Get Down Tonight!
Watch your head! Oh, too late. Blackness. Ambulance. CT scan. Repeat.
That might be a slight exaggeration – I was only rushed to the hospital in an ambulance for a head injury once. And, it was so worth it.
I was 18 and in Ottawa at an outdoor day-long concert where my favourite band, Spirit of the West (SOTW), was playing. They influenced me a lot and I was really excited. It was a rainy day in August 1995. I was probably wearing the obligatory 1990s non-descript jeans, t-shirt and perhaps even my blueberry docs. SOTW was playing a mid-afternoon set and would be signing autographs after!! My friends and I decided that if we got separated, we would meet at the autograph table after the set.
As predicted, I lost my friends in my quest for the coveted gates separating the crowd from the stage. During the set, I soaked in the music and sang along… until it hit me. Literally. Doc Marten boot, meet my face. Awesome. I looked up to see the disappearing figure of a body surfer. The next thing I knew, I was being passed over the coveted gates into the arms of a security dude. He carried me in front of the stage into the St. John’s ambulance tent. Nooooo! I am going to miss the rest of the set! Priorities intact? Check.
In the tent, the medic dudes examined my face and head. I pleaded with them to let me go watch the rest of the show and they said that they couldn’t keep me because I was 18. I signed a waiver and was gone. Armed with a bag of cold water for my face, I wondered off. I had a vague idea of where I was and where I was supposed to be going.
Soaking wet and covered in mud, I staggered to the autograph tent, striking up random conversations about incoherent things along the way.
Finally, I made it to the tent and found my friends. One looked at me quizzically and said that I was acting like I was drunk, which was telling since at the point in my life I hadn’t ever had a sip. What?! Drunk?
We inched our way up to the table where the band was seated. Finally, it was my turn! I got to the table, stared at the drummer, Vince Ditrich for too long, then kissed the table with my forehead. Yes, faceplant. If I hadn’t been so out of it, I would have died of embarrassment.
Moments later, I was wrapped in hypothermic tin foil and sitting in Hugh McMillan‘s chair. Way to make an impression. Soon after, I was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance and my friends missed the rest of the bands. Oops.
Fast forward 2 months. My brother and I were in Montreal to see a SOTW concert (to make up for the one I so artfully crashed). As we were walking down the street who did we run into? John Mann. Lead singer. He looked at me and said “Hey! How’s your head?” What? You remember me? But, I was covered in mud and that was 2 months ago in a different city! I said “much better, thanks” and he invited us backstage after the show.
For the next few years, I went and saw them whenever they played wherever I happened to be living at the time. We hung out and chatted and it was a blast.
When Weights and Measures came out, Vince told me to listen to track #9; it was called Get Down Tonight. I listened and told him that the story sounded familiar. He said that it should. Awesome!
I have been thinking about this lately because John Mann is playing some gigs in the area next month in support of his solo album. It has been years and I doubt he’ll remember me, but I think I will go and hopefully get a chance to jog his memory.
As it turns out, that was the first concussion in a string of head injuries that lasted almost a decade. Yeah, that’s how I roll. Maybe one day, I’ll tell you all about the other ones.
