The exciting part about being on the road with a rock n roll band is actually performing rock n roll onstage, and no matter the location, the 3 or 4 hours of playing time each evening are pure pleasure -- the reason we got into the business in the first place. The NOT-so-exciting part , however, involves a week-long stint in a backwoods watering hole with absolutely zilch to do during the rest of the day. We could be complacent and hang out in the local bar, drinking beer & playing pool, or vegetating in our hotel room watching the Bugs Bunny/Woody Woodpecker Show. Led Zeppelin, The Who or the Rolling Stones often used these same periods of inactivity for well-documented hotel-trashing debauchery and Olympic medal-worthy ingestion of recreational pharmaceuticals.

Whatever your position in the rock n roll hierarchy, though, once you’ve got out of bed at noon, the entertainment choices in some localities can be quite limited, which we found to be the case in a visit to 100 Mile House in 1977. We were booked into the town’s cabaret for a 6-night engagement, and our supplied accommodations were, at best, abysmal: a fabled “Band House”!

You folks who were in touring bands during the 70s (heck, in ANY decade) will be familiar with the amenities offered in a typical on-the-road band house -- 3 or 4 bedrooms (some dorm-style with two or three beds in each room), a bathroom that hadn’t been cleaned since the last Ice Age, and a sorry excuse for a filthy kitchenette so that bands could prepare Kraft Dinner undisturbed. Usually, a band house would have a list of Rules and Regulations Scotch-taped to the beer fridge (so that the band would be sure to see it). These notices would advise us that there under no circumstances were there to be drunken parties or “visitors” after 2 am (normally the time of our last song in the nightclub), and no animals allowed (which in some instances would include drummers).

At the moment, “Grandma’s House” in Nanaimo comes to mind!

In any case, trashing the band house would not be an option, mainly because we would have to live in the resulting damage until the completion of our engagement. It goes without saying that each band house would only be as clean and cared for as its previous occupants -- the unfortunate fact was that these facilities would be lodgings for travelling rock bands, who have the reputation of not being the most sanitary or conscientious of visitors at the best of times!

Anyway, we’re off track here: back to 100-Mile House (so named because in the days of the Gold Rush in the 1800s, this town was a rest-stop for pioneers and prospectors, and was 100 miles from the start of the Cariboo Trail in Lytton, BC). One night during our engagement, an audience member got talking to us about how he owned a nearby ranch, and would be only too happy to outfit us for horseback-riding one afternoon. We were eager to participate, and the next day we did the City Slickers routine. Yes, we were now “dudes”, and mounted our respective steeds for an afternoon of moseying around the back 40, or whatever it is that cowboys do. I was asked if I wanted a saddle with a horn, but I declined, as there didn’t seem to be too much traffic that day. As was our custom at the time, we brought lots of beer which we consumed heartily, resulting in a ragtag gang of highly-inebriated cowboy-wannabes, but dudes nonetheless. Once I was secured atop an unsuspecting horse, I accompanied a more experienced rider to wander the perimeter of the ranch.

It was a summer afternoon, and with the alternative being a dull day in a smoky bar, we enjoyed ourselves immensely. Late in the afternoon, however, our horses recognized that it was nearing Chow Time, and automatically did a 180 and headed towards the barn, where dinner would be waiting as usual. My particular beast was a bit anxious about his imminent meal, and proceeded to trot towards home at a much quicker pace than I was comfortable with up until that time. Being an inexperienced horse rider, I shook the reins for my horse to slow down, which regrettably was of course the signal for the horse to advance more rapidly. Had I mentioned that we were all mighty shitfaced at the time? My horse bolted into a quick gallop, and since my beer-ravaged brain had no idea what was required to stop, I hung on for dear life. At this point, I was in the Kentucky Derby atop Secretariat for all I knew. Now, I don’t remember coming off the horse or even hitting the ground, but launched skyward I was, and the first thing I was aware of was regaining consciousness on the ground. My glasses were over here, my hat was over there, the horse was happily grazing in the grass, and the other rider inquired, “Are you alright?”. When I attempted to reply, an intense pain consumed my chest like a huge vice grip, and I could barely speak.

I was carted off (ha! bad pun) to the local hospital, where the attending physician asked me, “So what are you doing in 100 Mile? Hunting? Fishing?” When I told him that I was in a rock band and playing at the local bar, he laughed and said, “Not tonight you’re not. You’ve got two cracked ribs!”

Ouch! To be honest, I felt like I’d been beaten up, kicked down a flight of stairs and pissed on, but The Show Must Go On. Alas, I was in no shape to walk without assistance, let alone play the drums. The band’s answer to what could have been a nasty predicament, however, was to let me sit out the night and substitute Ding, our sound man, on the drums. A viable solution -- IF he could play! He amiably filled in for me that evening, and I listened to the band’s performance from the comfort of the afore-mentioned band house. Ding was as good a drummer as I am a brain surgeon, though, so if it hadn’t been for the fact that it was early in the week and the club was nearly empty, the resulting collaboration could have been disastrous. The band had fun, but I set about rehabilitating myself as quickly as possible!

I remember that once the tour was over and I returned home, I was given a prescription for Percodan as a painkiller. Percodan is normally administered to cancer patients and one of its side effects involves the fact that it is a powerful depressant. Therefore, I convalesced by staring out the window and muttering, “nobody LIKES me... whimper, moan”. I had no pain whatsoever from my horseback riding injury, but I felt like shit on toast! Realizing I had to extricate myself from this situation, I stopped taking this vile drug. After I did, all the associated pain returned, but I was now happy and the old Captain Maniac re-emerged intact!