Every time I see an article lauding Mayor John Tory’s ‘inspired’ idea of turning Toronto into a ‘Music City,’ I get queasy. You see, I came to Toronto in 1976, when it really WAS one, and have watched succeeding local governments and well-heeled blue noses, waving the banners of political correctness and money over art, stomp the culture to death.
I’ve run out of epitaphs. The battlefield of pop continues to accumulate bodies. During this past week we were reminded of the passing of Karen Carpenter (33 years ago) and the officially recognized Day the Music Died (really? Then what have we been listening to in the intervening 57 years?).
I had another blog prepared and ready to roll today about my favourite topic, music, but in light of the last 72 hours of clown car antics from the family of my city’s mayor, Rob Ford, I couldn’t let it go without comment.
I have lived on a beautiful, quiet, residential street in Scarborough for 15 years this month. Up the street, just a stagger away, is a busy local pub called the Black Dog, where I’ve seen many a friend play, and drank many a cold pint.
There is an old adage that says that you can’t go home again. It has a double meaning – not only can’t you relive the past but in many cases the places where the events in your past actually happened are no longer there.
Bullseye Records of Canada
