The van rolled on. Finally we left Saskatchewan, cheering wildly to be rid of a place where the only fun to be had Friday night was sharing a six-pack behind the bowling alley while trying to get a bit of stink-finger from Mary Allen. At first the change in geography was not apparent but slowly the flat prairie gave way to low, rolling hills and verdant pasture. We would miss Saskatchewan but not in a way that would be possible to detect.

    “We’ll have to get some gas at the next stop,” said Tim Nostril from the driver’s seat.

    “It’s a good thing my dad was able to wire us some money,” said Simpy, lest we forget he had saved the day.

    “Yeah, you’re a fuckin’ hero…” grumbled Tim, searching the horizon for a Husky station.

    “What was that?” said Simpy, pretending he hadn’t heard.

    “Nothing!” boomed Tim “We’re eternally grateful.” He sounded as if he would rather crawl on bleeding stumps than ask Simpy for more gas money. Still smarting from being ripped off by the garage mechanic in Cranch, we traveled silently down the highway. The Nostrils World Tour was off to a shaky start.  

    Crash! Another mic stand hit the stage, knocked over by two brawling roustabouts. I leapt forward from my perch in the wings to right the fallen stand, made it just in time for Tim to sing his backup vocals. Out in the pit, incredibly drunk Edmontonian oil riggers used the Nostrils as a soundtrack to beat each other senseless. An empty beer can bounced off Bruce’s guitar as he cranked out the chords and spat out the vocals:

    I feel sick/ I feel bored

   I don’t wanna blab no more

   When I think about the lies you told me

   Somebody better hold me down

The guys in the pit were really going for it. They slammed each other much harder than even this violent music called for, with actual fistfights breaking out every minute or two. Unlike the generally malnourished Winnipeg punks, these lads were in peak condition from long hours slaving away in the oil fields. Full of whisky and aggression, they swung fists and boots, all pissed up and ready to kill. I was a seasoned slam-dancer but even I was a little taken aback at this testos-terone overload. Although they wore lumberjackets and baseball caps, these guys made the Quincy punks look like a geriatric lawn bowling team. Guttural screams and the sound of smashing bottles punctuated each song. The Bay City Rollers chanted in my head: S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y!

    Out in the crowd, the Dirty Boys were doing their thing. I had met them in Winnipeg last year, where they had quickly made a name for themselves by fighting or fucking anything that could walk (and some that couldn’t). There was the Shoe, grinning as he drove his elbow into the face of a longhaired youth with a Kiss T-shirt. Lifting a bottle of whisky to his lips, he took a mighty guzzle before throwing himself back into the center of the action. His buddy, Jimmy Roid, fought his way up onto the stage, where he launched himself into a gravity-defying dive, heedless of consequence. Gubby stood on the sidelines. Swilling wine with one hand, the two-hundred-and-fifty pound fat man used his other paw to violently shove any fool dumb enough to get close. Seeing them at work on their own turf, I understood it was not exclusively a lack of personal hygiene that had earned them the tag ‘Dirty Boys’.

    Now something else became apparent to me: As violent as they were, the fans were actually enjoying themselves. Even those with blood running down their faces seemed to bear no ill will towards those who had inflicted the damage. No sooner would a fistfight end than the combatants would grin bloody grins and find other people to scrap. At first I had assumed these yahoos were seriously trying to kill each other but now I understood they were just blowing off steam the only way they knew how. The heightened violence was only because they were in better physical condition. Maybe because they didn’t really look like punks I had expected them to behave differently. The joke was on me for taking them at face value. These guys were our kind of fans.

    Many bottles of beer and whisky, gallons of sweat, and bloody noses later, the show smashed to a halt. I thought the Nostrils seemed a little awed by the mayhem they had inspired, but other than demands for cold beer they said little, and sat winded from their performance. Soon they recovered and we set off for a party at the Dirty Boys’ place, where we eventually crashed for the night.

The next day we went to visit some friends of the Dirty Boys, a young punk band who had formed only recently. The singer, a wiry little guy, looked more the way I thought a punk should look; with spiky black hair, ripped black stovepipe pants and tons of studded wristbands, belts and other Hardcore paraphernalia. I figured he must be faster than an Ethiopian chicken, because to dress the way he did was to beg for trouble. They played a few songs for us, including one named “Victims of the Womanizer” which made me slightly uncomfortable. Other than that, I was quite impressed with the way they shook things up. After a bit we went upstairs to play some records and drink a few beers to help prep us for the road ahead. Before we left, the singer gave me a sticker he just made. It was a cool-looking item, bearing a rotted skull and the words: Open Your Mouth and Say SNFU. We told them they should come down to play Winnipeg, and they said if they could get their shit together they would. Tim was in a hurry to get going since he couldn’t drink, and didn’t want to watch us having fun without him. We said goodbye to our new friends and hit the road. Next stop: Calgary.

We arrived at the Calgarian Hotel, situated smack dab in the greasy heart of Calgary’s small but squalid skid row. I remembered the hotel from a trip I had made to Calgary when I was sixteen. Other than to become yet more run-down, the place hadn’t changed much over the years. A sign over the Plexiglas-encased front desk in the lobby reminded us: No Knives Allowed In Tavern. What about guns, I wondered. Were guns allowed? Feeling a tad uneasy, we went upstairs and drank beer until showtime.

    Down in the bar that night, we were treated to the sullen stares from the staff. They were bitter to be working in a bar where country music was no longer commercially viable. We were the invaders, the infidels.

    Bruce didn’t give a fuck. “Let’s make some noise,” he said. The band burst into life, a knife in the back of Kenny Loggins. Soon the music erased my negative energy and I got up to shuffle around on the dance floor. The bar was maybe half full, with punkers on one side, cowboys on the other. I could just imagine a full-on bar brawl between the two factions, and resolved to monitor the situation closely. Other than some punks from a local punk house called the Manor, and the Dirty Boys, who had followed us from Edmonton, the dance floor was almost empty so I hammed it up, skanking loose and easy. To my surprise, the Nostrils announced a Vacant Lot song and asked me to sing. I pretended to be reluctant but was secretly delighted. Finally I allowed them to coax me onto the stage, where I screamed myself hoarse. Sweaty from my efforts, I jumped down from the stage, longing for a beer. All I wanted was free beer. Was that too much to ask?

    The rest of the set went smoothly until the band played “Kisses Sweeter Than Wine” as comic relief. All of a sudden the cowboys were paying attention, and one of them, a huge, pot-bellied, bandy-legged mother with a ten-gallon hat, swerved up to the front of the stage. “Play ‘Good Hearted Woman’!” he hollered, slopping beer onto the toes of his cowboy boots. “I miss my Betty!” he bawled.

    “Uh, ‘I Miss My Betty’? We don’t know that one…” mumbled Tim, who had sung ‘Kisses’. He had absolutely no experience in dealing with love-sick cowboys. The band stood silently, unsure how to react.

    “No, stupid! Play ‘Good Hearted Woman’, Betty is my wife’s name, God bless her soul!” He yanked a massive checked handkerchief from his back pocket, honked noisily. “Now play!” he demanded.

    I regarded the cowboy uneasily. Big as a barn and almost as smelly, he was poised at the cusp between boozy sentimentality and ornery rage. His five pals watched with interest as they warmed to the idea of a little action. This could get ugly. Then, to our profound relief, the Shoe magically appeared on the dance floor. “Aw, them boys don’t know no good music,” he said, grinning widely as he steered the cowboy back towards his chair. “I tried to learn ‘em some Hank Williams, but it ain’t no use. The best thing to do is just fergit about ‘em, they ain’t worth yer trouble.”

    “Hank! Now that’s the stuff!” The cowboy smiled warmly, happy to have someone speak his language. “What’s the matter with kids nowadays? Why can’t they play decent music?” He signaled the waitress for more beer.

    “They ain’t got no sense,” confided Shoe. “They mommies raised ‘em wrong. I just wisht they knew some Merle Haggard, but they don’t know nuthin’.”

    “I’m Bob,” crowed the cowboy, pumping Shoe’s hand with one as big as a shovel. “It’s too bad them young uns ain’t as smart as you!” The waitress delivered a mess of beers, collected the money and hustled away.

    “I dunno know what th’ world’s coming to,” commiserated Shoe, helping himself to one of Bob’s beers. “The whole damn place is going to hell in a hand basket!”