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[applause]
Geoff Pevere: I wanna, if I can, by way of introducing David Clayton-Thomas, take you
back to 1968 for those of you who care to go back there. I'm gonna take you back anyway.
You might recall that it wasn't a very quiet year. And I'm not just talking about music.
1968 in terms of politics in Canada, in the United States and in many other parts of the
world, there was an awful lot going on. And musically there was a whole lot going on.
A lot of big noises were being made. The Who released Tommy, the year before, the Beatles
had released Sergeant Peppers. Bob Dylan was doing very, very interesting work and surprising
work. Jimi Hendrix was peeling the paint off walls in several studios in England. So to
be heard in 1968 when making music was no small feat. And Blood, Sweat, and Tears the
band that David Clayton-Thomas fronted for, wrote songs for was, was also a musician for,
was a band that made a huge noise. Not only made a huge noise, made a noise quite unlike
anyone had heard at that point in rock music.
GP: At the same time for example another big noise maker Miles Davis was fusing jazz with
rock music in a very interesting way. Rock music was being fused with jazz going the
other direction by Blood, Sweat, and Tears. And I remember just briefly a personal anecdote.
My family used to play a game. I didn't identify until many years later which I'll now call
the Clandestine Canadian. And what that involved was is you were sitting and watching television.
If somebody like Glenn Ford, or Paul Anka, or Rich Little, or a Guy Lombardo appeared
on television. My father would lean over quietly, to my mother and tap you and go he's a Canadian.
And that was kind of a way of saying that for all the concern in the United States about
the presence of subversives and Communists and stuff like that. The real deal was the
fact that Canadians were infiltrating the country. One who did not do so very quietly
but who did so with a voice that once heard was never forgotten was David Clayton-Thomas.
GP: After very many years, David Clayton-Thomas has written his memoir. And it's an account
of a real struggle, of sticking to it, of some serious disappointments, of some astounding
triumphs, and of never standing still, and never settling for what was in front of you.
In other words, it's a little bit restless but that's part of what gives it the same
quality that David's singing and certainly all of his musical career has involved. So
let me please introduce without any further ado Mr. David Clayton-Thomas.
[applause]
David Clayton-Thomas: Hi folks, how are you today? Well the first thing I'm going to do
is read from this book, but I noticed before I left the house that of course, the publicist
for my publishing company had gone through the book and picked out all of the darkest.
[chuckle] I said I cannot stand up here and just bore these people to death with all of
these dark stories. Good things happened in my life too. And those good things are also
in the book. And we're so grateful for the great reviews we've gotten in the last week
that the book has been out, and one of the things they always said is the book has a
wry sense of humour. And so I'm gonna try to have a bit of a wry sense of humour about
this whole expression even though some of the dark moments have to be spoken about.
So I'm gonna start with a place that no longer exists. It's called the Burwash Industrial
Farm. It's where I got my Master's Degree.
DC: Burwash Industrial Farm is situated in the rugged bush country of Northern Ontario,
about 30 miles from Sudbury and 1,000 miles from nowhere. There are few bars and fences
at Burwash. The first thing you were told in your indoctrination speech is, "If you
wanna run, go ahead." There's a 100 miles of brush between you and the first sign of
civilization. In the summer the black flies will blind you before you get five miles.
In the winter it's 20 below zero with 10 feet of snow. Go ahead run. Burwash is no reform
school, folks. It's populated by some of the most violent and dangerous people in Canada.
There would be little recreation at Burwash. You work 12 hours a day, six days a week.
The prison is self-supporting. And inmates do all the work. You clear brush, you build
fences through mosquito-ridden swamps, work on the prison farm. It's heavy back breaking
work under shotgun toting guards. After a month in isolation, I was given my first work
assignment: Building a cattle fence across the swamp. It was hot and gruelling work.
We smeared our faces and arms with kerosene to protect against the swarms of mosquitoes
and black flies that tortured the men constantly. The kerosene mixed with sweat and ran into
our eyes, my hands blistered and then calloused over.
DC: The work was back breaking. But we were just glad to be outdoors and able to talk
to somebody. Then one evening, after dinner in the mess hall, I was walking back to my
bunk when I passed a small group of men; the wheels of Burwash. I explained earlier what
wheels are. They're the guys who really run the joint. They were led by a huge black guy
named Joe Patterson. He was only maybe six foot tall, but he weighed about 250 pounds.
His biceps were bigger than my thighs. He was a vicious fighter, and feared by everyone.
Everybody in the joint payed tribute to him in one form or another. Even the guards walked
softly around Joe Patterson. As I passed at them one of them made kissing noises and said,
"Hey sweet thing! You need yourself an old man!" Well, my time at Guelph had taught me
that I couldn't let this pass. A word would be all over the joint that I was a ***,
and life wouldn't be worth living. I knew the code of the joint, and I knew what I had
to do. Even though he outweighed me by about 70 pounds I walked straight up to Joe Patterson
and threw my best sucker punch. A big looping overhand right that had racked up a half a
dozen knockouts in the ring at Guelph. Guelph's a reformatory by the way. It nailed him right
on the button. Joe Patterson didn't even blink. He just smiled at me. I remember thinking,
"Oh ***!" And the lights went out.
[laughter]
DC: I never even saw the left hook that hit me. As I lay on the floor with the room spinning
around me, somebody buried a boot in my side and I dimly heard Joe Patterson say, "Hey,
leave him alone! The kid's alright. He's a fighter." The guards swarmed into the room
and dragged me out. I was charged with fighting. Not much of a fight, all I did was get knocked
cold. But anyway, I was thrown into the hole. Since no one appeared to know who hit me,
nothing happened to Joe Patterson, and I suspect the screws were not too eager to bust him
anyway. A man survives his sensory deprivation and loneliness of the hole by finding all
sorts of ways to occupy his time. Pushups, sit ups, rolling your socks into a ball and
playing catch off the wall. You withdraw into a fantasy world where you're really not in
solitary confinement anymore. You're outside the walls of the joint, and you're a big shot
on the street. You have a Corvette and hot chicks and lots of money.
DC: I fantasized about being a rock star like Elvis. But sooner or later reality comes crashing
in, and there you are back in the hole at Burwash, and it seems like you'll never get
out of there. I occupied my time by singing. I discovered that little concrete room was
a natural echo chamber, and I began to sing for myself. It was a habit I picked up from
my mother who always sang. Doing the dishes, vacuuming, driving her car, mom always sang.
She had a pretty clear voice, and her music school training gave her perfect pitch and
a great melodic sense. Through the vent high on the wall, I could hear the men in the exercise
yard. One's memory is a strange thing. But of all the thousands of songs I've sung in
my life, I'll always remember the song I was singing that day. It was an old New Orleans
tune called St. James Infirmary Blues. I was singing at the top of my lungs, bouncing my
voice off the concrete walls when I suddenly noticed that the yard was silent. The men
were all gathered around the air vent. And I heard somebody say, "Who the hell is that?"
Someone else replied, "I don't know, but damn he sure can sing."