BEEN CAUSED BY ACCIDENTAL ELECTROCUTION, A BEAUTIFUL FOOD DISH, PLACED IN FRONT OF ME, MY GUARDIAN ANGEL COMING FOR A VISIT, OR SONGS LIKE THESE TWO TALENTED MUSICIANS PRODUCED BACK IN THE SCHOOL DAZE OF 1974. IT'S HARD TO BELIEVE THEY WERE ONLY SIXTEEN YEARS OF AGE. THESE ARE LIGHT, SMOOTH, BUT RICH VOICES, REMINISCENT OF SOME OF THE GREAT FOLK TALENTS OF THE PERIOD, EVEN DATING BACK TO THE EARLY 1960'S. IT'S SEEMS IMPOSSIBLE, THAT THIS RECORD COULD HAVE FALLEN THROUGH THE CRACKS OF THE MUSIC INDUSTRY; BECAUSE LET'S FACE IT, THOUSANDS OF LESSER ALBUMS MADE IT TO THE PUBLIC DOMAIN, WHEN IN REALITY, THEY SHOULD HAVE FALLEN DEEPER INTO THE CRACKS. SOMEONE WAS ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH, BECAUSE THIS IS A JEWEL OF CANADIAN MUSIC HISTORY; AND THE PRICE YOU HAVE TO PAY TO GET ONE, SAYS IT ALL!

     THIS RECORD, BOTH SIDES, FROM BEGINNING TO END, IS ALLURING, COMPELLING, AND PRESENTLY WORM-HOLING MY BRAIN INTO SWISS CHEESE. IT IS HAUNTINGLY PRECIOUS, AND I'VE BEEN HEARTSICK ALL MORNING LONG, RECALLING THOSE MIST-SHROUDED DAYS OF YORE. MY YORE! WHERE WAS I IN 1974? WE HAD JUST ARRIVED BACK IN CANADA, AFTER A BAND TOUR OF ENGLAND, AS PART OF THE BRACEBRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL MUSIC PROGRAM, AND I HAD A NEW GAL-PAL ON MY ARM. AND OOPS, ONE WAITING FOR ME AT HOME. LINDA CAN YOU EVER FORGIVE ME? "THE YOUNGEST SON?" SUCH TANTALIZINGLY SWEET MUSIC, WITH A SMOOTH, YOUTHFUL EDGE; AND BY GOLLY, WHEN SUZANNE SAT AND LISTENED TO IT, A FEW MOMENTS AGO, SHE FELT THE NOSTALGIA THING AS WELL. SHE WAS THE THIRD GIRL WHEN I GOT HOME FROM ENGLAND. I DIDN'T TELL THE OTHER TWO. CAN YOU FORGIVE ME GAIL? CAN YOU FORGIVE ME SUZANNE? WHEN ONE SONGS MAKES YOUR MIND SPIN LIKE THIS, IT'S MEMORABLE. WHEN ALL THE SONGS ON AN ALBUM RING THE BELLS, IT'S BLOODY FANTASTIC. BUT IT'S HARD NOT TO ASK THE QUESTION; SO WHAT HAPPENED? WHY WASN'T THIS RECORD PRODUCED IN THE MILLIONS, BECAUSE IT IS DESERVING. ROBERT GOT THE RECORD RECENTLY, WHEN HE ACQUIRED A FEW BOXES OF "THIS AND THAT." THE SECOND ONE OF THE SAME ALBUM (NOW HE HAS 2 OUT OF 99 PRESSED). IT'S POSSIBLE THERE WERE EVEN LESS THAN 99 PRESSED IN 1974. IT WASN'T INTENDED FOR WIDE DISTRIBUTION BUT HONESTLY, IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN PICKED UP BY A LABEL, AND GIVEN A CHANCE TO FLY. THE QUALITY OF THE MUSIC IS WHY IT HAS BECOME ONE OF THE FIVE BEST ALBUMS, EVER RELEASED IN CANADA; NOT JUST BECAUSE IT IS A RECORD OF RARE AVAILABILITY. I'VE LISTENED TO THOSE AS WELL, WITH NARY A SHIVER. THIS ALBUM IS DIFFERENT. I WISH I COULD PLAY IT FOR YOU NOW, SO WE COULD ALL FEEL HAUNTINGLY NOSTALGIC, WISHING WE COULD HAVE A LITTLE CHAT WITH LOVERS OF ONCE, LONG AGO. IS IT SAD MUSIC? NOT REALLY. MELANCHOLY? A LITTLE. BUT WHAT IT ACCOMPLISHES, IN SEVEN SONGS, IS A SUBTLE, SOFT RECKONING OF SORTS, FOR THOSE WHO NEED TO BE RECKONED WITH.

     I HEAR ALL TYPES OF MUSIC ALL DAY LONG. WHEN YOU WORK IN A CORNER OF A MUSIC STUDIO, THIS IS TO BE EXPECTED. ON FREQUENT OCCASIONS, ROBERT SCARES THE CRAP OUT OF ME, WITH SOME SHARPLY POINTED, BARB ENCRUSTED, INTRUSIVE, AGGRESSIVE, SOUL SMASHING, PEACE UNSETTLING, DEATH METAL; I CAN SMELL THE SULPHUR, THAT'S HOW CLOSE I FEEL TO THE ACTION. SO WHEN I BRACE MYSELF THESE DAYS, EXPECTING HE'S GOING TO THRUST ONE OF THOSE BEASTS AT ME, TODAY INSTEAD, (AND TELLING ME IN ADVANCE I WAS GOING TO LIKE IT) HE SO GENTLY INTRODUCED ME TO A REALLY NEAT COMPILATION OF SONGS, THAT REMINDED ME, AND SUZANNE RESPECTIVELY, OF THOSE HALCYON, ROMANTIC DAYS OF 1974. THE MUSIC? IT'S TIMELESS. THIS MUSIC NEEDS TO BE RE-RELEASED BY THIS TALENTED TWOSOME, FOR THE BENEFIT OF ALL THOSE WHO NEED TO BE REMINDED WHERE THEY CAME FROM, AND WHERE THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO GO. I SEE A LONG DUSTY COUNTRY ROAD BECKONING. SUZANNE SEES AN OPEN LAKE AND A SAIL CATCHING THE WIND. I SUPPOSE IT MEANS THE MUSIC HAS LIBERATED US FROM OUR FETTERING OF RESPONSIBILITY. WELL, AT LEAST FOR A FEW MOMENTS OF RECREATION, WE ARE FREE TO DREAM AWAY. SOMEONE HAS JUST INVADED THE STUDIO, AND OH DEAR, HERE COMES THE DEATH METAL AGAIN.

     "THE YOUNGEST SON," IS AN EXCEPTIONAL RECORD THAT POSSESSES ALL IT TAKES TO BE MEMORABLE AND TIMELESS. SEEING AS I HAVE NEVER      CONSIDERING I HAVE NEVER FOUND ONE WHOLE ALBUM EVER THAT PLEASED ME, SONG AFTER SONG, THIS IS CERTAINLY A LATENT TREAT. I'M JUST GLAD ROBERT, MY OWN YOUNGEST SON, BROUGHT IT TO MY ATTENTION; AND I'VE JUST NOW ASKED HIM, IF HE COULD PLEASE PLAY IT ONE MORE TIME FOR OLD POP. NOW THAT DOES TAKE ME BACK, BECAUSE IT'S THE SAME REQUEST I HAD TO MAKE, OF MY MOTHER, WHO IN 1974, WAS THE UNCONTESTED GUARDIAN OF THE LIVINGROOM STEREO CABINET. WHEN SHE WAS HOME, I HAD TO HAVE PERMISSION TO PLAY MY RECORDS. SHE SAID I WAS CARELESS WITH HER STUFF. I OWNED TWO RECORDS, SO SELECTION WASN'T DIFFICULT. I WISH THAT ONE OF THEM HAD BEEN "THE YOUNGEST SON." ROBERT COMPLIES. THE DISC IS SPINNING. NOW I'M SPINNING TOO, WITH A LITTLE ANGST, BACK TO 1974; WHIPPING ROUND AND ROUND, THROUGH THE SUCCESSION OF SEPIA TONE IMAGES, LIKE ABSTRACTS, OF ALL THE LIVES I'VE TOUCHED, AND BEEN TOUCHED BY, IN SOME PLACE, AT SOME TIME, FOR SOME UNEXPLAINED REASON. I SEE ANGRY FACES, A FEW MODEST GRINS. APPARENTLY, I WAS A BIT OF A CAD IN MY YOUTH. I SURRENDERED TO THIS RECORD IN THE FIRST THIRTY SECONDS. A WILLING CAPTIVE FOR THE WHOLE MEMORABLE TOUR OF ACTION. I ADORE BEING HAUNTED.

I'm Never Going To Make The Cover Of The Rolling Stone; How About You?

I'M NEVER GOING TO MAKE IT - HONESTLY, UNFORTUNATELY, IT JUST ISN'T IN THE CARDS!

I WILL NOT, IN THIS LIFETIME, MAKE THE COVER OF THE "ROLLING STONE" - WILL YOU?

     When I was ten years old, I had regrets about what I didn't do as a six year old. Same for every decade's overview since. I've never yet missed the dawning of a new decade of my life, without having mild regrets about something I didn't do five years or so earlier. Now at the brink of 60 today, I've jumped back four and a half decades, to when I was fifteen, and apparently, wasn't paying attention to the music scene, the way a lot of my mates were, and it shows like a honking big ketchup and mustard stain, on a white shirt, when inevitiably, I'm drawn into a conversation about music history, just because I happen to be lodging in a recording studio. Go figure!
    My family, of course, is deeply imbedded in the contemporary music industry, and I find myself quite ignorant, unintentionally of course, about what I actually lived through; and for a career historian, man, that sucks. Like someone who doesn't want anyone to know he or she can't read, I have been too embarrassed to admit to my shortfall of knowledge, about the music history our company represents, every day of the rolling year. When, by happenstance of music-talk, that happens all the time around me, I would love to enter the discussion if it wasn't for my glaring lack of anything significant to contribute. I feel the same when friends want to talk about their snowmobiles, motorcycles, or car engines, of which I have no intimate knowledge, that would entitle me the right and practicality, of contributing anything more than a nod, or shake of the head, and the occasional, "Oh yea," and the question, that sounds more like a statement, "Is that right?" Well, I've decided that recent opportunity was afforded me, for a good reason. God bless the chap who decided to sell off his treasures, because what he gave me, was the incentive to make some serious inroads to upgrade my education. Please read on!
     A few months ago, I wrote a stranger than usual blog that probably read, as if I had inhaled something hallusinagenic. The strongest scent here now, at our Gravenhurst shop, is the occasional wafting aroma of incense. Robert dislikes the smell of history, being my old books and wood furniture that may or may not, have been positioned beside the hearth at one time, in some pioneer cabin, or farmstead. Like so for the past century and a half. I find the smell of antiques intoxicating. I'd wear it as cologne if it was bottled. Robert likes the smell of vintage guitars, and the clearly identifiable aroma of "electrics" from a fine vintage sound system that Dylan, you never know, may have one day, a long time ago, played through, on some lowly lit club stage in New York. Back to that column, of which I am referring, that I wrote about, while inspired by music Robert was playing in the studio; alluring the beleagured old writer to re-visit the beatnik and hippy periods I lived through, but never really understood.
     Son Robert spins vintage records all day long, in the music studio portion of our Gravenhurst shop, opposite the Opera House. He has nurtured a profitable vintage vinyl enterprise, over the past decade, and at this time in collectable history, which is always hard to understand and prepare for, these old and dear records that snap, crackle and pop, are enjoying a resurgence some of us oldtimers can't figure out. In the antique and collectable trade, trends are like currents in a river, and at one point, can refresh and invigorate dealers, and then, as suddenly, become a dangerous undertow, and suck the most vulnerable into severe economic calamity. At present, vintage vinyl shops are opening across the province, at an unprecedented rate, and we heard this week, that seven shops specializing in vintage and re-issue vinyl, have opened in one small city in Southern Ontario. This saturation has been seen before, and it happened in the late 1980's and early 1990's, when there was a wild rush to get in on sports cards, from hockey, baseball, football, and basketball. In Ontario, the big deal was hockey, and it was incredible what nonsense was going on, with the proliferation of "card shops" opening up all over the place, and prices going through the roof, even for newly printed sports cards, which was, by itself, the harbinger of bad stuff ahead. Antique and collectable dealers, with any history behind them at all, as business survivors, knew well, that what was too good to be true, with high prices, would crash and burn sooner or later.
     For example, I can remember during this period, attending antique shows in our region, and getting quite a kick out of finding numerous booths each show, exhibiting small but significant pockets of vintage sports cards, in a minor bid to benefit from what was going around that year, as a popular "in-demand" latest, biggest trend. Here's the thing. Dealers kept a minimum of exposure to sports cards for good reason. They wouldn't want to put thousands of dollars into something that was going to have, at best, a couple of bumper years, before adjusting to what could be a damning market correction. This involves the typical "jumping on the band wagon" momentum, that inspires folks who have thousands of cards, they've been hoarding since childhood, to put them on the market at roughly the same time. For example, having a rookie card of a popular, hall of fame quality player, like Wayne Gretzky, means a big asking price. If there are only a few on the market at any one time, and demand shows an upward trend, then it, like a house you wish to unload, heralds a good time to sell. If however, a seller waits too long, and every one else puts up parallel rookie cards, all in good condition, the market could go from having twenty of these cards, being offered for sale, online, or in collectable shops, to a thousand almost over night. Same if the number of houses for sale, was to triple in a neighborhood. It can flood the marketplace, and this usually always means price adjustment is necessary, to sell them successfully, even in part. The seller's market turns quickly to become a buyer's market. It would seem sensible thusly, as we in the profession know too well, to remove their items up for sale, at least temporarily, to see if the glut will clear away, and the prices will return to their high levels. Sometimes it can happen. Just not very often. Some card owners stayed too long, desperate to pull anything out of the existing inventories they could, before the collapse prevailed upon them. Thus, the market stayed flooded, until shops were shuttered, and collections had to be sold at auction. I purchased half the cards left, from one failed business, for pennies on the dollar. Andrew and Robert still own them, and one day, when they have kids, well, you never know. Maybe they'll be able to sell them to finance their kids' university education. Yes, it will take that long. We have thousands left, but we didn't get burned by the collapse. The investment was minimal to start with.
     The reason antique dealers used to have a selection of vintage and collectable sports cards in their booths, was a simple strategy, and is a trick always used by vendors to cover costs of attending shows. I talked to a lot of dealers in those days, asking them why they had the cards amongst primitive pine, and classic oak furniture, china and silver. "If we sell any of them, we use the money to buy our lunch or dinner." We dealers always look for quick ways, at limited-time sales venues, to make back money to offset costs of attending these events. If it's not sports cards being offered, it is something else that the dealers know, are popular enough, and priced low enough to sell efficiently, to raise those cost-reversing funds; to afford a nice sandwich, or hot plate of french fries. We had a small sports card display in our shop, in Bracebridge, at this time, and we offset rental costs of our location, by renting a room to a fellow who went full monty into the industry; that proved so successful, he moved into a bigger location after less than a year running it small scale. It was one of the casualties, when the bottom fell out of the market, and I purchased a portion of his leftover cards. We only ever dabbled in the field, so our exposure was moderate, which meant that instead of bankruptcy as a result, we simply packed them away in safe containers, and like many antique dealers, stored them away for another day. It didn't bring down the family business, because they are still investments for future harvesting. But there was no point, in our minds, of dumping them by the box-load, simply because demand had diminished to a trickle by the mid 1990's.
     In terms of vintage vinyl, something us baby boomers figured was a trend that was gone forever, the antique and collectable dealers amongst us, knew differently. We were selling vintage vinyl for big bucks, at the same time as we were selling old and new sports cards in the early 1990's. We didn't have thousands of records like Robert has today, stuffed in shop bins, but every month, we sold some records, that more than paid for our luncheons. While there is another boom going on today, there is still a very great danger, the good times might end suddenly, and I'll tell you why. As prices for vintage records continue to escalate, all over the planet (we sell online), those who have been hoarding their record collections since teenage-hood, or having acquired them by circumstance of inheritance, will decide to capitalize on the investment potential. And yes, with thousands jumping on the bandwagon, will over time, flood the market so badly, that there will be too much product available, and thus, the beginning of the transition to a buyer's market instead. Seeing as we have been buying and selling vintage vinyl for many years now, and having some experience in the ups and downs of trends, we are prepared for the eventuality a competitor might locate near by, or that demand will suddenly disappear. Like the sports card debacle, we bring in records we like, and having to keep them, if there was a bust, is no hardship whatsoever. The boys are still young, and will see the eventual rebound. The prices we ask today, are remarkably close to what was on the stickers ten years ago, at the same shop. We don't pay enormous prices for these records in the first place, so we can keep our prices at a sensible, affordable level. We're a family of antique dealers, and knowing how to be proportional in this regard, is part of our survival strategy, which for me, has meant forty years of tightly managing resources. For those without a good understanding of the quirks of the antique and collectable industry, God help them. The proliferation of vintage and new record shops will have its limits reached, sooner or later, but we won't be hurt regardless which direction it goes. Maybe it will go higher for awhile longer, before the adjustment period begins. It will decline, make no mistake, as a direct result of greed and speculation. It's what happened to sports cards, and a lot of folks got hurt badly, when the market they thought would last forever, fell open like a trap door, claiming a lot of innocents, who didn't see it coming. In our crazy profession, you expect good times always have to end; and it's why we're good at making transitions to keep ourselves in business. It is almost an art-form, to dance through these precarious adjustment periods, and not lose money.
     I've become fascinated with the music side of our present family business, begun more than a decade ago, by sons Andrew and Robert. Andrew is the vintage instrument guy, and Robert looks after the vintage vinyl. They do overlap when it comes to both disciplines, and music memorabilia. When Robert is grading his newly acquired records, he plays them on the studio stereo, in order to make his condition report for the benefit of customers. It also dictates the price, beyond the performer or group responsible for the music. Rob is hugely fussy, and I know he prices-down for even the slightest flaw, and the "snap, crackle and pop," I used to appreciate on my own records, brings the value down, the more prevalent it is to the audiophile record-seller. A twenty dollar record, according to book values and online sales attained, might only be worth a couple of bucks, if there is too much wear on the surface, creating too much distortion from the perfection of the original pressing. But mostly, for me anyway, hearing these records every day, and every hour the shop is open, has imprinted on me over the past three years, of our relatively new business arrangement; we operate the antique shop in the back portion of the building. I am treated daily to the experiences music facilitates, and the era-time-travel is amazing. If ever I wanted to go back to my own semi-hippy experience, Robert can put me back in time, by simply the choice of record he choses to spin. I didn't think about this happening, and it was quite unexpected, especially when I started seeing the influence, showing up in the copy of my blogs bit by bit.
     I am allowed to spend time in the studio to write my daily columns, but the house rule, is that I must not confound the record-man's work on the phonograph, or in the recording side of the same room, where he brings in performers to lay-down tracks for their CD's or demos as they're known. I'm starting to get the lingo as well, by being around musicians and music nostalgia collectors. But the music, man! It has been influencing me for three years, in editorial context, and I never really thought about it prior to writing the column, mentioned above, when I thought it appropriate, to delve back into my youth to revisit what I knew of the beatnik and hippy period, which I observed, but failed to fully appreciate; until I started this subtle music education, that kind of opened my mind to possibility.
     A couple of weeks ago, Andrew had a fellow come into the shop, who had some vintage 1970's "Rolling Stone" magazines, he wanted to sell. There were quite a few copies, of the 15 he purchased, that had feature articles and photographs about The Beatles, his favorite all-time band; which pretty much set the wheels in motion, that a purchase was coming down the pike. He would have a hard time, not showing his excitement for such a package of music magazines. You can easily contaminate a sale, by appearing too excited. You'd be surprised how fast the asking price can increase if the seller knows the dealer really, really wants what they have to sell.
The magazines are understandable tattered, yellowed, and a few have water stains. After he was finished browsing through them, he left them sitting on the couch in the studio, within arm's length of the blogger sitting beside. I didn't have the money to buy records as a kid, or the "Rolling Stone," magazines, that profiled the records and the artists responsible for the music that surrounded me. If I had fifty cents in my pocket, I would use it to go to the Norwood Theatre to meet chicks instead. Or buy fifty cents of blackballs at the corner store, which would last me a week.
     I became an untutored listener of music, but in my senior reckoning stage, I feel bad that most of this important period had been bypassed, without my actually learning more about those who were breaking trail, and establishing a new cultural order, by a sort of social re-birth, out of the dark ages, to new and exciting possibilities in life. I now realize, the liberation I thought I had experienced back then, was more like watered down whiskey. I understood the taste, but I really didn't benefit from the buzz, as I might have otherwise if it had been consumed straight. There was a famous and revered British poet, who once complained to an acquaintance, at the twilight of his life, how badly he felt, not knowing the proper names of the flora and fauna of the English countryside, he had been writing about for decades, only knowing them only in the general way of a child looking upon a pleasant scene. It's how I regard my shortfall of knowledge about music. My grandfather, for gosh sakes, was a concert master in Toronto, and I used to hear him play the violin in the parlor of their home, when we used to make our regular monthly visits.
     For example, most of the records I received, once our family did purchase a cabinet stereo, circa 1969, were the cheapest of the cheap variety pack records, that you could get at the five and dime for sometimes half the price of regular albums from record shops. Yes, I did have a lot of K-Tell records, and what that meant, is that I didn't covet the album, or get intimate with the pulse of the performers featured, but instead, became a close-minded listener, where only the music had any relevance. When I see record buyers today, in the shop, talking about specific albums they had as teenagers, I have a hard time relating to it personally, because my records were best categorized as "music all sorts," like those variety boxes of licorice. I didn't learn about the groups responsible for the music I was enjoying, and instead only appreciated the music on one level. K-Tell record covers weren't quite as compelling as those packages produced for the respective groups and artists. The songs on the early amalgamations didn't really make much sense, if one was interested in such things as continuity, and spirit essence, from the first song, to the end of "Side B." My parents didn't have a lot of money for such things, and neither did I, in those years of modest earning. So I accepted the gifts with gratitude, and listened to them until the groves were nearly worn off. To this day, I can only name the titles of a very few songs, and, as well, the names of groups escape me, which is terrible for someone so deep in the music culture, that puts me within three feet of a pile of vintage vinyl, a drum set, a half dozen guitars, and microphones suspended off chrome stands, just in case I want to record something.
     Getting back to the "Rolling Stone" magazines Andrew purchased, I made a point that day, and for the next week, of consuming each one, in a slow, patient review, to regain my youth as related to music of my teenage rebellion. Which was a quarter strength compared to most of the rebellions my mates experienced. I had a great week going through the magazines, and reading a goodly majority of the articles. Along with Robert's enticing selection of music, to suit the period of the early 70's, it was quite a sensory adventure, added-to, by the burning of incense around me. I'm so glad the person, who had saved the magazines from his own teenage years, thought enough to bring them to us, on the chance we'd buy them. I've been drinking all this stuff in, and frankly, it makes me sick, to know just how much I missed from that period, that by golly, we all should know and understand. These musicians shaped our social / cultural futures, whether we liked their music or not. And over the next week or more, I'd like to relay some of the information that I found remarkable, tucked into the editorial content, of these really neat back issues, of one of the most popular magazines in the world. You know, I'm sorry I won't ever be one of the musicians featured on the cover of the "Rolling Stone," but there's still chance for Andrew and Robert, steadily finding their way up, in the dog-eat-dog music profession. Maybe, like the song by "Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show," about the great joy, being on the "Cover of the Rolling Stone," one of them will let me drive their limousine, when they attain those entertainment heights, sort of like Bugs Bunny and the Road Runner.
     If you're a baby boomer like me, who took the music for granted, as just something to neat to listen to, and never opted for the "Beat" scene's musical poetry, became addicted to the philosophies of Bob Dylan, slipped into the social order of "hippies", "yippies," or "punk rockers," then hang in there with this re-born music fanatic, as I review these vintage copies of "Rolling Stone," beginning this week. The first issue I plan to delve into, is the one I pulled out of the box first. The November 26th, 1970, issue number 71, Rolling Stone, with features on "Three New Beatle LP's," and the story entitled, "In Love With Meher Baba," by Peter Townsend. In 1970 I was too busy playing hockey and baseball, and trying to get a passing grade at high school, to worry too much about the intricacies, politics and protests of the music business. My rebellion was to let my hair grow and complain about the war in Vietnam. I had no idea what marijuana even smelled like, and when they talked about the concert at Woodstock, I thought it had been held in Woodstock, Ontario. Naive? Yup.
     On the cover is a picture of "Mike Curb," above the story, "Mike Curb and Richard Nixon Battle Dopers." The article opens, "Los Angeles - In what appears to be one sick grandstand stunt, MGM Records new president, Mike Curb, has announced the dropping of 18 acts, who, he claims 'advocate and exploit drugs'." The sidebar of the story, begins, "As if broadcasters aren't giving enough time to drug-abuse messages and warnings already, 70 of them got called into the White House, late last month, for a little chat with the nation's top drug-fighters, including the president himself." And, "After all was said and done, the broadcasting chiefs - invited from all over the country, gathered in Nixon's office, where they were treated to a little off-the-cuff talk. Nixon kept on saying he had no intention of telling the radio executives what to air, but that he hoped they would search their own consciences and, understanding  radio's influence on youth, perhaps co-operate in the drug fight. He would 'appreciate it,' he said." It was also noted by the magazine front-pager, that "The day-long conference, called by Attorney-General John Mitchell, came only a month after vice President Spiro Agnew's Las Vegas attack on rock and roll's dope lyrics, and featured a skit by members of Daytop, New York drug rehabilitation center, along with speeches by FCC Chairman, Dean Burch, the director of the Armed Forces Office of Information, and the Deputy Director of the Narcotics Bureau among them."
    In the meantime, I've still got a lot of catching-up to do, in this most recent bid to rehabilitate myself, to what it was all about back then, in the breaking-away, liberating days of the early 1970's. Please join me, for some of that essence of uncut whiskey, I was writing about earlier, and let's taste it all over again, Nixon, censorship and all that stuff.
    I'm looking forward to the trip. No, not via LSD. This one is a safe trip. All you have to do is read along, and let your memory of those halcyon days out of the gilded cage. Unless of course, like some I knew, who were stoned for an entire decade; "Hey man, we got so deep into Hendrix, we didn't come to, until Flock of Seagulls." Hey, stuff happens. Join me tomorrow for another glimpse back in music history, via the Rolling Stone.

What's Up With "What's Down" About Gravenhurst, And How Can It Be Fixed?

WHAT'S UP WITH "WHAT'S DOWN" ABOUT GRAVENHURST, AND HOW CAN IT BE FIXED?

TOWN COUNCIL CONTINUES TO INSULATE ITSELF FROM WHAT'S REALLY GOING ON IN THE MUNICIPALITY

     I want readers to keep one thing in mind while reading this politically natured tome. There is nothing with our town, in regards to governance concerns, in the eyes of constituents, that can't be fixed, and improved upon in a reasonable amount of time. It does however, hinge on our councillors insight, and willingness to listen to local issues, to appreciate there is a problem in the first place. It has a negative beginning, and a positive outcome. The benefits? Well, anything is better than the dissatisfaction at present, and it is limited our ability to compete, attract investment, and progress past this current stalemate. It doesn't have to be this way, and no one, and I mean that, has to surrender, in order to make constituents feel their voices will be heard.
     When someone like me, a troublesome chap with a laptop and a blog, offers up a critique of some action, or reaction of our municipal council, here in Gravenhurst, it is immediately considered by those it targets, to be the work of a miserable old bastard, a little better than a heretic, who might well have been burned at the stake, for speaking out against authority, had it happened five hundred years ago. I had the same non-appeal to other councils in the District of Muskoka, when I was an editor with Muskoka Publications, and then the Gravenhurst Banner, back in the late 1970's until 1990. I asked too many questions, poked my nose in where it didn't belong, according to those I was reporting on, and who hated me most profoundly, when I caught them in the act of some cover-up, or compromised position, contrary to what they had maintained to be truthful. Honestly, our reporters could have cleaned house on quite a few occasions, but instead of plunging in the swords to finish them off, we allowed them to recant, and re-visit opinions, they thought were cast in stone. We called it our own mercy rule. We knew they were afraid of bad ink, and especially if they had greater political aspirations. After a few years of badgering, and watching them closely, The Herald-Gazette, and Bracebridge Examiner, just doing their job of providing information to readership, had our local governance answering our questions, and volunteering themselves for interviews; because avoiding us with ridiculous excuses was also worthy of ink, a bold headline, and a position above the fold. "Councillor unwilling to talk to reporters," wasn't the kind of headline most of these political hot shots wanted, especially in a special place we had for those kind of stories, above the fold, which looked great on the news stands.
     There are council representatives, past and present, in Gravenhurst today, who know that what I'm alluding to is true. They knew what it was like when there were tenacious, mildly vicious reporters, hanging off their every words, with media scrutiny at a sharp edge; newshounds following-up with investigations until all the information was ferreted out, printed and editorialized. They might shiver at the thought, but it was, as well, one of the most transparent times in the history of local municipal government. The media didn't give an inch, and they didn't get thrown off the scent of a good story, just because an official wouldn't return a phone call, or attend a meeting with a reporter. It is a huge difference with the media, as it exists today, which hasn't facilitated much in the way of hardcore, unflinching reporting, preferring instead a softer, more feature oriented approach. When in reality, what readers want, other than the classified ads and obituaries, is the skinny on political and governance misadventures, to inform them about what is going on in their communities, and town hall, deep, deep behind the scenes set out for public consumption. What's good about hard-core investigative reporting, is that it keeps our administration on its collective toes. If they know guys like me are lurking around, they're going to make sure to cover their bases. Do you mean, "cover-up" stuff, from the constituents they represent? That's yet to be determined, because, well, I don't work for the community press, and it doesn't appear likely, the local media is going to grow fangs in the near, or even distant future.
     But here's the thing. I think we had some great councils back in the days we were covering them, including Bracebridge, Muskoka Lakes, and Gravenhurst, because councillors knew how prudent it was, to face the press respectfully, and answer questions truthfully, because what was left to dangle, could snap back and hurt someone down the pike. They knew they couldn't outrun us, and that our publishers would give us the time to investigate the kind of stories that would sell papers, and inevitably, provide the circulation numbers to encourage more advertisers to jump aboard. It was win-win for us, whenever we got hold of a juicy story, especially if it was one that we uncovered by sleuthing, that council didn't want in the public domain. Like hitting a home run, with an old wooden bat, the feel of hitting the ball on the sweet spot, was a beautiful thing. By the end of my own tenure, we had really developed a good relationship with our coverage-area town councils, because they had given-up trying to sanitize what the public deserved, and had a right to know. They actually began to understand the "freedom of the press" thing, and we cut them some slack, and went off the record a lot, in order to protect what we felt needed to be protected, because of its sensitive nature. Even true to our mandate of this same freedom of the press, we also had to make dozens of value judgements every week, about exposing something prematurely, that could have put us in a courtroom, and having to suffer through a libel action. We actually got to a point, they trusted our discretion and professionalism, to be responsible with highly sensitive information; because we did make use of the essence of confidential information acquired off the record, which made us more astute when it comes to understanding the more complex, hidden, context of highly controversial issues.
     The are councillors today, who are fearful of media scrutiny, and this is unfortunate. They like media reporters at several arms' length, even football field distances, and preferably, working in another jurisdiction entirely. They will boast how transparent they are governing, yet it is their opinion of transparency, not that of an investigating journalist. Making claims of transparency and being transparent, according to what constituents might like to know, is a major divide, and I've found this out by being in the front line; answering to readers who don't buy the odor-free version as fact. Gravenhurst Council today, gets itself in quagmires as far as public perception, because they prefer to stay, as much as possible, ink-free, unless its to caption a grip and grin photograph of nothing in particular. They love media attention as long as it isn't negative. They like reporters, as long as they aren't prying for the big scoop. They are attracted to stories that show their kinder, more benevolent side, but not so much, when a reporter finds a fly in the proverbial ointment, and wants more information.
     Gravenhurst Council has become almost a non-entity, obtuse and an abstraction at times, like a Jackson Pollock painting, unless one has to actually square-off with them, across the table at town hall, and can detect the whites of their eyes. The administration at town hall, the working mechanism of local government, is far more identifiable, and it is not an exaggeration, to suggest they are a feared; many folks being nervous of what challenges they will face, trying to get even simple projects through the red tape of municipal administration. There have been recent newspaper reports highlighting this reality, that council doesn't appear to take very seriously. If I was asked, as a pretty beefy critic of local government, to offer one, and only one suggestion, about how to improve public perception, and address constituent mistrust, and malaise in general, it would be to let it all hang-out at a series of public meetings, with media front and centre, allowing constituents free time at the microphone, to present problems they have had dealing with town hall in the past. Especially the recent past.      Councillors should be forced to hear the truth, whether they can handle it or not. It's not to suggest they won't get positive feedback, and accolades at the same time. But it is entirely necessary, that they wise-up to what's going on in this town, which in large part, is rooted from town hall, and has something to do with either a lack of transparency, shortage of sensitivity, or glaring inconsistency, which we hear about most frequently. It's what happens when you have a council that likes its quarters at town hall, and prefers not to walk free range, amongst those who are pissed-off about the way the municipality is being operated, and the inconsistent decisions being made on their behalf. Avoidance has been the option most preferred. Yet there would be something truly inspiring, to know that councillors weren't afraid of taking some heat, if it meant an improved relationship with constituents as a net result. A new mutually appreciated forum, that would bridge the gap that exists today, between those who govern, and those who truly want to work toward a better, more accommodating community.
     The first step, of such a reformation of attitude, is for town council to take back the true authority of running this municipality. We didn't elect town hall staff. Constituents want to see council representatives moving about in this town, in a friendly and approachable fashion, like we do, on a daily basis, as members of the main street business community, and interacting with all of us good folk who call this place home, because it's the way this town used to operate, when it was a much more endearing and friendly place to live. If this seems shocking, that I'm bold and truthful enough, to suggest our hometown has lost some of its lustre, then your should label be a heretic, and be done with it! If however, you know I'm at least in the same ballpark, with your opinion, then suggesting we begin promoting a more accommodating, friendly, co-operative  town hall, would seem the kind of advice, you wouldn't burn a fellow at the stake for suggesting.
     It really doesn't matter to any of us frankly, if our elected officials feel a little hurt, being told they aren't the best and most capable ambassadors of goodwill for this community. I have never subscribed to the opinion, that problems will resolve themselves over time, or the "let them eat cake" scenario, where it's deemed better to follow one's instinct in governance, versus what may actually be correct, and the best way to proceed. Enablers whitewash council's foibles, and by their insistence on forgiving errors in judgement, we all fall further and further behind as a municipality, known for its inconsistent action and re-action to situations, and unexpected, unforseen circumstances. While council likes to hold its cards close, they are by this method of operation, creating a deeply rooted suspicion, they are inept to govern; but allowing the public to air these concerns, would clearly demonstrate, once and for all, for the public record, there are many of us, (contrary to their belief), who adamently believe something is hobbling town hall's ability to connect with constituents.
     Fearing criticism is counter productive to making serious improvement in this town. Constituent unrest is growing, and has been for the past three or four terms. It doesn't have to be this way. Much of the difficulty, lies in the perception, town hall is operating on their own agenda, more than for the good or pressing desires of constituents. I hear scathing reports all the time, as a willing ear, about unfolding debacles involving constituents frustrated to tears, trying to deal with town hall departments. I can't blame a specific department, because I am not an adjudicator, or writing a specific story, (although some of it is awfully tempting) and I must be neutral and fair in response. I don't write news stories now, so all my information is gathered "off the record." It doesn't mean I can't share generalizations and overviews garnered from these discussions. I just won't advocate for a specific cause, unless, of course, on a personal level, and for the benefit of our all important tourism industry, it involves parking ticket violations, and why I think council should drop the whole parking issue, until they can study it more thoroughly, and sensibly, later in the year.     Point is, and I wish I could convey this to councillors themselves, over a cup of java any place other than town hall, how this growing negative perception, and grading of town council, and town hall administration, is hurting us in all quarters of this beautiful little community in South Muskoka. If they're happy being deluded, believing that everyone out there thinks they're doing a bang-up-job, all they have to do, when they have a quiet moment, is to seriously contemplate the poor voting numbers, in last autumn's municipal election. Far too many constituents have quit worrying about town hall, and whether or not, it is providing even a smidgeon of leadership. Many have just learned to network on their own projects, and boost the community through their own hard work, refusing to ask the town for any assistance or endorsement. The most pressing reality, and I will take the blame for my own dissertations, of the negative flavor, is that the word is spreading, and not just about our municipality's much higher property taxes, than partner townships in the district. Critics are not confined to bloggers like me, or editorialists in the local media. We get our share of bombardments and truly nasty tweets online, and then there's the word of mouth, between stakeholders, and while it might be argued by councillors that you can't get avoid getting critiqued harshly, no matter what you do, there still shouldn't be any argument, it needs to be appreciated and understood, as to why it generated in the first place. Are all tweets negative? Are there positive tweets about Gravenhurst? Are they the only ones important to us? Or might there be some truth we don't want to admit or acknowledge, when someone issues a rebuke for the way they were treated by our town, or by local businesses. I judge these critiques, and reviews, adverse or complimentary, as being world-wide you see, as they are, and we should be clear, on what some of these damning overviews, are costing us in reputation. From what I gather, from minor discussions, in this regard, if the tweet isn't to the town's liking, it is dismissed as readily, as my blogs are discounted, as the ravings of a lunatic, who used to work in the local media. Wisdom should tell us, to the contrary, that criticism is what allows us the leverage, to make restoration when and where it is needed. If I was to report to town hall, that a building was leaning badly, having the potential to collapse at any time, how would my critique of the situation be reviewed? Would it be something like "that Currie guy, who is always hassling us, thinks a building is going to collapse, and potentially threaten life and limb." I imagine the rolled eyes on news like that, from a guy like me. But, I wouldn't go to town hall in the first place. The precedents of past frustrations, would lead me elsewhere.

The Really Big Head Of "A Blogger"

THE REALLY BIG HEAD OF "A BLOGGER"

WRINKLES AND ALL, FRANK JOHNSTON PUT A FACE TO THE WORDS, AND ALL WAS REVEALED

     As an opener, and I know this may read as being "gross" and "we didn't need to know this kind of thing Ted," I felt it necessary, as awful as it is, to point out, that we're pretty tired of free-range pissers on the loose in this community. I suppose it's because there is a dead-end corridor, between our building and the neighbor's, that invites those with urinary discomfort, to let-it-loose on the side of one building or the other. I wasn't here for the spectacle, but Suzanne was, unfortunately, and happened to notice, while doing some accounting work, the shadow of someone walking between the buildings, visible through our side windows. It is an emergency exit, not a long garden-variety urinal, but apparently, a young man with a small bladder, decided all was fair in the urban jungle, even though he could have used the public washrooms at the Opera House across the road. When Suzanne confronted the man, post urination, his overview of the situation, to explain his trespassing, was, simply stated, "It's okay, I was just having a piss!" Not quite poetic but to the point. Suzanne thanked him for his honesty, and suggested it would be better to find a more suitable location the next time, especially should he have other bodily functions to tend to, and had found it otherwise, a rather hospitable location to do his business. I'd like to say this is a rare event. I really would. But even in broad daylight, in what is truly the centre of the business community, all the beautification in the world, isn't going to do much, to give a social conscience to a__ holes like this guy. While Gravenhurst Council binds itself into a strangle-hold, worrying about vacant lots on the main street, and directing the parking fuzz to issue parking violations to bad, bad motorists, possibly it could muster the votes needed, to post a few signs, pointing the way to public washrooms, for the benefit of citizens holding their own, but not for long.    
   
THE PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN

     As you know, if you have read my blogs for any length of time, over the past few months at least, you would recognize the name of Frank Johnston, as having been, one of Muskoka's best known artist / print makers. His amazing watercolors, of heritage scenes of steamboats and trains, at the old Muskoka wharf, used to hang in Sloan's Restaurant, here on Muskoka Road; the must-visit place for vacationers, for decades, to buy the best tasting blueberry pies in the whole wide world. Even before we moved south to Gravenhurst, from Bracebridge, we would take regular Sunday drives to Gull Lake Park, and then make a stop at Sloan's for a plate of french fries and a milkshake; but mostly, to sit beneath the amazing original watercolors, Johnston had painted at his studio on Hughson Street, a few blocks south of the restaurant. I am so pleased in this regard, that my old writing colleague, and publisher, Hugh Clairmont conned his buddy, Frank Johnston, to create pen sketches of each of his new columnists, for the newly launched twice-monthly feature publication, known as "Muskoka Today." I just found the sketch he did for my column, the other night, quite by accident, and I asked Suzanne, my technical nerd, if she could "blow up my head," on her glowing tablet that seems to be glued to her hand, for use on my Thursday blog. Last night, if you tuned in instead of watching Letterman, you'll know I used a smaller version of the portrait, tucked into a press review of Ross Brewitt's book, from a few years back, that he had used for his media kits, he toted around to book signing events. So what do you think of this big, beautiful, artist rendered head? Keeping in mind I was younger, still had more than a fringe of hair, and a lot fewer wrinkles, furrowed on my brow from my constant disagreements with local town council. Other than that, it looks like I'd be able to walk right off the flickering white page, of this online site, and sit down on your sofa with you. Of course, I'd just be a head bouncing along, but what the hell. I could still eat popcorn if you fed it to me.
     I've been thinking a lot, over the past few weeks, about what I considered the good old days of local journalism. I'm now on the proverbial hair's breadth of sixty years of age, which is quite a surprise for two reasons. I thought I was turning fifty-six, so I feel cheated out of four good years. Secondly, I didn't think I'd make it to thirty let alone sixty, and this would have been agreed upon by four ex-girlfriends, who thought my wild lifestyle was burning the candle, so to speak, at both ends and through the middle. My mother issued me with a thousand warnings, from infancy, that I would perish before my time, if for example, I didn't wear a hat when it was cold, brush my teeth twelve times a day, didn't eat apples daily, and drink gallons of milk. I would also surely die if I didn't change my socks and underwear daily, and continued to listen to rock 'n roll, that apparently was going to rot my soul from the inside out. My mother was fiercely superstitious, so if she saw me step on a crack on the sidewalk, she accused me of wishing her dead. I tried not to violate her in this way, and live past thirty, by adopting at least half of her beliefs, because they made perfect sense. I've been eating fresh vegetables and fruit for years, and to make everyone happy around me, I swore-off swinging on chandeliers, the result of too much booze. Merle hated that I drank, with the press corp, and Suzanne was thrilled about it either, leaving me many times in the tavern with my drunken cronies, so for peace in the family, I stopped. Then, I gained a huge amount of weight, from drinking fruit juices and diet cola. Hey, point is, I've made it this far, defying Nick the Greek's odds, which placed me at 100 to 1 longshot, that I would ever achieve elder statesman status. For those who placed money on the safe side of this bet, by golly, it looks like I'm going to hit sixty with jingle bells on; versus what some believed, would instead, involve me, in the spiritual sense, pushing up daisies in some potter's field. I'll be writing this blog until I die, or so I say! The image of me, sketched by Frank Johnston, puts me in the same sort of enchanted frame, I suppose, as the main character of the classic movie, "Dorion Gray," such that I will never age beyond my portrait's true exhibition, straight from the artist's hand, which I have with considerable affection, entitled, "Old Teddy's still in the prime of his life; ready for the next century's wine, women and song!"
     I think Suzanne wishes I hadn't found this portrait by Johnston, that I had stored away in a mountain of archive letters and documents, in a dusty alcove at Birch Hollow. She knows I had a lot of fun back then, working with some great characters in the Muskoka media, and wonders if this glimpse of youth will influence me to get all crazy again, and try to rejoin the press corp, or the French Foreign Legion, if that still exists. Ah, heck, that's all behind me, as I become a responsible adult, and come closer to senior citizen status, and all the discounts maturity warrants. I do however, still live vicariously through this image of a former columnist, who was hanging around with hockey stars, leading sports writers, high flying business types, community movers and shakers, and rising political stars, who, well, used to buy me drinks. A lot of drinks. As if I could be bought! For food, yes! I was a sell-out for a good burger. Yup, I guess Frank was being generous to me, by smoothing quite a few of the wrinkles, that came along, the result of unspecified hard living, and harder reporting, on those stories I thought were big and dangerous, but great for career enhancement. Instead, I look at my portrait as being the face of innocence, about what trials and tribulations lurked in the bushes ahead. Suzanne reminded me about what Charles Dickens wrote, about his characterization of "Ebeneezer Scrooge," in his book, "A Christmas Carol," being the wretched face of "covetous old sinner." I argued back that I am in no way "covetous." I can live with the "sinner," reference. Hey, it's just nice to have such a youthful, vibrant-looking reminder, of what a talented artist saw in me, wild-eyed as I was, in those early days as a starving artist; a writer with a lot of unexplored opportunities laying ahead, a few dead soldiers (empty bottles) still taking up space in the cupboard; as compared to the jaded old bastard, I see today, when I look in the mirror, to see if I have aged since Frank popularized me for readers. Which by the way, was back in the mid 1990's.
     I have very few early records of my columns, and feature articles, dating back to my first column in the Bracebridge Examiner, on antiques and collectables, published in 1978, especially, because I got into a wicked-mood a few years back, (the "I hate" being a writer jag, which happens on the occasion of every fourth-north-moon) and began recycling the mountain of back copies, I had been keeping for unspecified posterity. Suzanne wanted me to clip out the articles I wanted, instead of keeping the newspapers intact; which I had originally thought was good idea, until my shed filled to the rafters, and the mice were building palaces out of the shredded newsprint from a thousand back copies. I have only had one other column-head, from a former issue of Muskoka Today, and Suzanne accidentally threw it out with a lot of my other alleged paper junk, which included many personal notes, and phone numbers I really, really needed. It might not seem a big deal, to find this portrait, (not to mention how it probably illustrates me as an ego-maniac to re-run it here) stashed away in a pile Suzanne hadn't previously raided, in the cause of good housekeeping, but to me, it will bring back memories of what artist Frank Johnston meant to this little town; and to all of us art and history loving citizens, who he made very happy, for so many years. Our family dined at Sloan's Restaurant for three reasons back in those halcyon days. We loved Frank Johnston's art work for one. Secondly, it's where we would meet up with Civil War historian, Tom Brooks, and thirdly, well, it was always great to connect with resident diner, Hugh Clairmont, holding court in the restaurant's fine dining room, known as the "Inner Sanctum."  The food? Of course. But there was a culture to consider, and these folks inspired it for me; and it's how I learned my history lessons about our new hometown.
     Suzanne tolerates me looking at myself in this vain fashion, but only for so long. I think I've crested in this regard, so take one last look, at the young Ted Currie, who despite the magic of a great artist, can't really defy aging by wishful thinking.
     Thanks for taking the time to visit. Please check out "Currie's Antiques," on Facebook, for another Muskoka Graffiti chapter, about the Bracebridge I used to know.

Mine Was The "Hometown Advantage"

I REALLY WAS IN THE THICK OF THINGS WHEN IT CAME TO SPORTS COVERAGE AND GOOD BOOKS

MINE WAS THE "HOMETOWN ADVANTAGE"

     A lot of things that occur these days, (don't ask me why) that are in any way remarkable, and good for my complexion, are the inspiration of happenstance. Just this week in fact, I've been pleasantly re-introduced to some of my past, because of our plethora of cats at Birch Hollow. Where there's a cat, well sir, there's sure to be claw marks, fur to layer upon my sweater and pants, and why yes, a hair ball trail.
     Suzanne has forced me to deal with some of my "paper" clutter, at Birch Hollow. Actually, she had to move my chair the other night, to mop-up a hair-ball, yacked-up by one of our cats, Beasley, I think, and accidentally knocked the lid off a wooden box that contained some personal archives; letters and correspondence from some of my writing colleagues, I've connected with since my early days working in the Muskoka media. On Suzanne's "Currie's Antiques" page on Facebook, we ran an image of a letter sent to Suzanne and I (Suzanne taught with Wayland at Bracebridge High School), by author friend, Wayland "Buster" Drew, as a thank you for a newspaper review I wrote of his book "Willow," which he adapted from the George Lucas screen play of the same name. He explained that the coming movie, to be released soon, would be quite entertaining as well. Lucas, creator of the Star Wars franchise, was a friend of the Bracebridge author; as he was, with Ron Howard, having done the same, writing the companion book for his movie, "Corvette Summer," some years earlier. You can check this out on her facebook page, and my latest column about "some things in my hometown I was finished with yet!!!!" Suzanne handed me the box, when my chair was shoved back in place, and told in no uncertain terms, to sort out what was to kept, and what was just a mitt-full of useless paper, having no real keepsake value. After all these years, my wife still doesn't really get me, when it comes to archival stuff. The paper heritage I can never, ever part with. Like the envelopes that my letters came in, that were addressed by these same colleagues, a few, rightly so, ranking of considerable celebrity. One of the pieces, illustrated above, is a print-out advertising leaflet, sent out to media outlets by sport's author, and friend, Ross Brewitt. He used it with my compliments for his national book promotions, and it featured a column I wrote for Gravenhurst's "Muskoka Today," the magazine published by the dynamic duo of Hugh Clairmont, and son Mark, when their office was in the former Orange Lodge on First Street, in Gravenhurst. I was happy to find this page, because I foolishly recycled my back copies of Muskoka Today, that carried my image, as a column-head, that had been sketched for the paper (on Hugh's request), by well known Canadian artist, and print-maker, Frank Johnston. What an incredible honor for me, because I consider Frank Johnston one of this town's, and district's finest artists. It's also fair to say, he was a known Canadian artist / print maker, who was hired by many heritage sites across the country, to capture their historic architecture in watercolors. He did a portrait of his friend Harold Town, and in return, Town did a painting of Johnston. Gads, and here is my face, from the mind and hand of this talented artist.
     You might remember his amazing large watercolor paintings of steamships, in Muskoka Bay, that used to hang in Sloan's Restaurant, on Muskoka Road. Frank was also the printmaker for Group of Eleven abstract artist, Harold Town. Frank's house was located on upper Hughson Street. Frank was well known for his art prints, and amazing all occasion cards, that were printed at his Gravenhurst studio. When Hugh and Mark began the paper, in the mid 1990's, Hugh begged a favor from Johnston, asking him to do character profiles in pen, of all the columnists who would be part of the Muskoka Today publication. I do believe there was strong beverage that sealed the deal between publisher and artist. Or at least that was the usual deal maker, or breaker, depending on quantity of libation. I was thrilled to see how Frank interpreted a mug like mine, and well, here it is, still preserved after all these years. Gosh I enjoyed working for Hugh and Mark back in those first few years of the new publication, and the scrums that used to occur almost daily, when readers and sundry other supporters, dropped by for a friendly visit; mostly to trade stories with Hugh, which were always shared, amazing, and most often, worth writing down for posterity.
     I look in the mirror these days, and I don't see a sport's guy looking back. What happened to me? I lived for sports, and as a reporter / photographer in my early media days, I was always at either the rink, the ball diamond, curling club, golf club, or soccer pitch. Looking back at this promotional piece, Ross Brewitt was using, as part of his advertising package, reminds me just how hooked-up I was to athletes, and those who wrote about them. I remember the bitterly cold night, I met up with Brewitt, on behalf of Muskoka Today, when he was attending a book signing, at the former Reader's World, on Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge. It was in the late fall, because the copies Suzanne and I had Ross sign, were for Christmas gifts to our respective fathers, hard to please when it came to the normal fare of presents suitable for old hockey-loving geezers. Brewitt's books worked perfectly. I remember Ross being a little disappointed that night, because turn-out had been poor, due to the storm-front brewing over the region. We had a good visit anyway, and we talked a lot about former Detroit Red Wing, Roger Crozier, who I was associated with at the time, as a researcher, for the soon to be announced Crozier Foundation, and a book deal I had initiated that autumn season with Roger's approval. The book project, that I spent hundreds of hours working on, was published in a downsized version, via Muskoka Publications. The American Bank that Roger was working for, known as MBNA, carried on with the book, in an expanded format, with staff archivist Charlie Wilson, of Wilmington, Delaware, and I, as the two researchers, working with two other well known American sports authors, to, as they say, bring the project home. When Roger died, the book, half done, was shelved for reasons unknown; but thankfully, my part of the project was published, and approved by Roger, a year earlier. When Brewitt and I weren't yapping about Roger, that stormy night (because he had worked with Roger, as a media representative, when the Bracebridge born netminder, played with the Buffalo Sabres), we'd crack up, airing our remembrances of former Toronto Sun columnist, Paul Rimstead; also a former Bracebridge lad, who was known as a highly skilled and talented sports writer, in his early days working at the Toronto Telegram.
     Thinking back to that meeting, gads, how neat it is to realize, that I would soon convince Brewitt, that because his writing style and humour, were so close to what Paul Rimstead had, as crowd-pleasing writing traits, that he should strongly consider, carrying-on with a plan to write a biography of former Toronto Maple Leaf, Eddy "The Entertainer" Shack. Rimstead had died a short time before, and had been priming his good friend, Eddy, to get-on with the long overdue hockey biography. I was so pleased, when Ross got back to me, that Eddy had whole-heartedly agreed it was a good idea, to revitalize the book idea, initiated first by Rimstead, or "Rimmer" as he was best known to his Toronto Sun readers. (Rimmer also wrote for the Calgary Sun and the Edmonton Sun). As a matter of irony, the night I was supposed to attend the book launch, in Toronto, it was a dark and stormy night in our region, and the snow was so blinding, I couldn't have made it past the town limits, before being turned back. I had first met Brewitt, on a similarly precarious stormy night, a few years earlier, and when I had my next chance to attend a book signing, one that I had played a minor role, son-of-a-gun, weather got in the way of what would have been an historic moment for me.     Eddy was always a favorite player in our house, when I was growing up. My mother liked three players in the National Hockey League. Jean Beliveau even if he played for the team she despised, Frank Mahovolich, and it didn't matter what team he played for, and yes, "Clear the Track," Eddy Shack. And I loved to read any Rimstead column, that he had written about his friendship with Eddy. There's a great photograph, in the tribute book published after Rimmer's death, entitled "Damn-it Rimstead," showing the columnist and his bride, Miss Hinky, positioned in a wooden barrel, with Eddy Shack, appearing by design, to be on the brink, just about to tip over Niagara Falls; the nostalgia-oozing location where they were married. Of course it was a staged photographic background, but it was a great character profile of two legendary Canadians, and a somewhat bewildered bride, at one of the most famous landmarks in the country; Niagara Falls.
      From that first meeting with Mr. Brewitt, it was obvious we would work on other projects to come down the pike. I was able to book him for a special celebrity fundraising dinner, being hosted by Roger Crozier, at the former Bracebridge Centennial Centre. It was a sold-out event, and Roger got an exceptional roasting from my old friend, Ross, who shared a lot of Buffalo Sabre anecdotes with the large crowd in attendance. Ross Brewitt, by the way, has long been a revered after-dinner speaker for celebrity sports dinners
       Ross sends me his most recent sports columns, run today, by numerous high profile publications, and we still chat back and forth which reminds me, just how far I've slipped myself, from active sports reporting and even casual viewing, when it comes right down to it. I can't really explain why, except for the fact we don't have cable television, and we can't bring in CBC where I used to occasionally watch Hockey Night In Canada. The Harper Government helped encourage the CBC to cut the juice, for transmitting their signal to our region, and even though we are close to Toronto, and the GTA is a short drive south, we can't pull in the station. I did get to watch some NFL games this year, on CTV, and the Super Bowl, but not much else. I shouldn't have to pay for CBC to bring me Hockey Night In Canada, which was a tradition for our family from my childhood. As I'm too cheap to buy a daily newspaper, all I get these days, is the brief sports overview on the nightly CTV news. I'm getting most of my sports thrill these days reading Brewitt's columns, which now, has become a tradition by itself.
     I was such a sports nut, when Suzanne and I were married, that I used to insist on the television being placed by the window of the house we were renting, so I could sit out in the cold and snow, in a lawn chair, to watch the Grey Cup, pretending you see, that I was in the bleachers for the big game (I couldn't afford to attend the games, that's for sure. Not much has changed since then!) So there I was, covered in layers of newly fallen snow, drinking my beer out of a paper bag, and loving every minute of it! While Suzanne sat in her cozy front room alcove, knitting me a sweater. Just not fast enough.
     I was mildly amused and moderately pleased today, to hear that popular Detroit Red Wing Coach, Mike Babcock, has inked a deal to coach next season, in Toronto; an infusion of experience and toughness the beleagured Maple Leafs have needed for many, many years. Sure it cost many millions but considering the Leafs seldom have any open seats at their games, it can be said with some integrity, they've got the money, so why the hell not invest it wisely. Babcock a proven winner, and the Leafs have become legendary losers. Much good can come from this investment, if that is, management let's the man do his job without unnecessary intrusions upon what I'm sure will be a savvy recovery plan, for a team voted most-in-need of something, anything, anything at all, to end the decades of untold suffering. From the early chatter out there, this move is being praised by Leaf fans, and heck, you never know; I might whip out my old blue and white for the coming season, and turn this non-sports thing on its ear. I sure would like to be a sports fan again. Maybe this is the pivot of the turn-around. A new coach.

How Many Vintage and Collectable Shops Are Too Many?

PROLIFERATION OF ANTIQUE AND COLLECTABLE VENUES - IN AND AROUND OUR REGION - AND JUST HOW UPWARD TRENDS ARE THE HARBINGERS OF DOOM

TOO MANY VINTAGE AND COLLECTABLE SHOPS DOESN'T MEAN THERE WILL BE MORE BUSINESS TO GO AROUND

     We are a diehard bunch of entrepreneurs. We Curries are competitive to a fault, and might arm-wrestle over the last egg roll, or dumpling, and we never, never give up on something we believe in, of which we enjoy being involved. In the past couple of years, we've been unimpressed with local politics, especially some dunderheaded moves, to the disadvantage of the taxpayers, and what we see as a lack of enthusiasm from town hall, to at the very least, provide something more than nothing, as far as the leadership we expect. We deserve. Instead, I get a parking ticket to let me know there's still something going on at town hall. Just not for the betterment of our community. We never feel sorry for ourselves, and honestly, you would be hard pressed to find any cluster of folks around, who believe and advocate for free enterprise more than us. Our most profound concern, about the proliferation of antique and collectable shops, is not intended to be read as a manifesto against capitalist society, and its inherent, democratic privilege, of opening a business to sell or serve what you wish, providing it is legal. There is a greater matter here of logic, and what due diligence of investigation and research, would determine, as being a saturated market place. Too many antique and vintage shops for any one of them, to truly achieve a significant measure of financial success, as would make the accountant, any accountant feel comfortable with future potentials. The market place at present, and for the near future, will not support all the antique and collectable businesses, locating in area of South Muskoka. Some will fail, unless they are loss leaders themselves, and are satisfied with seasonal earnings, and off-season closing. The boom will be a bust sooner or later, and this summer will pit one against the other, to out-perform in sales. Admittedly, the established dealers, have been a little too laid back, we suppose, not expecting the latest antique flurry, putting more shops in a small market area. Oh well. What's an antiquarian to do, when the going gets tough. Get to the sale five minutes ahead of the competition. Up your standards, increase quality, and for gosh sakes, lower prices.
     To start off, and so as not to make this read as if we are the cardinal hypocrites of all time, Suzanne and I are pursuing interests in the antique field, as a retirement enterprise. We began planning for this eventuality, when we launched Birch Hollow Antiques in 1985. We figured, and rightly so, that it would take a lot of years before we could feel we had passed the apprenticeship stage, and could pursue the profession successfully until the end of our lives. This is what we have done. Our well of experience is much deeper than our pockets, and we have never once, in our years toiling away happily at this enterprise, felt that our success hinged on how much money we invested. Rather, we always understood, that it was going to be our capabilities as treasure hunters, on the edge of a thin dime, that would earn us our stripes as antique dealers. We have been true and faithful to this mission statement. and we want folks reading this, to know, we still don't believe we will make better dealers because we spend more than any one else to achieve this end. We would sooner haul in our sign board for the last time, and wrap up our business, sensing that, what it was coming down to, was a spending orgy to out muster the competition. It would ruin what has become so entrenched as tradition. Experience being the determination of how well we do as dealers; not the money we have to spend to buy the business we feel, we deserve. Instead, we have to earn success, by being true to our customers, first and foremost. But not being true to ourselves, would be something we couldn't live with. We are not so discouraged that we would choose this route, at the present time. We do lament however, the fact, that competition is pushing the envelope, of who and what can survive in a tiny, tiny market, that by the way, as of this day, this week, was as quiet as a church mouse, and just as frugal. Maybe these new business owners know something we don't!
     It's now officially tourist season in Muskoka. Thank God. I mean this. It's been one of the long-haul winters and with it came a strained economic reality for many other local retailers. We've now passed the gate, of the Victoria Day holiday, and now it's off and running to Canada Day, the first of July holiday, officially opening the most prosperous time of the year, that by tourist and cottager spending, will keep us in business, for another few months after the season ends. If it was particularly promising, we might even squeeze in another year, if the accountant gives the nod. We've been growing steadily for the past three years, but then again, we've never had as much competition as we do at present, and this seems to be changing by the week, as we hear about new antique-related venues. The thin dime is getting thinner. One thing about it, the cluster of antique and collectable shops will have to up their game, in terms of getting the competitive edge. Folks, by rights, and you should all appreciate this, prices for these vintage articles should be coming down. I can almost hear the quiet whimpering from our dealer colleagues, who hate the potential of having to compete in a price war. Well, that's not all. Now we've increased the number of dealers, scrambling like mad men and women, to purchase the few quality collectable pieces that make it on the market. This demand will gradually influence garage and estate sale hosts, to up their prices, and that does not bode well, for fair pricing in area shops. Of course, staying in business demands creativity, and my feeling is that this will be one of the most creative times in local antique-selling history.
     Every self appointed, and self tutored, economic talking-head, I've chatted with recently, aggressively spouts off, if opportunity arises, about Muskoka, and especially its southern clime, quickly becoming an antique and collectable business destination, for thusly, all heritage loving tourists, with some jangling coins in their deep pockets. I try not to laugh, or give any impression, that I'm about to choke myself in restraint-mode. I don't buy into this economic pie-in-the-sky mantra, and honestly, it takes more than a few antique and collectable businesses, to qualify as a serious destination for home decorators, collectors, and investors in old stuff. I don't consider the present proliferation of antique, collectable, and second hand shops, as any more destination-building, than the large number of hair dressing, and barbering salons popping up, as if we are the hairiest settlement on the continent.
     I've seen this kind of unwarranted proliferation in the past, and that for me, goes back forty years and a tad. I have watched the marketplace beckon investment, and then, without pity, destroy the most ambitious hopes and dreams with a sudden adjustment. A quick turn-around, a dip, a change in market interest. Call it what you like. It's still necessary, no matter what business you're in, to constantly perform due diligence in research, of what market trend is going to goon you next. The antique and collectable business on its own, is brutally difficult, and like dancing through a mine-field, about as precarious a profession as you can get; and one that has a long, long, tradition, dating back before Charles Dickens wrote the story, "The Old Curiosity Shop." The profession has become hugely storied courtesy the contributions from many odd and eccentric characters, and on the wild side, a hell of a lot of rogues, and con artists, fictionalized in some way or other, by thousands of authors from all countries of the world, at one time or another.     Did you ever hear the anecdote about the man who had a guest staying at his house, who, when they went out for a walk one night, couldn't help but observe, that a neighbor was beating something in a shed out back. His silhouette in the lamplight of the shed, showed the form of a man with a length of rope-like material, swinging down upon some surface that wasn't known. The guest remarked to his host, "I hope that fellow there is beating someone with that object being swung around." The host turned and laughed. "No, that's just the local antique dealer, distressing a pine table-top with a length of chain." It's part of the social / cultural and literary characterization, and traditions, we all, in the antique trade, have to live with, even if we are as honest and pure as the driven snow. Point is, if you become an antique and collectable dealer, in particular, you have to accept public perception for what it is, and at least part of it, will be based on the fictions and frauds, that have been associated with it for long and long. There's the status thing about "being an antique dealer," and the down side, of being scorned at sales as "being an antique dealer." We are often seen as both good and bad, honest and dishonest, straight shooters and liars which is to be expected somewhat, for a business that thrives when death is abundant. Our inventories are pretty dependent on estate clearances, and this hinges on someone having to die in order for our shelves and floor space to be filled-out; and for us to make money. It's bound to be a profession that attracts eccentrics and shifty operators. At least that is what has been highlighted, and dramatized by fiction writers for centuries. How much of it is "fiction too close to the truth," or "truth that has been fictionalized."
     In forty years of mucking-about in this profession, in one form of operation or another, I have run into lots of rogues, and characters I would never afford the earned title of "antiquarian". They are folks who drop into the profession, based on the convenience of making quick money, from what they perceive, is a business that thrives, and fountains earnings, based entirely on one's treasure hunting capabilities. Or their clever skullduggery! Of course, they are the scoundrels of the industry, who acquire their inventories in a less than savoury fashion, and when asked for the provenance of a piece, they become the authors of new fiction. Our trade requires a lengthy apprenticeship and for good reason. You have to love and understand history, before you can become its advocate as a facilitator; otherwise, a retailer of antiques. It doesn't mean that oldtimers in the profession are always honest, because they've had a long apprenticeship, and trial-by-fire education; because it has been proven many times, that those unsuited to the profession, don't last all that long, such that they would genuinely earn the distinction and status of full antiquarian.
     For reasons unknown to us, antiques are trending wildly today. It might be exciting if not for the inherent danger that comes with, as my mother used to say, "too much of a good thing." Our family is obviously well rooted in the antique trade, and regional history, as a sideline business, and we feel qualified, and obliged for that matter, to cast an opinion; honestly, we don't know what the hell is going on out there, and where all the money is going to be coming from, to keep these new businesses afloat. While we should know what is inspiring this whacky increase in venues, and the number of antique and collectable dealers setting up shop, we are, instead,  quite dumbfounded by it all. The recent proliferation of antique venues, and enlargement of antique markets, is befuddling and a little troubling. In my four decades in the profession, I have seen similar boom periods, where antique and collectable shops were popping up at a larger than usual rate; and as I recall, only a very few still exist from our starting point of the late 1970's, when Old Mill Antiques was opened by our family, and then in 1985, when Suzanne and I launched Birch Hollow Antiques as a future retirement business. In that time, we've partnered with a lot of antique dealers, networking our businesses to make sure customers didn't miss any opportunities in the host community. We are the only antiquers from those days, left with a storefront, and the only change we had, outside of a period without a proper shop, was that we moved ten miles south from Bracebridge to Gravenhurst. Originally not for business, but for reasons of profession, as Suzanne taught at Gravenhurst High School. We still operated our business but through antique sales and markets that we travelled to, and then, our marketing of antiques and old books via online auction sites. The point is, there have been periods of antique shop growth many times, in the past forty years, that I've witnessed close-up, throughout the Muskoka region, but nothing to be compared with what is happening now. The nuts and bolts issue, for the accountants to wrestle over, is that sales figures might not match vendor optimism. Something is fanning the flames of excitement and expectation, but we don't have any discernible justification to explain what's going on! Instead, we just gawk and wonder aloud, how many more vintage-inventory shops are too many for all to survive and prosper.
     A customer, shooting from the hip, informed me, that it would be fantastic, if the whole Uptown business community, of the main street, of Gravenhurst, was a giant, sprawling, oozing antique plaza, for the benefit of collectable hunters like him. I have become quite reluctant in my elder years, to argue such points of contention, a sore point for me at this time in local history; but suffice to say it is a distinct possibility, that if the trend continues, more dealers will show up thinking this is the promised land for antique lovers and sellers. It is, quite to the contrary, a fools paradise, to think this way, but I wasn't going to brow beat my friend, with what I see as a self-defeating manifestation, putting too many antique and collectable dealers, in an area, where there are only so many potential buyers through a relatively short business period. Ah, that is the joy and sorrow, of trying to survive in a tourist economy. Our own business survival, is directly proportional, to our family background in the tourism industry, dating back to childhood, when Suzanne and I both worked in tourist related operations; having an intimate knowledge of what it means to be a tourist friendly business, of which antiques and collectables ranks extremely high on the scale. Antique shops are still known as "tourist traps," and that hasn't changed in my forty years. It's one of the reasons many locals stay away from our antique shops, because it's believed we only cater to tourists, and cottagers with deep pockets. Those who can afford to pay hundreds and thousands of dollars for their creature comforts, toys and antiques. It's not entirely untrue. Many antique businesses years ago, would only open in the months officially designated as "the tourist season."  This, even today, really pisses off the local population. The problem of course, is that our businesses can't afford to shut down these days, for the off-season, because of high rents and utility expenses, plus taxes, needing a twelve month window of opportunity to generate money. Most contemporary antique shops and malls, do stick it out over the fall and winter, but with revised days open and reduced daily hours of operation. We have never tampered with this, and the only day we close, is on Sundays, unless there is a pressing business matter we need to tend to, here or somewhere else. For us, Sunday is the day son Robert opens the studio for recording purposes. We can't have noise ocurring when recording is in progress, and Sundays are perfect for this operation. The rest of us hunt and gather antiques.
     As I've written about many times in the past couple of years, frankly because I find it a fascinating study, the increasing number of antique dealers, for one thing, and new venues, is contrary to the marketplace demand. Usually, the increased number of shops is the result of larger demand for what we happen to sell. I am not convinced in any way, that sales in all these new and enlarged venues, would impress an accountant, or anyone outside the industry, to all of a sudden drop their other investments, and businesses, to open antique shops. One of the problems, I appreciate more now than ever, is that far too many inexperienced folks, with only a bare interest and understanding of antique investing, have decided as a business side-bar, a half-lark, or retirement occupation, to set out a shingle in front of a storefront, or antique mall, as a sort of dream come true foray, into something completely different! Shops and booths loaded with objects that amuse them, gathered from their many travels out and about, and locations where they can sell old stuff to their heart's content, undoubtedly make them feel quite accomplished. Coming home at night, having broken even once again. To some of our keenest competitors, the money earned is a lesser concern, than having fun in this great tradition of treasure-hunting old things, to then sell for a profit. It's the profit thing that hardly ever manifests, as it should according to Hoyle, but if you're lucky enough to have another income source, gosh, what a great recreation to be "an antique dealer."
     There is one good thing that comes from having numerous antique and collectable venues, within a short distance of one another. It actually amuses me, when all else causes me to worry. I have long complained about the high prices many antique dealers these days, are asking for their wares. I have been studying this trend of skyrocketing antique and collectable asking prices, for many years, and trying to understand how an industry has been able to survive for so long, with such a reckless regard for the market's willingness to pay. When I first began selling antiques in the 1970's, prices in the finer shops and even in the barns selling Canadian pine and primitives, were asking a king's ransom for their inventory, but still with enough wiggle room, to actually sell something now and again. In other words, they bartered. Negotiated to make ends meet. The proprietors who believed they were bang-on with their price evaluations, had to suck it up, when the market place dictated otherwise, and they hauled their shingles in for the last time. Today, the fact a lot of nouveau antique dealers are well off financially, and can afford to wait for a customer willing to exceed market valuation, might mean to the casual reviewer, that these businesses must be doing great, because they are still open and welcoming customers. The normal business model isn't valid for these owners, who really don't care about the bottom line, as it won't affect the quality of their lives, if they don't sell a blessed thing for weeks. Well, this isn't the tradition of our profession, as it once was, but today things are different, and accounting seems to be a lesser damnation than it is for us, when business dries up, or income is split with a lot of other businesses we can only consider our keen competition.
     Every now and again, a new business owner, in the antique and collectable field, will pop through our door, (but not usually), and tell us in no uncertain terms, they want to network with us, as we are not actual competitors. We just look at them, with I'm sure a look of genuine surprise, and go back to the work we were in the middle of, at the time they started speaking nonsense. I would much prefer, they were straight forward enough, to admit they were not only our competition, but were looking forward to kicking our asses right off the main street. I like this level of honesty, and we know exactly how we are going to react business-wise, to the incursion on our market share. I remember once, seeing a competitor coming from a yard sale, showing off the collectable items they had purchased; knowing full well that if they hadn't got to the sale first, we would have bought the exact same items. Yet they had informed us, a few days earlier, that we shouldn't consider them as competition; just good buds in the neighborhood. If you sell antiques and collectables, you are our competition. And when one of these dealers suggest, "the more the merrier," meaning that more shops brings more business, they are dead wrong, but what's the point trying to change their opinion? They are merely justifying opening a business that will shred our profit margin. Now add several more vintage-type businesses, in a small market area, and the shredding becomes a lot more aggressive, and hard to accommodate to the contentment of the accountant; who might suggest that instead of antiques, we begin selling marijuana related collectables and, well, bongs and stuff; along with hippy beads and tye-dyed smocks perfect for commune communing.
     The economic reality, is that it will take many more antique businesses, and many more years of surviving as an antique dealer cluster, plus a million dollars of promotion, to become a true destination for this sort of thing. In the meantime, it's just a cluster of competing shops, and some will fail because the market share is limited; even in the busy summer season. It's one of those robbing Peter to pay Paul, Mary, Jerry and Fanny kind of arrangements, where the dollar is shaved thinner and thinner, and the off season becomes more brutal, and not just because of inclement weather. So it becomes one of those dog-eat-dog situations, and competition so keen, that we want to kick our competitors in the ass, and put them in a headlock for a brisk, top-of-the-head noogie, instead of wishing them good morning. The more antique and collectable venues that locate in this region of South Muskoka, the higher the risk some of us won't survive the very next winter. Simple economics, and appreciation of the market place of rural Ontario. That's all it takes to know what over-retailed means, in the buying and selling of vintage wares.
     Now, if the same antique dealers, were to truly wish to remain in a somewhat profitable market condition, they would fight competition like the major food and clothing retailers, and cut their prices. Create bigger discounts and host more interesting sales events with those lovable "loss leaders" held out as incentives. I think this proliferation could be in the best interest of antique hunters, because there is too much supply for the present demand. But as antique dealers despise being told their prices are too high, I'm not really expecting a revolution to ensue, as a result of the market showing itself as obstinate; as it has been for a long, long time, when it comes to buying the best for the least.
     Sure, maybe we should have another ten or so antique and collectable shops in South Muskoka. Maybe being hard core competitive, like Mad Max, is what we need to sort things out, about which business will survive, and those that will close up, having etched hardly any business history worth documenting. Customers need to be treated well, and this may herald the most hospitality the antique profession has ever bestowed upon its limited patrons.
   Maybe Suzanne and I will open another antique shop down at The Wharf, or maybe over by Gull Lake, or, for gosh sakes, down the main street somewhere; methinks instead, we'll just run the same old shop we've loved so dearly, for these past few years, and leave the rest of our lot, to jockey about for the best positions to suit their aspirations. Maybe it is a good time to bargain-hunt for antiques in South Muskoka. Seems like its a buyer's market to us! But them what do we know about antiques and Muskoka?