Quarantine In The Sun

DISPATCHES FROM THE EDGE OF NOWHERE AND EVERYWHERE
BY: RUGGER RUGGEDSON

I was front row at a Moose Knuckles concert, now that concerts are a thing again after a virus threatened to kill us all for two years. It was a great show. During an especially exciting crescendo in the show, the guy on my right spilled his beer on me and was looking really forlorn about the loss. That’s when I realized that this man was Gordon Murphy (bass) of Inukshuk!

He saw the look of recognition in my eyes, maybe even remembered my face from a couple of years ago (when I wrote an article now only found on some obscure blog on WordPress), and seemed prepared to bolt. I enticed him to stay with the offer of free food after the gig. He stuck to me like glue, after that.

Despite my initial mission, I’d pretty much given up on ever finding any part of Inukshuk again. I figured the pandemic had scattered them, lost in the wind like they’ve always been, and seeking them out during those two years seemed foolhardy and pointless. Surely they wouldn’t be recording. I just hoped they were OK.

Over greasy burgers and shakes at the diner down the street, Gordon told me, rather lucidly, what had happened to the band. I’ll paraphrase his tale here:

Right before the pandemic hit, the band had crashed at the home of a very wealthy (and idle) fan, one Edmundo (name changed to protect… something, surely). When Edmundo’s parent’s grew tired of the band’s, er, unique presence in their house, Edmundo suggested they take off for the family’s villa in the Caribbean by private jet. They landed, began to relax… and then the world promptly shut down.

Trapped in paradise, the band did what they do best: they stole equipment and booze from neighbours, and started writing new songs to pass the time. Edmundo eventually lost interest in their shambolic methods and took off for weeks on end on a prolonged bender with a beautiful local girl. 

Everything seemed hazy to Gordon, but he seemed to remember that the band had written over 200 songs, of which they recorded about 15 onto a boom box, and about 8 of which he thought might be even listenable, and oh yeah, he had the cassette in his pocket to give to the reporter. Was I that reporter? Hell yes I was! (I wasn’t). Gordie dutifully gave me the tape and seemed relieved to have done his job correctly (he hadn’t).

Edmundo’s family’s money (reluctantly) sustained them easily during those long months. I’m sure there were promises to pay them back but I’m equally sure they knew that wasn’t ever going to happen.

You’d think time in paradise would be easy to take, but these proper Canadian boys were melting in the tropical sun, and time passes the same there as it does in Ball’s Falls, anyway. Rivers of booze, and tense acquaintance with local grass sellers, made things bearable. So did recording.

Eventually the world opened up enough for travel home, and the band and Edmundo hopped that private jet home as quickly as possible, before the world changed its mind. The band then dispersed like smoke in the wind.

It thrilled me to learn that the band was still intact during this period. Drummer Gord Tremblay, Bassist Gordon Murphy, singer and guitarist Gord Brown, singer and guitarist Gordon Gagnon, and singer Gord Smith. Inukshuk. Still on Earth and still making music. I felt the old energy zinging through my bloodstream once again. And I had the tape to prove it.

I asked if Gordon knew where the rest of the band was, maybe they’d like to meet up and discuss the new songs. He admitted he didn’t know where any of them were at the moment, and honestly, he had no idea how he’d ended up in that Moose Knuckles concert crowd to begin with, or where he’d gotten the beer he’d spilled on me. He then asked if I was the reporter he was supposed to give the tape to, then, patting his pockets, apologized quickly as he seemed to have lost it. Before I could tell him I already had it, he abruptly stood and left the diner without another word, headed in no particular direction but certain that life would somehow provide. I let him go.

After he disappeared around the corner, I settled up for the food and immediately headed home and dropped in the tape. Folks, it’s the best Inukshuk album yet (I think). There’s quite a bit of talking and party noise throughout the tape, but as far as coherent song structures I could make out the following (in playing order, and by occasional spoken song intros): 

Side A: Mary’s Bra is a tune that’s short and loud, and very mad at clasp closures. Ol’ Blighty is 30 seconds of bass noodling from Gordon. Mouse Burps follows that with, well, what might charitably be called punk energy but is mostly resembling doom sludge mayhem. It doesn’t mention mice or burps once. Cum Dancing is not for the kids, but it’s almost pop in its metal screaming. I Taped My Eyes Shut makes the Clash sound like Raffi, although it might just have been someone actually had taped their eyes shut and were calling for help while the band bashed away. Ass Grass And Cash is a thrash tribute to the glues that bind us all. Email Sucks is another short sharp shock of a song, about 12 seconds of screaming those two words over heavily distorted everything. Snow In My Boots is straight up FM rock and roll for about a minute, then it devolves into shouts of “fuck! it’s cold” over and over while Gord Tremblay trashes his drums.

Side B: There’s a long part where I think the band had forgotten they’d hit record, at the start of this side, and I can clearly hear them buying drugs from someone in the near distance. Eventually it becomes a shambolic Rasta Weed, which attempts reggae and fails (sorry, guys). Mike Cheque talks about some guy named Mike and a cheque he owes the band (with no explanation), although their descriptions of what they’ll do when they find Mike were rather colourful. The band seems to have forgotten to play their instruments for the first half of That Seal Stole My Lunch, but silly as it sounds it does sound autobiographical. Edmundo’s Girlfriend’s Hot is simply about a minute of the guys laughing and tuning up (as best as Inukshuk ever tuned, anyway), then sing-songing the title for a bit. Then it’s straight off the metal cliff with high energy on Yellow Line Fever, an ode to the open road. Something In My Island follows that, more metal crunching and great performances by all, actually probably the best song here. Brown Baggin’ It is all the Gords (and Gordons) scat singing about lunch over a simple, slinky bass line. They must’ve been hungry. There’s another long pause and I thought they’d finished when all of a sudden someone loudly counts in 1-2-3-4 (a la Ramones) and they crash into a tune I might call Guardrail Scrape, a minute and a half of tight and focussed punk metal energy. Damn that was hot. Then the tape ended.

I don’t know what happened to the other (possible) 200 songs. They’re probably lost to the mists of time, now. I don’t know what happened to Gordon, after he walked away from me. I don’t know where the rest of the band is, or even if this album will see release.   

I’m going to give it two months. If it doesn’t get released, or word hasn’t come down about it, I’ll know the band forgot and I’ll get it to the right people to make it happen. Hell, I might even have the only copy so the weight of it all could be on my shoulders.

Ah, Inukshuk. The best damn cure for a pandemic I can imagine. 

Tee Bone up in T’under Bay’s artist’s rendition of Inukshuk at Deke’s Palace. What a fever dream!