photo by Gail Salmo

We check in, and the guy says, "Let me guess — band?"

"Yeah," we say.

So we head off to find a famous Toronto street-vendor hot dog, then go to sound check. We show up, and it's this huge hall. Then we find out it's an all-day music marathon with like ten bands. All the other bands have the most horrific names: Knee Jerk Reaction, Rubik's Groove, Mamma Sutra, Oscar Box, and so on. We're "headlining" this event, which sometimes just means you're playing last!

As day turns to evening turns to night, we notice that the audience consists of maybe five to seven people meandering about, listening to these monstrosities play. For some reason every band decided that it would be really rad to play with their shirts off...every one of them. Just rocking out, sans shirt. It was awesome.

We're loading our gear onstage when the promoter comes to us and says, "We can't meet the guarantee, so feel free to drink as much beer as you wish." So we all go to the bar and get two pitchers each. We figure if you're going to embarrass yourself, it's best to be really drunk.

Irving, sans shirts

You'd think the story ends here, but not so fast. After the show we start loading out to the van and a homeless Jamaican man comes up and asks for some change. None of us have any, but we do have beer (we took some to go; you can do that in Toronto). We give him a beer, and he starts to tell us about his trip to Toronto from Jamaica. His accent is thick, thick, thick. Straight Rasta. We tell him we are a rock band, and he gets all excited: "Pleay us a song, mon! PLEEAASE MON, I'M BEEGGIN, MON!" So we pull out our acoustic guitar and ask what he wants to hear. He says to play anything. We ask if he wants to hear "No Woman, No Cry," and he says, "Pleay whatevea, mon," so we start. He joins in singing and dances around a little puddle in the alley.

When the song ends, he begs for another. "Well, what do you wanna hear?" we ask.

"Pleay some Kenny Rogers, mon!" he says. "DA GAMBLA MON!!"

Holy shit, and I mean holy shit! Brent happens to know how to play this (why, I still don't know), and before we can even start singing, the guy busts into the verse, then the chorus, just ripping this song through and through, every word! It was truly amazing. He's dancing around this puddle singing "The Gambler" and drinking beer.

Irving and their Kenny Rogers-loving Rasta man, with his leg in a puddle

We are all in disbelief as we pull away from this glorious experience. It could not have been more weird, period. As we drive up to the hotel, our faces drop. "Oh, shit!!! That's right, we're staying HERE!!!" We all bust out in uncontrollable laughter. The valet opens the doors and we almost fall out of the van (à la Jeff Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High).

"Good show, guys?" the valet asks in sort of unsarcastic amazement.

"Yeah, it was awesome!"

Mind you, we are falling-over drunk, soaking wet, and absolutely delirious as we pass over the impossibly shiny marble floors that seem to stretch the length of a football field.

"Ahh, the rock band's back!" the concierge proclaims as we head towards the main desk.

Ashod says, "Stay back — this is what I get paid for. We don't want to blow it." So we stay about 20 yards back as Ashod walks over to the desk.

"How was the show?"

Ashod stays quiet. The concierge looks at Ashod, then over Ashod's shoulder at us. "Guys? How was the show?" he asks quite loudly, as we are quite a distance away from him.

Quiet.

Brent sort of steps forward. "Uhh...it was fucking awesome."

"SWEET!!! I love that place, man!"

"Yeah, it was...rad," we agree.

"Hey." The concierge gets a little quieter, and motions for us to come closer. "The Jacuzzi closes in ten minutes, but if you get there by then, I know the girl that's in charge up there. She'll keep it open as long as you want."

Silence.

More silence.

"Well, that is, if you guys want..." he adds.

We let him know we'd be there in two minutes.

"Sweet," he says.

No one has swim trunks (a situation we've all fixed since this trip — always bring swim trunks! For some reason there are always places to swim on tour). So there it is: six drunk guys in boxers in a four-star hotel in Toronto who have just had the worst/best/really best show/night of their lives.

I am able to recall this story so well because we must have retold it to each other 26 times as we basked in our glory for the next few hours in our all-night private Jacuzzi. (When we left, so had the girl at the Jacuzzi check-in — just gave up, I guess!)

We didn't stop talking about it for years...still talk about it occasionally. In fact, last time we went to Toronto we all kind of kept an eye open for our Kenny Rogers-loving Rasta man, although sadly, he wasn't there.

So there you go! That story, by the way, is true. I swear to God. Ok, I made up the name "Knee Jerk Reaction," but the rest is true!!

– Steven Scott, guitar/vocals, Irving