A FAN’S NOTES

Down and Dirty with a Local Hero

Dirty & Down is the new record by Three O’Clock Train. Mack MacKenzie is its founder, leader and sole original member. And sometimes he’s just Mack MacKenzie. When I last saw Mack play Edmonton, he split a solo acoustic barroom bill with Mike McDonald of Jr. Gone Wild. A few months later I caught him on his home turf fronting a band in Old Montreal’s Centaur Theatre. You just don’t know; you never can tell. Both of these nights unfolded from soundcheck to encore months before my morning Globe and Mail began tracking an international story about a mysterious viral outbreak in an obscure Chinese city.

Port cities are magnets, confluences of cultures, always vibrant. When Three O’Clock Train hit Montreal’s music scene, I was waving my hands to get through the haze of an undergraduate degree at Concordia University. Its sound was like some sort of manic party line, CBGB or London calling patched through Bakersfield and Nashville. The local newspapers were on it because back then papers actually covered their city and worked to create compelling content; circulation was a competitive sport. How could this strange noise happen here? What was the source of this dynamo hum? Music critics’ enthusiasm spilled over into the page three city columns. What Three O’Clock Train was doing then, well, it’s everywhere now.

Mack MacKenzie is an accomplished songwriter. He has shared the stage with John Prine and Guy Clark, both of whom were admirers. He’s up there with a few other Canadians who have been pretty successful at their craft too. Forty years of work honing a gift.

Canada is a big, regionalized country. And relatively empty. It’s a market about the size of California. A blanket, generic Canadian music scene is an impossibility. Three O’Clock Train will always be a Montreal band, just as Jr. Gone Wild will always be qualified as Edmontonians. If there’s such a thing as a national music conversation, it’s necessarily mainstream, dominated by the universal appeal of a few familiar faces. Three O’Clock Train is an outlier, always has been. So: I’m a fan; I’m an advocate.

Here comes the full disclosure part. Mack and I are acquainted. We met for the first time maybe ten years ago. A house concert in Edmonton. I was in my mid-fifties. We were the same age. We chatted about her, Montreal. We’d endured the same Ticketron lines for Forum concerts; we’d haunted the same record stores. We’ve since kept in intermittent touch. These past few days I’ve been an email nag. Essay questions, because I excel at overthinking pretty much anything. Mack’s a patient man.

meGeoff: My favourite Joe Walsh lyric is Pow! Right between the eyes/Oh! How nature loves her little surprises. My sense is your previous record Cuatro de Los Angeles was stymied by covid-19. No time for buzz, gigs, gate or merch sales. I believe there was even a production lag for the vinyl. How did the lockdown affect you, a working musician?

Mack MacKenzie: Cuatro de Los Angeles was cursed. We lost Tony Kinman (Tony and his brother Chip were the lynchpins of a few seminal alternative bands including The Dils and Rank and File) right when we had just finished the first song with him producing (“Lucky Day”). Bob Rock (Bryan Adams, Aerosmith, Bon Jovi…) stepped in to help and we moved production from Los Angeles to Vancouver. We gathered everyone who was still kicking from the first Dils recording (“It’s Not Worth It”), which Bob produced back in the day, and carried onward. Moving production to Montreal, all songs written in Los Angeles, hence the title of the EP. Covid-19 hit the planet and left me having to cancel an eighty-date tour in support of the release. ARGH! Or, as my people say, UGH! Also, we lost Zippy Pinhead (Dils drummer) right before the big launch in Vancouver at the Rickshaw Theatre.

meG: You staged a virtual concert and dropped the single “Send Down Your Love”. I don’t imagine streaming pays the bills.

MM: Universal Audio, a well-known audio equipment and recording company, chose twelve artists from across Canada to record during the imposed isolation. The challenge for each was to compose and record a new song with equipment they would provide for one month. I recorded “Send Down Your Love” as well as producing a video for the tune. Producer Howard Bilerman (Arcade Fire, Leonard Cohen) approached me and asked if I was interested in recording with him at Hotel2Tango and we began work on an EP – which turned into an EP and a full album!

meG: Dirty & Down is the new EP.

MM: I took the chance of being locked down as a time to rebuild. Having a tour knocked out from under a touring musician was rough,  but I was determined to see things through as far as music goes. Rod Shearer (guitars, co-producer), in the band since the early nineties, and I started working with Howard. We recruited bassist Andy McAdam (The Planet Smashers, Boids) and drummer Mike Gassellsdorfer (Boids) as our official rhythm section. My friend Marc De Mouy (YUL Records) was generous with his time and money, helping me get everyone on board. The sessions worked like this: one song per session; the song for the day would usually be chosen the morning of, on the way to the studio. Whatever I felt was going to be different from the session before. This left the band flat-footed every day and having to learn a new song, allowing for a fresh performance. The songs all sound different and they all have the same basic lineup behind them. I’m gaining in years and don’t have the time I once spent having a good time. Ha! 

meG: The vocal on the title track sounds to me like obscene phone call audio, threatening, enticing. You wear war paint in the video, a fearsome sight. I’ve not heard a song so dangerous – unsettling in a good way – for a long time. How did you come up with that one?

MM: When the lockdown started, Howard asked if I wanted to do a quick, down and dirty EP with him. It inspired the title and the song just wrote itself. “Dirty & Down” was the first song to be recorded. I showed it to the band and we learned and recorded it in an afternoon. Jonathan Cummings smoked the lead solo. I wanted the vocal to be creepy, to contrast the roaring chorus. Creepy like Frank Zappa’s vocal on “The Central Scrutinizer”. A simple hand-made megaphone did the trick. I wanted to make a video similar to the early MTV era, pre-interweb. “You Might Think” by The Cars, a crazy green screen type of thing. Playhouse lead singer Peter Cat often wears makeup for his performances and the black heart on his right cheek inspired me to play with face paint. The war paint is actually a precursor to the upcoming album Badly Bent Arrow Boy, which is another story for another time.

meG: What really hooked me on the Stones was the rest of any particular album. The songs that weren’t singles. I’ve heard you cover the Stones in concert. I’ve always figured should you ever decide to record a Stones song you’d go digging. Maybe something from side two of Exile. But you chose “Luxury”, Mick’s faux Jamaican accent and all. That’s not just out of left field, it’s from the parking lot behind the outfield wall. What prompted that? Coincidentally, It’s Only Rock ‘n Roll turned fifty this month.

MM: 1974: I was fourteen and It’s Only Rock ‘n Roll was awesome! This track stood out for me. It was the first reggae groove that the Stones recorded. Harder! Harder! It just pushes the one drop beat. The original recording sounds like it would easily fit on Exile.

meG: I can’t count the hours I spent staring at the album cover. During the lockdown I bought a jigsaw puzzle of the sleeve. Love that track. The version on El Mocambo ’77 really cooks.

MM: There’s also another bootleg from some Detroit show during that period. I may have the city wrong….

meG: Trains, locomotives are such evocative images and metaphors in music, blues, country, soul, gospel, you name it. The first song you wrote was “Train of Dreams”. There’s the name of your band of course. The other cover song on the EP is “Big Train” by Chip Kinman. You’ve worked extensively with Chip and his late brother Tony throughout your career. Why do you think you guys are so sympatico?

MM: David Hill, bass and co-founder of the Train introduced me to Rank and File. We were both bucking trends at the same time. I finally met Chip and Tony back in 2015 and we pretty much hit it off. I remember Chip invited me to a BBQ at his place in Burbank one Sunday afternoon. He cooked up a pile of burgers, sausages, chicken, and prepared a slew of salads and sides. No one showed up except for myself. I teased him about having so many friends. We had a bite and then broke out a bottle of fine whiskey and listened to some early Kanye; Chip said my songs were similar. Good times.

meG: Really? How so?

MM: Well, I vaguely remember him saying we had similar sentiments. That’s Chip. Myself, I don’t hear it.

meG: “Pyjama Girl” is country, catchy, cautionary – not that I was expecting Bryan Ferry, but the title is suggestive. When the words come, do they take you in a certain musical direction? Does the melody dictate the lyrics? Or is your creative process messier, mix ‘n match, more organic?

MM: “Pyjama Girl” was fun. The scenario was the lockdown and most people were stuck at home in their pyjamas, webcamming, usually in a small room. The chorus knocks those walls down. We threw every “extra” idea collected during our sessions and used most of them for this song. The three acoustic guitars were all done at once in two takes. Cecil Castellucci, who sang on “I’m Not Your Indian Boy” back in 1996 was the voice I heard in my head for this song. Sara Johnson (Bran Van 3000) and Chris Velan (Montreal-based artist and producer) also lend their voices. Finally found a song to play with my ebow too! Good times!

Dirty & Down and more Three O’Clock Train music is available from Apple Music and streams on Spotify. Badly Bent Arrow Boy coming soon. There’s a Three O’Clock Train YouTube channel, a Facebook page and of course Instagram. You can also dig a little deeper with a visit to www.threeoclocktrain.com.                                        

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything since 2013. My companion site www.megeoff.com is a little dusty, but up to date. New fiction coming soon.

A meGEOFF EXCLUSIVE!

Inside the Tragic Death of the Great Pumpkin

“Aw, God,” Lucy van Pelt says. She stubs out her fifth Marlboro Gold. Her hardpack of 20 won’t last an hour. She is rueful, full of regret. It’s not yet noon. Lucy peers around the dim, shabby barroom, taking everything in except the visage of her ex-husband Charlie Brown. They’ve been estranged for years, but their relationship seems as fraught as the subject of the discussion: the Great Pumpkin.

Charlie sighs. “I feel responsible somehow.”

“It wasn’t just you,” Lucy says. “It was everything. When did the Halloween special come out, ’66? All its scenes were cut. Like Kevin Costner’s in The Big Chill. I counselled Pumpkin for years. I tried interventions. I tried everything. There was no talking to it.” Her plucked and bladed eyebrows arch. “I had my own problems to deal with.”

Charlie sighs again and shrugs. He’s looking everywhere else too. He says, “The whole thing, it probably wrecked our marriage.” He adds, “What do you have to do to get another drink around here?”

“Ditto, balloon head.” Lucy sneers as she fires up another lung dart.

The Great Pumpkin was found fatally blue in the toilet of a legendary Hollywood motel on this exact date three decades ago. The Los Angeles County coroner’s report confirmed an overdose of cocaine and heroin, a “speedball” in hardcore street parlance. And the Tropicana on Santa Monica Boulevard was hardcore before its demolition: home to vagrants, touring rock stars and Tom Waits. Sandy Koufax, the Baseball Hall of Fame Los Angeles Dodgers ace was its owner.

“I lived down the hall from Pumpkin at the time,” Waits recalls. “I crashed there for about six months. Good for my image. Very bad influences. It was a very jazzy place, more Charlie Parker – smack and whiskey – than Vince Guaraldi. I never saw Pumpkin. It was like the elephant in the room, like clinical depression. Peppermint Patty was always hanging around though. Some other girl too. Marcie? Maybe she had red hair. Trashed. Wasted. They were mules, groupies. Bringing stuff in. What do I know, no Polaroid memories. Me, I just fake it; watch, it’s an act, always has been. Pumpkin was the real deal. And Schroeder was always there too; I do recall that little toy boy, always up for a jam session with me. Knocking on my door, which was always open by the way.”

Linus van Pelt, alone in his luxurious Century City condominium sits guru-like, cross-legged on the floor on a tattered blanket. "The Trop was close to the animation studio. Pumpkin moved in there just to be close by. Standing by, so to speak. Poor bastard waited for a call that never came. I sensed it wouldn't end well. It was a crazy scene. The whole thing, it makes me very sad."

“I was Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’,” Schroeder insists over the line from his permanent residence at the Betty Ford Centre in Palm Desert, a mountain range away from the Tropicana’s infamous and notorious sleaze. “I really was. But when Tom wrote ‘The Piano Has Been Drinking’ about me, I realized I had a problem. Pumpkin was into way harder stuff. It was happy to share. I remember Lucy tried to help us but to no avail. And Pumpkin told Linus to ‘fuck off and die’ straight to his face, that poor fragile kid. I remember that; I was there. Can you imagine? Pumpkin's biggest disciple, apostle, fan or whatever.”

“I was the sort of de facto leader of the Peanuts gang,” Charlie says. He sighs heavily. “So, yeah, when I found out the greatest baseball pitcher of all time owned a Hollywood motel, of course I wanted to hang out there. I mean, that’s just what you’d want to do, right? I was working on my curve and slider. The team had to get better. I had to get better. But Sandy was never there. He was like the Great Pumpkin in that way. Good grief, it was all very frustrating.”

“Like kicking a football, Charlie Brown!”

“Not my best sport,” he tells Lucy.

When Lucy laughs, she emits a lovely, wet chesty sound, at once crapulent and captivating. She clears her throat. “Pumpkin was more insecure than the bane of my life sitting across the table here,” Lucy says as she points to Charlie. “All Pumpkin needed was a cameo in It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown or maybe just one panel in the newspaper.” Lucy continues, “Charlie always had creative control, so Spike, Franklin, whoever, whatever, got their moments. But not Pumpkin. It’s Charlie Brown’s fault. It’s all his fucking fault. Fucking Snoopy got all the ink. Nothing left for Pumpkin! Snoopy! Snoopy! Snoopy!”

“That’s not true!” Charlie Brown slams the table, his fist clenched. He sighs. He grimaces. “We actually had that fleabag put down before we got married. They’re hard on furniture, hardwood floors especially. They shed. You wouldn't believe the vet bills.”

Lucy places her hand over Charlie’s. She says, “It was a long time ago. Best forgotten. Wounds have healed.” Lucy smiles. "You really should treat yourself to a new t-shirt."

Charlie Brown agrees ever so gently, ever so reluctantly with Lucy van Pelt. There is a softness in his voice. “Everything was a long time ago,” he affirms. “We can’t change it, not the Great Pumpkin's fate, not anything. We were all, in our own way, casualties.” Charlie's head droops. The great bald orb weighs heavier than usual. He sighs. "I mean, good grief, those were the times. And fuck Charles M. I never wanted any of this. I don't think any of us did."                                    

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything since 2013. My companion site www.megeoff.com is a little dusty, but up to date. New fiction coming in 2025. 

NONSENSE VERSE

Bedtime Reading (Sleepover)

It’s time to say, “Good night, my dears”

But first some verse by Edward Lear

Perhaps ‘Bluebeard’ by Charles Perrault

Who knows where our story will go?

A meat hook or fancy runcible spoon

Implements aglint by the light of the moon

A green wicked witch or a very sly fox

Reynard a trickster, the son of Aesop

A vile nasty ogre grunts ‘neath your bed

Would you prefer seven dwarfs instead?

There’s an odious troll in the open wardrobe

Don’t worry, he just came in from the cold

How can I explain ‘The Hockey Sweater’?

Bygone days, les Canadiens were better

My Nana worshipped Maurice Richard

A rocket, a legend, goal-scorer at large

‘Three Little Kittens’ and ‘Little Red Hen’

I can still hear my Papa reading them

Cabbages, mad hatters, queens and kings

Your grandparents’ library has all these things

They can be scary, pages ‘tween covers

Skin-curdling adventures for young book-lovers

Pray, keep the curious habit of our past generations

Because words are the source of all creation                                       

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything since 2013. My companion site www.megeoff.com is a little dusty, but up to date. New fiction coming soon, not very soon as in immediately but sooner than later.

EDMONTON EXISTENTIAL

Baby Break It Down

Ann and I still play Pinch-Punch-First-of-the-Month. I won last year, hands down. My lead this year is slimmer. Our game is important to me because there’s not enough talcum powder left in the world for the Scrabble ass-kickings Ann inflicts on me.  Maybe I pinch a little too firmly. A third competition is who will clock the first robin investigating our lawn come spring. Robins are like trends, the next big thing; they arrive with great fanfare, puffed out chests, and then quietly slip away as August dwindles. We don’t notice their absence at first.

We do take note of the Canada geese who haven’t made a chirp or a peep all summer. They stir unfailingly on Labour Day when the Canadian football schedule gets interesting – doesn’t matter when summer’s last holiday, September’s first Monday, falls. They must react to the lower light, the chill of the night. Put on your stockings, baby, the nights are getting cold. The mornings are notably crisper, half-zip fleeces or flannel shirts required for front porch coffees and traded sections of the Globe and Mail. Soon the day will dawn when we’re out there at our usual time, but morning’s late and we’ll have to wait awhile for enough daylight to read the paper by. And, it’s Ann’s new year even though she’s not taught music in Alberta’s primary or secondary school system for quite some time. Sticky fingers on cheap violins.

As is rarely the case with some of my run-on sentences and long paragraphs, the patio flower pots have been edited, some spent annuals weeded out so to speak. I’ve started cutting back the perennials. The day lilies are always the first to turn to straw, stems and fronds. The ferns, bleeding hearts, ragged yellow hostas and bloomless peonies are next. I mow our lawn about twelve times between Victoria Day and Thanksgiving. A City of Edmonton diktat declares cats strictly indoor pets, akin to those wretched, eye-watering albino bunny rabbits. Cats exact their toll on bird flocks (magpies excepted), you see. So do modern reflective UV-treated tinted windows. They’re also something of a delicacy to our burgeoning population of urban coyotes. On the other paw, a savvy outdoor cat, our late tabby Scamp for example (He thrived some eighteen years, ignoring skunks and staring down aggressive dogs and knew exactly where to lay across our Saturday morning crossword puzzle), is ruthlessly efficient at rodent control. Catless (like the entire neighbourhood) these days but not pining for the smell of kitty litter dust, I limbo the lawnmower’s blades for the last couple of cuts; get them down as low as they can go: Ann and I theorise we’re shutting down the local voles’ winter salad bar. A sneeze barrier of a s(n)ort.

I took down our patio umbrellas. Their storage bags are still fire engine red. The umbrellas themselves have paid the cost of doing their job in the heat of the sweet summer sun. They’re like cheap plywood, one side good. But the fabric has held up and, anyway, we don’t hover over them, we sit beneath their faded shade. I can’t remember if red was our primary choice for colour or if we settled for late September clearance pricing and lack of selection five years ago. Same goes for the patio overflow set of Canadian Tire folding chairs in day-glo urine sample colours. When they go on sale now they cost $10 more than we paid. I store all this stuff at the rear of our attached single-car garage, one without a human door. To do this I have to move the snow shovels, the ice chipper and the ice scraper. I’m always tempted to move them outside a titch too soon because, you know, autumn in Edmonton, sometimes a leaf rake just won’t do.

Changing seasons, changing hats. My outdoor work cap features a football logo now because the summer game is winding down. After Grey Cup I debut my Montreal Canadiens winter headwear. A Habs cap I’ve worn for twenty-five years has faded to pink in some places. I only mention this because it used to be as blue as their home helmets. Just 76 points last season; they’ll have to rack up another 16 above and beyond that total to sniff at the playoff pool this year. Ideally those points come with wins rather than cheap overtime loss rewards because the league's cock-eyed accumulative methodology, essentially a football rouge, does manage to subtly sort contenders from pretenders. Eh bien, I digress; too soon to talk hockey.

And it’s too soon to be too hasty, we’re still in September after all – my favourite month in this town, blue sky above green and gold foliage, ideal temperatures. I can’t cut back everything at once because some plants pick their moment, delay it, become a little showy once their competitors are spent. Ann’s already thinking about her garden next spring: There will be fall transplants, weather permitting, and so I do what I can with the information I have, what I know for sure. Anyway, I have labour limits, one-hour shifts – I’m not as lithe and limber as I used to be. I can tell you I feel great but if I said I was in the best shape of my life you’d laugh at me.

It's too soon to break down the picnic table for storage in the crawlspace underneath the back porch. Ann and I are grateful to be in sort of a holding pattern now, enjoying what’s left of our patio and garden before the night of the killer frost. Then we’ll have to scramble a bit. There’s always more work to be done before the ice pellets fly.                                       

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything since 2013. My companion site www.megeoff.com is a little dusty, but up to date. New fiction coming soon. Finally.