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SUBMISSIONS
Yes, you. We want your work. Send it to us. Villamere wants work that is Canadian, by Canadians, or about Canadians and/or Canada. (The general theme here, folks, is: CANADA.) We publish poetry, short fiction, creative nonfiction, essays, reviews, photography and illustration by extraordinarily talented people just like you. Email only. We don’t open weird things we receive in the mail. Just kidding, we totally do. But seriously, please send it via email because it’s 2017 and that’s how things are done. Don't send anything that's already appeared in print or online. If your piece is selected for publication, you'll hear from us within a month(-ish). You won't be contacted if it has not been chosen. Hang your head in shame for we have rejected you, silently. Villamere assumes first-print rights and electronic rights, you retain copyright. Send your work in the body of your email or as an attachment to submissions@villamere.com. Also include your bio so we know a bit about you, eh? And remember to include your address and contact info (email address, phone number, all that stuff). We look forward to reading and otherwise looking/peeking at your stuff. Poetry: Send a maximum of five poems. You can submit once every three months. Short fiction, creative nonfiction and essays: We don’t have a word limit for submissions, but we do have a word limit for what’s printed. What does this mean? Submit your 4,000-word short story and we might edit it down to its essential 1,500 words. In Michael Winter’s words, we’ll help you “tell it … by half.” It’s the technique he claims helped him clinch the 2004 CBC Short Story Prize. Don’t worry — we will send you the edit and get your OK on it before we run it! We’ll even work back and forth on it with you. If it’s a blazingly tight 4,000 words, we might serialize it. We might run an excerpt and run the full item online. We’re flexible. We want to work with you to show your best work in a way that will get it in front of the most readers. Reviews: Want to review a book, art show, literary festival, book-related event or some other such Canadian art scene thing? Send us a quick pitch that lets us know the who, what, where, when, why and how and we’ll let you know if it fits. Photography and illustration: Send a lowres (under 1 MB) file and let us know how it’s relevant to CanLit. What’s in it for you? You’ll get an honourarium, the amount of which is contingent on the level of cash we have on hand. (OK, right now, I’ll tell you straight out: This is brand new. I’m personally cutting you a cheque for $25 and I’m
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CONTRIBUTORS JM Francheteau lives in Toronto. In 2015 he toured Canada and the US as part of Worst Case Ontario, and recent writing has appeared in The Puritan, untethered, Broken Pencil and Arc.
Villamere PUBLISHER/EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
J.C. Villamere
MANAGING EDITOR
Chris Bailey
HOW TO REACH US
Chelsea Comeau's work has appeared in the Claremont Review, Quills, and CV2. In 2011, Amber Tamblyn chose hers as the winning entry in BUST's poetry contest. She has attended poetry retreats with Lorna Crozier and Patrick Lane.
EMAIL info@villamere.com TEXT 289 439 9973 WEB villamere.com
Olivia Robinson is a UPEI grad from the Annapolis Valley, Nova Scotia. She works at the the local indie bookstore, Bookmark, in Charlottetown but still finds time to write and befriend seagulls by the harbour. Charity Becker is a teacher in Charlottetown, PEI, whose work was shortlisted for the gritLIT 2015 poetry contest. She earned third place at the 2014 Island Literary Awards' Milton Acorn Poetry Award and second place in that category at the 2016 Awards. Nathaniel G. Moore is the author of six books including, most recently, Jettison (Anvil Press). He won the 2014 ReLit Award for best novel and lives on BC’s Sunshine Coast with his partner and daughter where he works as a book publicist. paying $16.78 to ship you a hard copy of the magazine.) Plus we’re looking at ways we can offer you non-financial compensation because your work is good and important and you deserve nice things. You will see in this issue and online that we have designed and run very handsome pro-bono ads for some of our contributors. This is one way we offer non-financial compensation. We are flexible and eager to work with you to help you any way we can.
TWITTER @JCVillamere FACEBOOK facebook.com/villamere SHOP villamere.ca MAIL 515 Aberdeen Ave. Hamilton, ON CANADA L8P 2S6 Villamere (ISSN 2369-7636) is published four times each year. You really should advertise: Villamere reaches intelligent, creative people who get super jazzed for Canadian culture. Our ad deadlines are flexible and we can help you design your ad. Goods and services are gladly accepted in-kind. Email advertising@villamere.com and say, “Hi, advertising? Let's.” Or whatever. Just get in touch and we’ll make it easy. Cost: This quarterly mag costs $6.95 to print, $.80 tax + $10.99 shipping for a ridic total of $18.74 CDN per issue, only $1 of which goes to Villamere. And yet! We need subscribers. Bad. That’s why our subscription rates are so low. SUBSCRIBE: Basic subscription rate: One year (four issues) $29 CAD. International subscription rate: One year (four issues) $45 CAD. Visit villamere.ca to order your subscription or email subscriptions@ villamere.com for information. © 2015-2017 by Villamere. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without permission is prohibited.
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Bee Sounds (buzz.)
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From Vil to You
Cut the bullshit and just celebrate Canada Day by taking a nap.
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Peeps
Funny things you said on the internet.
The Harvest 20 Harriet
She smells like glue and her red ringlets have been anointed with glitter. BY OLIVIA ROBINSON
Longreads 10
Professor Buggles
When Leigh received Professor Buggles one Christmas morning she was as astonished, as most 18-yearolds would be at receiving a 20 inch action figure. NEW FICTION BY NATHANIEL G MOORE
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The Beaver Hour
In an exclusive excerpt from the upcoming book Is Canada Even Real? JC VILLAMERE examines exactly how bad the pop records
PROFESSOR BUGGLES: PAGE 10 produced in Canada really were during the 1960s. (Hint: they were so bad that the government had to mandate we listen to them.)
Can Stanzas 7 Raccoon/Citizen
Wearing boy-cut shorts and a tank top in bed, drinking coconut water. BY JM FRANCHETEAU
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Teeth
The bloom, after, that sprang from your mouth. BY CHELSEA COMEAU
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Bedroom, Spring Afternoon
I’ve lost my summer voice. BY CHARITY BECKER
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From Vil to You St. Patrick's Day is for drinking Guinness, cardboard shamrocks and wearing green. Oktoberfest is beer, pretzels and lederhosen. July 4th is picnics, fireworks and barbecues. Canada Day is... Canada Day just is. We're coming up on Canada Day #150 and we still haven't really nailed down a tradition and we really should settle on a set thing to do by then, gang. Let me make a case for nap time. We should nap on Canada Day. I know you're going to fight me on this one because I'm defensive by nature so let me make my case while I pretend in my mind that you're playing devil's advocate: You (The Devil): "Nap time? Like, Canada Day is so boring we should all just fall asleep?" Vil: No, you're taking too narrow a focus on this. What necessitates a nap? Good things: a big meal, a good job done, a super-long bonefest, all the beer. We're talking here about a nap earned. Y(TD): "You're campaigning for a nap in the middle of this obesity epidemic? You're a lazy piece of garbage." V: I can't argue with your second point but in terms of fighting obesity I would suggest earning your nap with a physical challenge: Hike. Swim. Bike. Mow your neighbour's lawn. Wrestle a toddler into a wet swimsuit. Change the TV input without using the remote. Y(TD): "How come Germany gets to celebrate Oktoberfest with pretzels and we don't? Can't we have a food component? Hey, poutine, amirite?" V: It's easy for those tiny baby countries to settle on a national food because they're so wee. Germany's half the size of Manitoba and everyone who lives there is German. Ireland is smaller than Newfoundland and Labrador plus they eat way more curries than they do corned beef and cabbage. And, I mean, poutine's great and all but it's not like we all eat it all the time, right? I'd put forth that our national food should be milkshakes but right now I'm busy convincing everyone we should nap on Canada Day which really should not be that hard of a sell and yet I'm persevering here in the face of encouragement. Y(TD): "No, I can't get past this food thing. Can't we have a cake or something for Canada Day?"
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V: You know what? Fuck you. Do you ever think about who bakes and/or orders, picks up, serves and further facilitates a goddamned cake? You know who: moms. Moms who have just finished shepherding kids through another school year and are now faced with planning a summer's worth of fun activities while fighting the urge to impale themselves on a flagpole. I put forth that Canada Day should be synonymous with The National Nap for no other reason than moms need to rest. Y(TD): "Isn't this a literary magazine? Is there a book tie-in here somewhere?" V: Oh yeah. Imagine yourself swaying gently in a hammock, book in hand, and you're alternating between reading and napping in the warm sun. Imagine it's mid-afternoon on Canada Day, everyone else is still napping as you emerge from your tent to enjoy a solitary chapter on the sand before the rest of your tribe rises. Imagine a day off work that you spend in bed with a good book. This is the sign of a sophisticated, well-appointed nation that knows what's up: Canada Day — a day for a well-read nation to become well-rested. Y(TD): "Except for.." V: Shut up. We both know this idea is a win. *Snores right into your ear.*
J.C. VILLAMERE Editor-in-Chief
Twitter: @jcvillamere Email: jc@villamere.com
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Peeps
O
ur fave booky tweets and messages. Get busy and write to us and/or for us. Email: letters@villamere, tweet: @jcvillamere. David McGimpsey @DaveMcGimpsey Henri Rousseau may have never been to the jungle but his jungle paintings can resonate. It's like when a poet writes about "friendship".
Megan Ganz @meganganz Giving a keynote speech to the graduating English Lit majors at UMich. Found a way to work in the words "boner" and "nards." #proudgraduate
ChristopherMcQuarrie
@chrismcquarrie Screenwriting tip: One day, your work and the work of Orson Welles will both be incinerated by our dying sun.
Scaachi @Scaachi If you’re going to plagiarise that badly, that o ten, your work should be very,
very good. Crib from the Bible. CRIB FROM BEYONCE. Michael Ian Black @michaelianblack
Spent the evening reading a book like in prehistoric times. Frank Whitehouse @WheelTod Cement your reputation as the office Romeo by committing suicide over an underage girl you've been seeing for less than a week.
ktkins @voldemortsbicep
"I'm a writer." -everyone with a computer "I'm an idiot failure." -writers Kashana @kashanacauley
In the '90s I reluctantly joined a book club for men called high school. ....................................................................................................................................................................................................
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Raccoon /Citizen JM Francheteau
“Headless dog found in Rideau Canal actually dead raccoon with head” is a headline. The story goes on to say, briefly, that from the bridge someone thought they saw a body, but, then the cops pulled up to clarify that it was not, in fact, a body but a decapitated dog, which is something else. Cutting off a dog’s head is a sort of crime, if it is alive. Cutting off a dog’s head if it is dead is small claims court, if someone is impelled by an innate humanism and possession of its papers. But that’s beside the point, as the humane society dropped by to add that the dog was only a raccoon, which did have a head, which they found by checking the top of its shoulders. At this point, the reporter who filed the story got in her car and went home or, more likely, took the bus home, or very possibly just phoned the department from home to get an update, wearing boy-cut shorts and a tank top in bed, drinking coconut water. Raccoons do actually make great pets, but no police department on Earth will investigate the death of a raccoon with a head. Raccoons are pests because they have the intellect to understand the concept of a gift, but lack the social discretion to understand when a gift is intended. Raccoons are bowled over by the generosity of garbage day. Raccoon folk songs are hosannas in our names. On the advice of armchair experts, who in a less enlightened age were called spinsters, I have spent hours slowly blinking at my pet cat, which is allegedly how kittens kiss. I know also that cats hiss, pupils slit, to mimic poisonous snakes. Their meow is attuned so we attend to them like human babes. From a distance, say the height of a bridge, contrasted by rushing water, a cat might resemble a raccoon without a head; perhaps half a dog; some chunk of a person so small no one would think to bother anyone about it. They would consider eating us, our cats I mean, if only they were bigger. ....................................................................................................................................................................................................
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Teeth
by Chelsea Comeau
Remember the poem about love that fell into you, a whirligig seed, its slow, helicopter descent. The bloom, after, that sprang from your mouth in a frenzy of leaves. The spine of the book so bent its pages came loose like teeth.
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Bedroom, Spring A ternoon by Charity Becker
Inside we create our own heat. Stoking our flames beneath windows open for the first time since October. I’ve lost my summer voice, forgotten to muffle with a pillow. The neighbourhood awakens. Happy noises of children playing slide in so easily, I wonder what of us slips out. Others move on beds of freshly cut grass, bathe in waves of sunlight, hose down cars in driveways. Our lawn is overgrown, cars in need of cleaning, and our bikes haven’t touched road in years. Outside the sun glides its fingers across exposed skin, glints off curbside puddles. But us, we remain inside, temperature rising. ...................................................................................................................................................................................................
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PROFESSOR BUGGLES H FA J F AAD When Leigh received Professor Buggles one Christmas morning she was as astonished as most 18-year-olds would be at receiving a 20 inch action figure. “What the hell, Dad?” “There’s a great story to this gift, Leigh,” he said, taking the toy from his daughter's hands then running his fingers over the figure's jutting white hair and adjusting his tiny glasses. “It was made by Coward Hash in the late 1980s. He was having a nervous breakdown and working in the toy industry after the fall of Atari when he came up with an idea for an English teacher action figure for teenagers not attending university.” “Yeah, right,” Leigh said. “Coward Hash? Sounds like your name but, like, as a super villain from a Superman comic.” “No, I’m serious. The action figure’s original creator ended up hospitalized after
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Professor Buggles failed to capture the imagination of the Cabbage Patch generation. Thousands were produced and stored in warehouses.” “I hope you didn’t buy a whole warehouse full.” “No.” “What does it do?” “It has tapes.” “Tapes?”
As Christmas morning unraveled itself, Leigh’s father set up Professor Buggles, who also came with a podium, a desk, and a box of small books. “He’s also a writer. You can have him do readings and get drunk at bars.” “So you bought me a toy made by a man in a mental institute?” “Well, honey, he wasn’t in a mental institute when he made it. You put the tapes in
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the back and he teaches you things about English literature. You can change his clothing and then he's Stan Buggles, contemporary poet.” “So his capacity to destroy my will to live is, in fact, infinite.” That night, Leigh put the plastic action figure (she refused to call him by his licensed name and referred to him as “it”) on her desk and got ready for bed. She combed her hair in the mirror and changed into the orange nightie her brother had bought her for Christmas. Her phone rang. It was her best friend, Cindy, from down the street. Like Leigh, Cindy was in first year at U Vic and home for the grey and green Christmas break. “Do you want to do something tomorrow? My Christmas stunk. I bought all these cool gift cards for my demented family and they got me PJs and dolls.” “What?” “Do you want to meet at the mall tomorrow?” “OK, how about 10?” “Sure. At the bookstore. Then we'll spread out from there.” “Sounds cool.” The next morning, Leigh grabbed a coffee and walked through the bustling innards of the Mayfair Shopping Centre until she found Coles. She was early. She dug into her pocket for a mint and found one of Professor Buggles tiny books. What the fuck? She read the title, 'Goodbye, Limping Dog Biscuit: Poems by Stan Buggles.' She shook her head and dove into her coffee. The buzz of caffeine coursed through her jaws and throat and arms, fingers, stomach, butt and down the backs of her legs. Feeling electric, she grazed through the aisles looking for a book to stand out to her from the stoic shelves. I wonder, she thought, chewing on her chapped lip. She went to the poetry section. Between Emily Bischoff and Derek Busk were two slim volumes of poetry by Stan Buggles. Leigh balked, shaking her coffee cup. This is weird. Her friend Cindy tapped her on the shoulder. “Whadap?” “Just browsing. I think I’m gonna get this,” Leigh said, waving one of his slim poetry books. “I want to check out the magazines.” Cindy veered off. After a day that bent to include food court excess, the friends parted. “See you at school in a few days,” Cindy said. “Yeah, call me if you don’t end up going away for the weekend.” “I will.”
When Leigh arrived home, the house was empty. She came across a note: 'At Aunt Thelma's. Back at 8.' She made herself a cheese and pickle sandwich, headed to her bedroom, and flipped on the radio. She put her sandwich on her desk and noticed Professor Buggles was face down with a tape loaded in his back. Dad must have lifted up its sweater and shirt and stuck the tape in there. What a weirdo. I get it Dad, you want me to play with a fucking action figure made by a maniac. Merry Christmas to you, too. She let out a loud burp which reverberated down the hallway, spooking her slightly. Leigh shut her bedroom door and opened her shopping bag. From beneath her mall haul of underwear and socks, some makeup and two bars of scented soap (goat’s milk and chamomile), she pulled out the poetry book. Leigh read the author bio on the last page: 'Stan Buggles was born in Vancouver in 1957 and grew up in the Borough of East York. He began writing at a very young age and was first published at 18 by The Crossbow Gang (now Owl Magazine). He got his PhD in English Literature from the University of Toronto in 1984 and published his first book of poetry the following
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kitchen, stepping in a dish of cat food. She shook it off, stayed focused long enough to continue each gasping stride to the front door where she scrambled to find her boots and jacket. She could still hear Professor Buggles spewing off his poetry in his sarcastic voice; even in her panic it grated on her the way he deliberately annunciated each word. From the basement, Leigh heard a rustling. And then someone or something cleared its throat.
year, 'Goodbye, Limping Dog Biscuit,' followed by 'I Cut Your Mother’s Toenails Yesterday' and the novel 'Sheep In Virginia Wolf’s Clothing' in 1992. Since 1995 he’s been poetry editor of Jonestown Books and has edited over a thousand poetry titles including work from Stevie Sudds, Catherine Hart, Barbara Bentos, Damian Hadley, Jamie Simpson and Howie Cash. He lives in your basement next to a medieval crossbow and thousands of envelopes filled with unpublishable poetry submissions.' Howie Cash? Leigh dropped the book to the ground. Before she had time to question anything further, “GOOD EVENING, IT’S GREAT TO BE HERE. I’D LIKE TO READ YOU A POEM IF I MAY…” The crinkled voice was coming from the action figure. Its cold plastic hands and legs began to move as if attempting to swim face-down on Leigh’s desk. “IT’S A POEM ABOUT A DOG WHO TRAVELS THE WORLD WHILE HIS MASTER IS KEPT IN A CAGE WITH SOME OTHER MASTERS AND THEY HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG THEIR DOGS WILL BE AWAY. IT IS CALLED LET ME RUN THE WORLD. I HAD A MASTER, HE WAS A GOOD MASTER AND WE LIVED IN A GOOD OLD HOUSE, BUT ONE DAY I GOT BORED, I OPENED THE REFRIGERATOR DOOR, THEN THE FRONT DOOR FOR IT WAS WARM OUTSIDE, AND WITH MY PASSPORT IN MY MOUTH, SOME MILK-BONES IN MY PANTS, SUMMONED THE COURAGE, SUMMONED A CAB…” Leigh screamed and shuddered as she felt pandemonium charge through the house. She ran from her bedroom bumping into things along the way (her dresser, a box of magazines, an empty bowl). She sprinted down the hallway into the 12
She had one boot on and with a scrunchy was putting her hair into a controllable ponytail when the front door opened and her heart began to cool with relief. It was her Christmas family, her meatloaf and potato family, her VHS renting family, the family that made popcorn and went ice skating and joked with her about her hair and clothes. “Hi honey, how was the mall?” “Dad, that fucking teacher toy...I, I...read about him and he’s fucking real! I went to the mall and got his book and you wrote a book too! You were published by him! Jonestown Books, your name, in a list of other poets. Do you know him? Can you hear that fucking toy? It won’t stop reciting poetry.” “Honey, calm down. What are you talking about?” “The doll, Professor Buggles. Stan Buggles. He’s a real poet.” The rustling in the basement grew. The action figure continued to recite his incessant verse. Leigh’s mother was still by the car gathering gifts and parcels. Howard Cash glanced at his wife in the driveway and then locked his gaze on his daughter. “Many years ago, I took a poetry workshop with Stan Buggles. Before you were even born. I was so excited about poetry because of it, and he was so encouraging, even publishing my first and only poetry book you see, so I wanted to honour him in a very special way. The Atari craze was dying and I was in need of a serious career makeover. I stayed up for days marketing and designing the prototype for Professor Buggles. I pitched the action figure series to some regional t o y m an uf ac t u r e r s I k n e w an d t h e y rejected it. So I invested my own money into making the first batch. No one would sell it. I even tried to get Stan to buy some to sell at his poetry events. He said that he didn’t want them and that he was a serious poet and didn’t need silly gimmicks." “But is that his voice? Like, on the tapes?” “Yes. I recorded his readings and dubbed the tapes myself.” “Dad, this is insane.” “There’s more.” “What, he lives in our basement next to a pile of poetry manuscripts?”
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Howard Cash's face froze. “Dad!” “He’s lived downstairs for years. He keeps to himself.” Taking out his pipe, Howard Cash went on for a minute or so explaining how he had more action figures planned, and even a action playsets where you could move Professor Buggles around his office and then get in a cab and go to a bar to give a reading. “You’re joking right, this is just a Christmas prank, right?” “Leigh, sweetheart, calm down. Listen, he wants to meet you. I told him you write poetry.” “This is too much,” Leigh shouted. “I want that thing out of my room.” Leigh felt like she didn’t know reality anymore. Her father’s face seemed to say, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was a poet. But the truth was Leigh’s anger ran far deeper and was far more fear-based than what Howard Cash surmised. “You gave me this thing either hoping I would discover the truth about it or that I wouldn’t. Either way, it’s terrifying.” “I’ll be right back.” “Where are you going?” “To talk to Stan.” Leigh’s mother was making her way inside the house now, setting down parcels and brushing snowflakes from her shoulders when she noticed her daughter’s face all contorted in teary horror and disappointment. “How was the shopping?” Leigh did not reply. “Your father tell you about Stan?” “You know about it?” “Of course. I told him not to give you that stupid teacher action figure for Christmas, that nothing good would come of it.” “I didn’t know Dad wrote a book of poetry.” “It’s not very good. I think he wanted to encourage you, you know, creatively.” Just then a white-haired wizard of a man appeared at the top of the basement stairs beside the kitchen. Behind him was Leigh’s father. “Honey, this is Stan. He’s the fellow I’ve been talking to you about.” “Heeee-llll-oooo…Leigh!” Stan Buggles said with a cantaloupe slice of a smile. “I heard your father introduced you to my littler incarnation. And I hear you like to write poetry. Mind if I read some?” Leigh looked at her mother who was now wearing a Christmas apron and shaking flour into a mixing bowl. She looked at her father, mostly eclipsed
by Stan’s luminous white hair. He was nodding incessantly. She heard a rustling down the hallway and moved towards it, noticing the eyes of Stan and her parents following her like the odd times a set of eyes on a painting will follow you as you pass it. In the hallway, Professor Buggles was on all fours, looking tragic as he attempted a normal set of footsteps. With whirling gears churning in his neck, his arms and legs took turns in action, steadily crawling towards her, and still reading poems, “I HAVE A WOODEN UKULELE, I SMASH IT OVER THE HONEY TREES, I BEND THE WIRES OVER MY BROTHER’S KNEE, WON’T YOU GIVE ME ANOTHER CHANCE TO WIN THE LOTTERY?” Leigh Cash ran past her mother, whose face was now sprinkled with flour. She grabbed her boots and coat and woolen toque. She tore down the front steps and ran down the street, not looking back. But had she, what a Christmas tableau she'd have seen. The kind you see in a YouTube video for some Bing Crosby endless playlist. An image of a man with white hair holding a smaller version of himself, a woman in a Christmas apron, face peppered in flour, and another man in a brown sweater with glasses on and a pipe in his mouth. All of them smiling. All of them looking in the exact same direction; slightly out of focus, but focused nonetheless.
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Radio stations wouldn't touch them. Consumers stayed away in droves. Eventually, the government had to mandate that we hear them. Exactly how bad were the records made in Canada in the 1960s?
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Could our nationally produced pop singles possibly have been worse than, say, New Yorker Brian Hyland’s 1960 number-one hit “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini”? Surely they weren’t as dismal as British band Herman’s Hermits’ 1965 top hit “‘I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am”? Outside our borders, Canadian-born musicians were recording exceptional material. Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen, Gordon Lightfoot, and even pioneering pop idol Paul Anka were throwing down inspired sounds at the dawn of the pop era. But these musicians recorded, toured, and lived elsewhere, usually in the United States, in order to succeed. What was it about the songs recorded within our borders by our own residents that were so taboo? In many ways, we will never know how truly terrible the era’s national pop output was because it was deemed too awful for radio DJs to play and therefore worthless for bands to invest in recording.
“Few Canadian records are up to the American standard,” CKFH’s Don Daynard told the Globe and Mail in 1968. His colleague, John Donabie, agreed: “I don’t want to play third-class records.” The station adopted a Top 40 format in 1966 and played one Canadian record a week. The unlikely prospects for success left Canadabased bands frustrated. “What can you do when radio stations just aren’t interested in Canadian discs?” complained Brian Pombiere, who managed the relatively successful North York, Ontario, one-hit-wonder Lords of London, who had a Canadian hit in 1967 with “Corn Flakes and Ice Cream.” “We just wouldn’t bother to make another disc for the local market; it’s a waste of money, talent, and energy. Forget it,” Pombiere told the Globe after the band’s two follow-up records failed to chart or even garner airplay. Canadians topped the American Billboard chart exactly twice in the 1960s, and these hits offer little explanation of the national prejudice against our own sound. The first chart-topper was from Toronto bandleader Percy Faith, who had the number one record the week of February 22, 1960, with the languid orchestral theme from the Sandra Dee movie A Summer Place. But the track was recorded at the Columbia 30th Street Studio in New York City, and as an instrumental it was very much a holdover from the pre-pop era, when Canadians had had no trouble
Whole lotta Lorne Greene.
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scoring hits. Just look at bandleader Guy Lombardo of London, Ontario, and his band The Royal Canadians, who sold millions of records worldwide in the big band era between 1927 and 1940. The second and final Canadian number one of the 1960s came from Lorne Greene in 1964. Turns out the Ottawa-born Alpo spokesman and host of Lorne Greene’s New Wilderness also starred as Pa Cartwright on the American western series Bonanza, which ran on NBC from 1959 to 1973. Riding on the strength of these rock star credentials, Greene released the album 'Welcome to the Ponderosa' in 1963 and cut the single “Ringo,” backed with the theme from Bonanza on the B-side. (In a delightful Canadianism, Greene also recorded a French version of “Ringo,” which was backed with “Du Sable.”)
“Ringo” was the spoken-word ballad of Old West outlaw Johnny Ringo. It was doubtlessly carried to the number one spot by Beatlemania, which peaked in 1964 and ensured that anything emblazoned or even mildly associated with Ringo Starr was a hot seller. Are home-based Canadians just not musical? Pshaw. In addition to the pre-pop-era success of Guy Lombardo, the Toronto vocal groups the Diamonds, the Crew-Cuts, and the Four Lads produced a combined total of 38 Top 40 Billboard hits in the 1950s. Montreal jazz legend Oscar Peterson began a career in 1944 that would culminate in eight Grammy Awards and countless other accolades. Nova Scotia’s homegrown country music superstar Hank Snow began a career in the ’50s and became widely recognized as one of the genre’s most innovative contributors. But by the end of the 1950s, a lack of investment in emerging technology was leaving Canada behind in the race to the top of the charts. Our few recording studios were outdated compared to those in America and England. “A lot of Canadian records were produced on a real shoestring,” Toronto Star entertainment reporter Margaret Daly recalled in an interview 16
with CBC Radio’s Barbara Frum in 1976. “A bunch of guys would get $500 together and rent a two-track studio for 12 hours.” It didn’t take a discriminating audiophile to determine that the results sounded like a low-fi, muddy mess. It’s no wonder promising musicians headed south to record. As Randy Bachman of Winnipeg hit-makers The Guess Who told CBC Radio in 1970, “Originally, we started recording in Minneapolis.... The groups up in Edmonton are even more unfortunate because they drive all the way to New Mexico to record.” Guess Who producer Jack Richardson mortgaged his house to raise the $18,000 in capital (about $113,000 in today’s dollars) needed for the band to spend five days at A&R Recording Inc., a major studio in New York City. (The gamble paid off — the session spawned the million-selling single “ These Eyes.”) Meanwhile, Top 40 radio stations were happy to secure their ratings by following playlist strategies based on Billboard charts and proven reports from American programming consultants. Why take a chance on Canadian talent when the current method worked for advertisers, listeners, and broadcasters? “You can’t shove Canadianism down people’s throats,” Garry Ferrier, program director of CHUM Radio, told the Globe in 1968. Pierre Juneau’s response was Just watch me. The tough-talking, ardent head of the Canadian Radio and Television Commission (CRTC) declared in 1970 that “Canadian broadcasting should be Canadian.” Reflecting the brash politics and bold commitments of then Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau, Juneau introduced strict Canadian content rules for radio and television that came into effect in 1971. Canadian content was to comprise 25 percent of playlists. The quota increased to 30 percent in the 1980s and 35 percent in the 1990s. Private broadcasters were certain that people would turn off their radios if they had to listen to Canadian records. “The pessimistic view from the broadcasters was that they would lose millions and millions of dollars and they would go out of business,” said Daly. “There was no Canadian product that was good enough to play." Even after the regulations came into effect, the stigma remained. Such was radio stations’ determination to keep Canadian content at bay that they resorted to ghettoizing Canadian records and playing them at off-peak hours, typically between 3:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m., in programming blocks that became known as “Beaver Hours.” Think about that: Beaver Hours. Not Skunk Hours or Juneau Hours or CRTC Can Stick It Hours. Beaver Hours. Our own broadcasters used a proud national emblem
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to delineate something they thought was junk. Put it in context by trying to imagine American DJs relegating their least-fave discs to Eagle Hours and the contrast offers a crystal-clear peek into our nation’s fragile sense of selfworth. The CRTC soon closed the Beaver Hours loophole to ensure Canadian content would be heard in prime time. The impact of the ruling was heard immediately: Sam the Record Man, then the country’s largest music retailer, reported that Canadian music sales increased 25 percent in 1971. There were 36 Canadian singles on the Billboard Top 100 charts that year. Decades later, as records by Canadians from Alanis, Celine, and Shania to Drake, Bieber, and The Weeknd have ruled the charts both at home and abroad, it’s easy to reflect on Beaver Hours and wonder: Did that seriously happen? Is that even real? Consider, also, these questions: 1. To help broadcasters identify Canadian music, the CRTC created a classification system that uses which acronym? a) ARSE b) MAPL c) BEAV d) DIRT 2. The CRTC was later forced to amend its classification system because of complaints from: a) private broadcasters b) Bryan Adams c) the listening public d) Nickelback 3. The annual awards to recognize achievement in Canadian music were renamed the JUNO Awards in 1971 in recognition of Pierre Juneau’s contribution to championing Canadian music. What were the awards called prior to this? a) The Gold Leaf Awards b) The RPM Awards c) The Ringos d) The Beaver Awards 4. True or False: The CRTC regulates the internet to ensure Canadians surf a minimum of 30 percent Canadian-generated web pages. 5. True or False: In an effort to trick DJs into thinking they weren’t Canadian, Canadian music performers often named themselves or their songs after American or European places.
From top: Guy Lombardo, the Juno Award, The Guess Who as tiny, baby children.
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From top: Rhyme buddies Pierre Trudeau (left) with Pierre Juneau (is that Frankenstein's monster in polka dots behind them?), Oscar Peterson, Joni Mitchell
1. To help broadcasters identify Canadian music, the CRTC created a classification system that uses the acronym b) MAPL In 1970, the CRTC introduced the MAPL system to classify songs. Records generally qualify as “Canadian” if they meet two of these qualifications: • Music composed entirely by a Canadian • Artist is Canadian • Produced in Canada • Lyrics written entirely by a Canadian 2. The CRTC was later forced to amend its classification system because of complaints from b) Bryan Adams Adams' ballad “(Everything I Do) I Do It for You” hit the top of the charts in 17 countries, including Canada, in 1991. Although Adams is a Canadian artist, the record didn’t qualify under the MAPL system. The album was recorded mostly in England and it was co-written with British record producer Robert John “Mutt” Lange (who was yet to earn the country’s scorn by marrying national treasure Shania Twain and then cheating on her with her best friend). Because the record was co-written by a non-Canadian and recorded outside of Canada, the recording met only one qualification of the MAPL system and therefore couldn’t be considered Canadian content under CRTC guidelines. Adams, who at the time had already won a dozen of his 18 JUNO Awards, said the rule was “a disgrace, a shame ... stupidity,” and called for the abolition of the CRTC. In response, an ad hoc CRTC committee amended the rules so that a Canadian artist who writes 50 percent of a song’s music and 50 percent of its lyrics would qualify for a MAPL point. 3. The annual awards to recognize achievement in Canadian music were renamed the JUNO Awards in 1971 in recognition of Pierre Juneau’s contribution to championing Canadian music. Prior to this, the awards were called a) The Gold Leaf Awards RPM Magazine founded the Gold Leaf Awards in 1970 to honour Canadian music industry achievement. Like the poor sister of America’s Billboard Magazine, RPM was the lone Canadian music-industry publication to feature song and album charts for Canada. It was founded by Walt Grealis of Toronto in 1964. In his honour, the JUNOS present the Walt Grealis Special Achievement Award to those who help to advance Canadian music. Still unknown: why the awards are called the JUNOS and not the JUNEAUS. It’s not like it would be tricky for the nation to pronounce this name. The prime minister at the time was named Trudeau, after all. And, um, they just, like, rhyme, you guys. 4. Does the CRTC regulate the internet to ensure Canadians surf a minimum of 30 percent Canadian-generated web pages? Nope, this is false But what's cray is that they thought about it. They consulted. They deliberated. But in the end, they decided it wasn’t necessary. “The Canadian new media industry is vibrant, highly competitive and successful without regulation,” announced chairwoman Francoise Bertrand in 1999. 5. In an effort to trick DJs into thinking they weren’t Canadian, did Canadian music performers often name themselves and their songs after American or European places? False While there is no evidence to indicate Canadian musicians intentionally incorporated the names of exotic locales to foil DJs into believing they were American or European bands, it’s not a huge leap to make that assumption. Lords of London likely tried to jump on the British Invasion bandwagon not just with their name, but also with their psychedelic sound and Beatles haircuts. The Irish Rovers, who scored an unlikely hit in 1967 with “Unicorn,” played up their Northern Ireland homeland even though they all lived in Canada. Many artists recorded songs with American or foreign place names, including Neil Young’s “Ohio,” Patsy Gallant’s disco foray “New York to L.A.,” The Guess Who’s “American Woman,” Anne Murray’s “Tennessee Waltz,” R. Dean Taylor’s “Indiana Wants Me,” and Leonard Cohen’s “First We Take Manhattan” and “Chelsea Hotel #2.” But Joni Mitchell is by far the most prolific in this regard. The folk singer heroine of Fort Macleod, Alberta, recorded “Woodstock,” “Free Man in Paris,” “Chelsea Morning,” and “In France They Kiss on Main Street.”
SHORT FICTION BY OLIVIA ROBINSON
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Harriet and her smile fly out of school, nimbly weaving around the bodies of bigger kids. She clatters down each step to meet me on the sidewalk where she wraps her good arm around my waist and presses her face into my stomach. “Hi, sweetie.” I hold her to me. She smells like glue and her red ringlets have been anointed with glitter. Her shoes are on the wrong feet but aside from her arm in a cast since last week she is generally intact. “School is so awesome,” she says. “We did crafts and sang songs and read books and a boy gave me his necklace after I kissed him.” “After you did what?” Harriet pulls her hand from mine and reaches into her smock dress pocket to pull out a round brass bell strung on a lace. “See?” She rings the tiny bell with abandon. I crouch down to meet her eyes. “Why did you kiss him?” Harriet’s pale eyebrows scrunch together. “Because he dared me and said he’d give me this necklace if I did." My worry for her is a constant like an unrepentant tinnitus. “It’s a nice necklace,” I say. “Maybe next time don’t say yes to a dare so quickly?” “Unless the person offers me something really good, right?” I hold back a sigh, try to memorize exactly how Harriet looks in this moment. While Harriet was in school, I'd walked around and found myself standing outside the hotel where Mom works. The last time I was there I was eight months pregnant, sitting out back by the dumpsters drinking a Coke, waiting for Mom to finish work at the bar. She'd kicked me out six months before when I told her about the baby. I was there to tell her I was still alive, that I’d moved in with my brother, Bennett. When she appeared in the doorway that day, a cigarette on her lip that couldn't ever be lit fast enough, she stared right through me and I silently walked away on impulse. That was the last time I saw her and I realized today was not the time to break that streak. “Let’s go get Bennett and go home,” I tell Harriet. “You can choose a treat at the shop.” “Really?” She pulls away, shoes clinking and clanking down the sidewalk. “Let’s go!” Harriet leads the way a few blocks over to the convenience store where Bennett works. Bennett is behind the counter. He's cashed out after his shift and now he's just staring down at lottery tickets under the glass, eyes vacant. I slam my palms down on the counter and he jumps.
“Grow up,” he says, but the hint of a smile gives him away. He busies himself arranging the receipts beside the cash register while Harriet heads straight for the candy aisle. “I went to the hotel today,” I tell him. “No,” he says. “You didn’t.” I nod slowly, looking down. “I didn’t see her. Just stood outside.” I draw circles on the counter with my finger. “I just want Harriet to have people.” Bennett leans close. “She has us." Last week the two of us saw Harriet’s red ringlets dancing with the fire from Bennett’s Bic. He tackled her with her towel, the one with the hood and the beak and the bird face sewn on. When she comes out of the bath in that towel, she looks like a newborn chick. How her arm protruded, a wing broken on a bird too young to fly. I can still feel Bennett’s hand in mine as we waited at the doctor’s office, the three of us together. Hear Bennett tell Harriett how cute her hair is, even though it was trimmed too close. “As far as brothers go, you’re not too bad,” I say. Bennett smiles and puts his hands on mine, stilling them. “Don’t go again,” he says. “Don’t go see her, okay? Promise me. We’re fine.” Harriet steps up by my side with an orange lollipop in her hand and a bag of Goldfish crackers under her good arm. “I only eat orange things now.” She stands on her toes to place her picks on the counter. Bennett rings them through and bags them up for her. “Let’s go,” he says, ruffling Harriet’s already messy head. She has a broken arm and singed hair and a first kiss lingering on her cheek. We leave the shop as the door's bells jangle above us.