The Last Pogo Jumps Again

Wow. And Ouch. Just when you think it can’t get any worse, surprise — it does! The data-retrieval experts got back to us today, and in a very pleasant and even voice told us that it would cost a couple of grand to find all the Last Pogo Jumps Again footage, it would take a week — and there was less than a 25% chance they could retrieve anything.

So while director Brunton hunkers in a hotel is Saskatchewan, he will await with bated breath the hard work of director Kire Paputts as Kire painstakingly re-uploads the 100+ hours of footage into a brand new hard-drive. Brunton will fly back in a couple of weeks to reacquaint himself with his family, grab the goodies, and hopefully get some editing done in the remaining weeks out on the prairie.

Of all the memorable music scores out there, one that has bored it’s way into the collected consciousness is the menacing and foreboding “daDA…daDA…daDA” cello riff from “Jaws”.

Oddly, that was all our external hard-drive had to say for itself after it plunged from the coffee table to the floor during an editing session a couple of nights ago.   No picture, no sound, just the creepy hum that spells certain death.    We suspect that it might have been trying to end it all, sick of over a 100 hours of punk rock, but whatever the case, it is currently in the care of data retrieval experts (at least that’s what the sign in the variety store window said), and we hope to get a positive prognosis by Monday. “But you had it all backed up, right?”, everyone and his brother have asked us. Yeah. Right.

We’re not freaking out — we do have all the original tapes — and really, for all the shooting we’ve done, it’s been relatively painless. The odd mistake (great interview with Steven Leckie; no sound), the occasional blunder (nice chat with Steve Mahon, framed from the neck down), but no big whoop, and no one’s been hurt, so knock on wood, we should be back soon.

Steven “The Dog” Leckie at The Last Pogo, photo Edie Steiner

With the dog days of summer coming on, Pogo Post Production is revved up and ready to go. We’re whittling away at the hit list of those that still need to be interviewed, plus a couple more we’d like to check in with again, and going over miles, whoops, kilometres of footage, inching, whoops again, millimetering towards our release date of March 2009, an editing epiphany, or complete mental breakdown, whichever comes first.

Up this weekend is authoring the DVD of the re-release of The Last Pogo, the original 26 minute film (Colour! 16mm! All singing! All dancing! See people smoking in a bar!) scheduled to hit your very favourite record store this October. Only seen publicly once in the last 30 years (and many times privately on bootleg VHS versions) the DVD will be comprised of The Last Pogo, some recently restored footage of The Scenics from 1977, and a commentary track featuring original Viletone and member of The Secrets (amongst others) Chris Haight. For whatever insights into the scene and the bands that the esteemed Mr. Haight offers up, it’s worth it just to hear his infectious laugh. Through the magic of digital editing, whenever Chris makes a comment you’ll see his face pop up in a box in the corner of the frame. (On a geeky filmmaker note, this kind of thing would have cost thousands of dollars back when we made The Last Pogo, and it’s only because of digital that it’s now possible. You’d also have had to rent a Steenbeck editing system — the size of a Smartcar — and be cramped in some room downtown. Now we can be cramped in some room uptown, the whole editing system on our lap, and if you slip a twenty into the hard-drive, cheap thrills galore). Flashy retro graphics by John Pearson, the guy who did the very cool titles for the original film, and a wee booklet of liner notes, this snazzy package is the ideal Christmas present. Or Hallowe’en present. Or Kwanza, or Hannaukah, or birthdays, weddings, stags, golf-dates, chance encounters, one-night stands, etc. We haven’t finalized the details yet, but ideally you’ll be able to pick this up for the low low price of $19.78. For the mathematically impaired, that’s not even twenty bucks! All proceeds will go towards replenishing the “This Used to be Ollie Brunton’s College Fund, LOL”, which has been hit hard since we started this project a couple of years ago. (In 2006 he was on his way to be able to afford a university degree; as of today, a half-semester of Refrigeration & Air Conditioning Technique at George Brown College).

While we’ve slowed down on the interviews of late (life gets in the way), we’re still well at it, buster. This weekend Ricky Swede from The Poles checked in, and we’re hoping to catch up with that iconic band sooner rather than later. We here at Pogo H.Q. remember many an awesome Poles show and the show they put on with The Viletones and The Dead Boys at the New Yorker stands out in particular. (P.S. If anyone could shoot us a jpg of the awesome poster of that concert, many brownie points will be sent your way). Director Brunton recalls the show both vaguely and vividly, the vivid moment being when he was dispatched by The Garys to fetch the slow-to-leave-the-dressing-room Dead Boys. A friendly yell down the stairs was answered by only a grunt, but minutes later they came up the stairs. “What took you so long, you’re supposed to be on stage?!”, asked Brunton. “Blowjobs”, replied a Dead Boy, then Cheetah Chrome chimed in with “Hey, we can’t go on stage with hard-ons, man”. They then limp-dicked their way through the lobby, down the aisles, and up onto the stage. Wicked awesomeness ensued.

Speaking of wicked awesomeness, one of the stongest local artists who helped document the scene was photographer/artist Edie Steiner, who checked in this weekend wondering what’s what and who’s on first etc.. Edie’s going to hunt through her thousands of photos and see what she can find from the Toronto 1976 - 1978 punk period. (See photo above). Living on the Toronto waterfront (and apparently in a large bottle of formaldehyde or something — she hasn’t aged a bit) her current bio reads: Edie Steiner is a Toronto filmmaker, photographer and educator whose work is shown internationally. Her award-winning films are presented at film festivals, in arts and education venues, and broadcast on Canadian television, and her photography is commissioned for publication and exhibited in art galleries. She has published original music with international collaborators, for films and radio. Community activities include board of director and committee positions for arts and community organizations. Ms. Steiner is currently a doctoral candidate in environmental studies at York University, Toronto, with a research focus on relationships between the arts and environmental thought. Check out Edie’s stuff on your internet machine at ediesteiner.com.

Photo courtesy Cheryl Daniels

And the Lord of Rock ‘n Roll said unto them: Yea, though it would be another few years before one or six people claimed to coin the term “punk rock”, a lot of people who were at The Last Pogo or into the original punk scene in Toronto got a lot of their counter-culture edjamucation at The Original 99 Cent Roxy theatre courtesy of Gary Topp. After doing some programming for the original underground cinema in Toronto, Cinecity, and running his art-house film distribution company Topsoil, now-legendary promoter Gary Topp opened up the Roxy in 1972 with screenings of Hendrix at Berkeley; when he left in the mid-seventies he opened the New Yorker, where Toronto got its first taste of the Ramones, John Cale, Talking Heads, Dead Boys, Viletones and more; and then the Horseshoe in 1978, the last big party there being The Last Pogo.

Famed for an eclectic selection of films ranging from Antonioni, Fellinni, Truffaut, and Bunuel; B-films by Russ Meyers and Roger Corman; up-and-comers like Scorcese and Coppola; and obscure films by Kenneth Anger or Andy Warhol, the Roxy was infamous for it’s lax policy on pot-smoking and psychedelics, and there was often a thick cloud of weed hovering throughout the theatre. They didn’t tolerate dealers, they didn’t tolerate drinking, but it was a safe haven for anyone who wanted to settle down to a couple of good movies, grab some popcorn, and pass the joint.

The show would start from the moment you bought a ticket: often the people in line would be entertained by Lance Charles, doing his horrible and/or hilarious imitation of Groucho Marx, depending on your sense of irony and/or amount of illicit drugs in your system. There could be five hundred people lined up for a midnight show of Pink Flamingoes when someone from the theatre would run out and yell, “Sorry — you’re lined up the wrong way, you’ve gotta line up over there!”, and watch as 500 stoners scrambled laughing to regain their proper place in line.

When you handed over your ticket to get ripped (and thus allowing yourself into the theatre to get ripped), the person at the door might hand you a “laughing pill”, the better to enjoy the all-night comedy festival with (in reality a “milk-sugar” pill; placebos work); they might insist that you go down to the men’s washroom to check your coat (when such a thing didn’t exist), and then when you come back confused, threaten to throw you out if you didn’t find it and check your coat immediately; they might offer you a refund if you could identify then-unknown British rock star Bryan Ferry. Or handing over your ticket they might say “Please go right to your left, there’s no seats left on your right”, which for anyone who might have a head full of L.S.D., a Zen-like puzzle to rival that old “If you come to a fork in a road, and there’s two people there, and one of them always lies, and one of them always tells the truth, blah blah blah…” It was all in great fun, it was always entertaining, it was the best.

If you were taking a breather from being in the stifling 500 seat art-deco theatre, you could get lost in the posters, handbills, stickers, and photos that plastered the lobby (see photo above; check out the first quote on the poster), or be giggling and stoned sitting slumped on a couch or getting stuff at the snack bar from Jeannie the Popcorn Lady.   Once you got into the theatre proper, the show would really start: Gary would have the reel-to-reel tape recorder blasting out a mix-tape of music always in keeping with whatever theme the night held; or the tunes would be played over a half-hour or so of “Coming Attractions” while people filed in. As stoned as they mighta been, the ushers were excellent, politely getting people to move over to squeeze in others or luring patrons out of their seats if they heard the tinkle of a booze bottle hitting the floor. And often talking down someone having a bad acid trip.   And occasionally wrestling with them.

If you were a projectionist into your job (hey, Bob Cardwell! Hey, Les Popliak!) it was a demanding but fun gig and Gary would give very specific instructions: “Okay, so when you hear Do the Strand just start to fade, slowly dim the lights in time to the music, and as soon as the song ends, kill the lights, and then open the curtain and start the movie…”   A buzzer on the wall near the back of right-hand aisle sent signals to the projection booth for volume; the volume was always cranked to the max when the first chainsaw revved up in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. If you were a projectionist not so into your job, it was a nightmare. The good projectionists had snacks sent to them via a tray on a rope that would descend from the projection booth, right over the left aisle; and the ones that were game would enjoy the various joints that were being passed around the office.

Last Pogo director Colin Brunton worked as an usher there and got the film bug and met his future wife; masked musician Nash the Slash premiered there (performing a jaw-dropping live accompaniment to the Bunuel/Dali classic Un Chien Andalou and an appreciative and wasted packed house) and ended up living in the flat above, a modern-day Phantom of the Opera; regulars included the Viletones’ Steven Leckie (”Seeing Les Enfants du Paradise there changed my life…”, Raving Mojo and digital artist Blair Richard Martin; The Existers’ Barry Farrell; the Scenics’ Mike Young; Greg Godowitz; D.J. David Marsden; original Poles manager Bruce Appelby…and on and on and on.

There are way too many memories of the Roxy to jot down in a blog (and let’s hope Topp writes the book someday) but that’s the very place where many a creative seed was planted, nurtured, then rolled up and smoked.

(As with many of the old haunts in town, the shell of the Roxy still stands and will soon find a new life as a convenience store.)

Heavily influenced by Hamilton’s Teenage Head, actor/musician Hugh Dillon fronted the Headstones, became an actor and got head-shots made, and now as one of the leads in the new TV series Flashpoint, makes head shots of another kind as he plays a sniper for a fictitious Toronto swat team. And if that ain’t enough to keep a fella busy, Hugh also fronts his band The Hugh Dillon Redemption Choir. What’s the Last Pogo connection? Hugh allowed us an interview last summer at the scene of the crime, the venerable Horseshoe Tavern where he raved about Teenage Head’s Frankie Venom, Gord Lewis and Steve Mahon and was one of the most candid interviews we’ve done (i.e. he’ll talk about drugs…). So, if you’re not at The Screwed at the Cadillac Lounge on Friday (see poster below), then cosy up, watch Hugh kill people, and see if you can detect a little Venom in his character.

Pogo H.Q. has ramped up the editing suite (sweet!), but that was balanced out by P.S. Productions finally demanding the tripod they’d lent us for … uh … the past two years. So if any of the shots in our feature THE LAST POGO JUMPS AGAIN seem a little shaky, it’s all their fault! All joking aside, it’s nice to get support from a big-ass company like P.S. (Unlike, of course, the lack of support from the likes of big asses like The National Film Board and Telefilm Canada.)

Been there? Done that? Uh…wanna buy another rock t-shirt? A reminder that tres-cool Last Pogo t-shirts have been reduced in price to the oddly coincidental low low price of $19.78. How can we sell them that cheap? Volume, volume, volume. As in, we’re not selling too many, so maybe we’d better lose a few bucks and have more fans nattily attired.   Hey, if Telefilm won’t help us, and the NFB see little merit in our project, t-shirt sales will go a long way towards video stock and stuff.  Especially stuff.