#60. Getting Discovered (in Kapuskasing)
Summer 1979: We were playing The Radio Hotel...
Pulling up to the Radio Hotel, by now, we were a well-oiled machine. We’d wordlessly open the van, grab the mic stands to prop open the hotel doors, and quickly start moving in the gear. Here, before we’d even opened the van, we were being helped by a young guy who worked there. His name was Steven. He helped us lug in the big stuff, and while we were setting up, he got our room keys.
The Radio’s beverage room was a horse shoe. The stage was halfway back on the left. The bar was on the right, opposite the stage. In the far corner by the kitchen, the owners had a “family” table where a large, bearded man sat monitoring the hotel’s activities.
We had two competing hotels right across the street from each other -
The Radio Hotel…
…and The Commercial Hotel - the building on the left. (The band rooms were the farthest second floor windows.)
Whichever bar had the better band, that place had the bigger crowd. As this was Sledd Dogg’s first time there, the crowd was across the street at The Commercial.
The Radio was just about empty - except for this one guy.
He didn’t fit in. He was too slick, too well put together. While everyone wore hunting jackets and ball caps, he had a glorious mane of Gino Vannelli hair that cascaded over a high-end leather jacket. He sat nursing a draft watching our every note.
He seemed to really, REALLY like us.
At break time, he waved us over and introduced himself. He said his name was Michael and he was Neil Young’s keyboard player. He lived in Hartford Connecticut - (which is the farthest from “the rock star life” as he could find). Since Neil was currently off, Michael was just travelling around Canada, seeing the sights. We just happened to catch him in Kapuskasing.
Michael invited us to his upcoming recital at The Concert Hall in Toronto. He pulled out a stack of concert tickets and gave us each one. The tickets had a Donavon-esque sketch of his face too. You had to admit, they were very classy.
Scotty ordered a pitcher. Then, as we listened, Michael spun magical tales of touring with Neil across Europe; meeting each of the Beatles (“John stole my lighter”); and chatting with “Hef” in the Playboy Mansion’s grotto...
“But forget all that.” he said. “What’s important is ‘The Spark’ - and you guys have it.”
Michael told us he had the connections to make Sledd Dogg HUGE.
Scotty discretely slipped over to the bar and told the wait staff that, for the rest of the night, whatever Michael wanted was “on the band’s tab”.
Some were onboard. I wasn’t so much. Nevertheless, all night, Michael drank, smoked, and told spell-binding, jet-setter stories...on Sledd Dogg’s dime. At the close of the evening, he promised to be back the following night to discuss our next steps.
Something just didn’t sit right so, the next day I took it upon myself to visit the local Sam - The Record Man in Kap’s Model City Mall. I went straight to the Neil Young bin and pored over the credits on every single album they had. No Michael. Even on “Rust Never Sleeps” an album he specifically named as being on, not only was there no “Michael”, there was no keyboard player.
Add to that, the date on the tickets he gave us was either passed, or years in the future. I came back to the hotel and told the guys my findings.
Michael is a complete fraud. A conman.
Scotty looked gutted.
That night, Michael showed up as promised at his usual table. Scotty and I wandered over but didn’t sit down. I mentioned that I checked all of Neil Young’s records and couldn’t find his name anywhere. And, I couldn’t find him on “Rust Never Sleeps”.
He expertly brushed away my findings.
“Oh, I asked Neil not to include my name or picture – for personal reasons.”
And what about the date on the tickets?
“Wait - WHAT?!”
Michael looked at the ticket again - only to be shocked. SHOCKED.
He was SO grateful that we caught this “mis-type”, and his manager will certainly hear about this. He’ll be sure to send us new, “VIP” tickets once they’re re-printed.
He looked tiny and pathetic. We just walked away. By the time we hit the stage for our first show, he was gone.
So much for “The Spark”.
At break time, Dean and I popped over to catch the country band across the street. They were just finishing a George Jones tune. Suddenly, a giant burst of applause from the front table. There was Michael, applauding like he’d just seen Elvis.
The singer thanked him, and asked the bartender to bring Michael a pitcher of beer…
NEXT: #61. Revenge of The Blue Angels