This past weekend, I had a major life choice to make: I could bear witness to the Pointed Sticks, one of my all-time favourite bands and 麻豆传媒映画pop-punk originals, performing at the legendary Smilin鈥� Buddha Cabaret alongside Jerry Hannah from the equally iconic Subhumans, or I could attend our neighbourhood block party with my family.
Maybe I could do both?
Just last week, a reader of , who calls himself 鈥淪tephen Coldbeer,鈥� went out of his way to refer to me as a navel-gazing, out of touch, 鈥減unk-come-yuppie.鈥�
The name-calling was in reference to my opinions on 麻豆传媒映画living that I share in this space which, to him, run contrary to my decades fronting the Smugglers, an independent touring garage-punk band.
He also noted that I should crawl back into my 鈥渟heltered bubble,鈥� which, I suppose, is East Vancouver.
As the beloved East Van band the Boom Booms discovered when they started their 鈥淏oom Boom Block Party,鈥� East Vancouverites love to party close to home. That bash quickly became a summer blockbuster for years, raising more than $20,000 for charities, until the event became too huge to manage.
When my wife and I moved to East Van, it was after years of living in the West End. We were used to being slammed by major events that took over the entire neighbourhood: massive gatherings such as the Sun Run, the fireworks and the Pride Parade (luckily we moved out before 4/20 billowed in).
The logistics for those festivities were staggering 鈥� everything from the road closures to the police presence, the live entertainment, the food truck village, garbage cleanup and crowd control, not to mention the impact on local residents.
We left all of that behind when we relocated to a quiet street in East Van, which we quickly discovered was still pretty festive, but on a completely different grassroots community level.
You never really get used to the novelties of 1,000 kids showing up at your door on Halloween (the coolest costume to date is still the kid wearing the Residents鈥� eyeball mask and tuxedo), or the parade of winter walkers checking out the holiday light displays, or the annual block party that has happened every summer on our street for more than 20 years.
As far as that punk-cum-yuppie comment, I have to admit it: When I performed on stage at CBGB in New York to a sea of slam-dancing gutter punks, I thought I had arrived.
Twenty-five years later, I鈥檓 now shepherding slam-dancing toddlers on and off a trampoline at the neighbourhood block party, which I dutifully attended 鈥� though I鈥檓 happy to say the punk spirit in me still flickers like a candle in the wind. (The posted trampoline rules stated only two kids were allowed on at a time. I upped it to four. Oi!)
This I also have to admit: There鈥檚 something pleasant about getting drunk in the middle of your street, meeting those weird artsy neighbours you always wondered about, hearing about some quirky local history and having the pleasure to simply stumble half a block home on a warm summer night into your own bed, instead of, say, stumbling around downtown trying to flag a cab at 1 a.m.
At our block party this year, one of our rocker neighbours stepped up with a full stage and P.A. for the four bands that performed. Another neighbour outfitted all of the tables with freshly picked flowers from her garden. The local church donated tables and chairs. We awarded our local corner store with a community service trophy for their friendliness and longevity. Everyone came out of their homes, bearing dishes of food to share with their neighbours.
My wife played guitar while a nine-year-old neighbour girl sang Ruth B鈥檚 pop ballad 鈥淟ost Boy鈥� to thunderous applause.
I also discovered a cool neighbour living five doors down who not only likes the Gruesomes, one of my most formative bands of yore, but also showed me his Tiki bar complete with bamboo thatched walls and working eight-track stereo, his go-kart (also working) and his totally mint 1963 convertible Pontiac Parisenne (also working), all tucked inside one of those unassuming East Van garages.
Back at the block party, between refereeing the ball hockey game and light sabre fights, I stole a glance at my phone to see if the Pointed Sticks had taken the stage yet, down at the Smilin鈥� Buddha. Maybe there was still a chance?
When I looked up, I noticed a group of young punks over on the fringe of the block party. They were sprawled out on the grass in their skinny black jeans and worn-out Chuck Taylors in the last rays of the setting sun, enjoying cans of beer in the street unchallenged, but clearly too cool to join in the domestic fray.
As a light sabre smacked me across the back, swung by my own feral, barefoot son, I put my phone away and turned back to the block party in full swing. I cracked a beer and felt that punk candle within me flicker again, melting away like my daughter鈥檚 unsanctioned third purple popsicle.
Maybe Stephen Coldbeer is right. It turns out all of my worrying didn鈥檛 matter. I鈥檓 so out of touch I didn鈥檛 realize until later the Pointed Sticks鈥� gig had occurred the night before. I had completely missed it.
See you next year at the block party?
听
