An all day festival! And just a few hours away! Featuring many of the best bands of the day! The first major outdoor punk and new wave festival, anywhere! And for only $20!

Everyone's going to want to go, right?!

Er, not so fast there, Various.

When the Heatwave festival was announced, it was a no-brainer for me that I would want to go, and I thought it would be the same for everyone applicable that I knew. I could already envision the fleet of vehicles making the trip up. After all, it was being held at the Mosport Park Speedway (now the Mosport International Raceway) in Bowmanville, Ontario, just an hour northeast of Toronto (and three hours from London). It would feature many of my favourite then-contemporary artists including the Talking Heads, The B-52s, the Pretenders, Elvis Costello, Rockpile and, best of all, The Clash. And all for $20 in advance — a cheap deal, n'est-ce pas?

Not exactly. That $20 ticket might seem like a puny amount and quite the bargain to 2010 eyes but back then it was a pricey gig, even if it was an all day festival. Most of the tickets I have for shows in and around that time have prices in the $7-8 range, and so Heatwave was almost three times the price of most standard gigs.

Owing to the price, the recent commercial ascension of many of these acts (making them suddenly un-hip in the eyes of some, but not me), the enormity of the event which largely flew in the face of the smaller-is-better punk ethos of the time (and, admittedly, sometimes smaller is better), and some folks just plain having to work on the Saturday, no one I knew wanted to and/or was able to go.

With one exception: my sister-in-law's post-divorce boyfriend.

My brother and his wife had split the previous summer. I remained close to my sister-in-law (as I always had been) as did my sister, who worked with her. I also used to babysit my nephew often at this point, so I was still very much in my SiL's orbit. Which lead to an unusual living circumstance for me.

There had been a war going down on the homefront. I had been arguing with my parents, in particular my father, with increased frequency and intensity, and things were reaching a head. You know, that standard issue generation gap parent/offspring stuff. My sister-in-law offered me a place to stay along with some cash to be a live-in-nanny of sorts for the summer months. It was a win-win situation for the both of us, as she had someone to stay at home with my nephew while she went to work.  In return, I got a much needed break from my warring home front along with a paid summer position. I think that that time away from my family home did us all a world of good. I'm sure my brother wasn't happy with this arrangement, but I would never know as he's not one for a lot of personal conversation.

As for the boyfriend, (who I will refer to as "Doofus") ... let me just cut to the chase and say that the guy was a tool. That description has nothing to do with the break-up situation per se, it was simply his innate “personality.” I've already written about indulging in some drug and alcohol excess by both myself and a number of friends through the years, but it was never an all consuming passion. I always differentiated between those who enjoyed letting loose, indulging and having adventures, perhaps sometimes overdoing it in the process, yet were also intelligent, productive, and non-self-destructive in the big picture vs those who were nothing more than stooooopid drunks and IQ-challenged drug casualties with a redneck streak and the perpetual maturity of a 14 year old — and a very immature 14 year old at that. He was in the latter of the two categories, perhaps personifying it.

He ended up moving in around the same point I did during that summer, which meant that we were now living under the same roof. While I would not describe our interactions as at all adversarial, we weren't exactly buds either. It's more like we co-existed. We couldn't have been more opposite.

And there we found ourselves, both wanting to go to Heatwave but with seemingly no one else interested when my sis-in-law made the suggestion that we go together. Spending a weekend with a party-fool doofus who by an inexplicable dint of circumstance favoured The Clash as opposed to the more obvious choice of, say, Molly Hatchet, was near the bottom of my “To Do” list, and I'm sure the feeling was mutual. But it soon became apparent that this was my one and only opportunity of getting there.  I did not yet drive and wouldn't have had access to a car anyway, so simply trekking up there on my own was not an option. My pragmatic self kicked in and I agreed.

And so it was: I was going to Heatwave with Doofus.  Quite the odd couple, to put it mildly. Oh well, this would get me there and the drugs and alcohol would be plentiful, I reasoned.

  

The poster for Heatwave, uploaded from Wikipedia. I had a copy of this poster that hung on a variety of walls for many years, before being lost in a move.

There was one big change of plans that happened on the day or two before, but this was a good one. Doofus announced at the last minute that a third party would be coming along, namely this friend of his who was sometimes part of the downtown scene but whom I had never met. As it turned out, he was a great guy and a good foil for the both of us: enough of a party animal to keep within Doofus' realm, yet down-to-earth and intelligent enough to carry on a conversation, with a more even temperament. For several years afterwards, about once or twice a year I would be walking around downtown London and would run into him, with That Guy (as he shall be known) catching my attention by yelling “Heatwave! Heatwave!”

We hit the road late Friday afternoon in Doofus' Datsun that he'd had outfitted with a new sound system and near concert-level-volume speakers, specifically for the drive to Mosport and the night time parties in the parking lot.

Nothing really jumps out at me about the trip there, but I do recall us arriving at the parking site shortly after sunset. The expansive field of autos was one large bacchanalian shindig and the three of us jumped right in, hanging out with some of the revellers around us.

Unsurprisingly, given the Olympic level of drinking and drug consumption that Doofus and That Guy had spent years mastering, my 17-year-old-self could only keep up for so long before I was passed out in the back seat. I woke up somewhere around dawn with a pounding hangover while the other two snored in front. My stirring woke That Guy and, upon hearing about my state, he thoughtfully presented me with a hot, steaming bowl of hashish along with two blinding white aspirin and a beer to wash them down with. That was a struggle to keep down, but there was nothing else to take it with.

Shortly thereafter, I fell back asleep, waking up a few hours later feeling back to normal and ready to start the big day. Doofus and Guy had already commenced perfecting their shine on, while I was determined that I wanted to simply get into a manageable party mode as opposed to a state of complete obliteration, which was clearly the paramount goal of the other two.

It was a sunny, blue-skied, red hot August Saturday: perfect festival weather. At around 10ish or so, we instigated the long walk from the parking area to the concert site, arriving there during later morning. Since many had shown up on the Friday night for the parking lot party, many were stumbling their way to the performance area on this fine morn, already a little worse for wear before things had even gotten going. Also, word came back that they were being Draconian at the front gate when it came to alcohol, and that it would be tough to get anything inside. Therefore, mass consumption before arrival was the overall plan of action. As Jerri Blank would say, “ Good Times! Good Times!”

Clusters of revellers would hook and un-hook-up on the pilgrimage, talking while sharing booze and substances. During this journey, I fully realized that two distinct camps were attending. The first was there for the music — and, also, to party along with the tunes. The second showed up for the reverse: it was a big festival, which happened with considerably less frequency back then, with partying as the undisputed goal. If some of the bands were ok, well — fuckin' A, buddy! Cool bonus, huh? As a result, I remember there being as many lumpen-pieheads in attendance as there were tuneheads.

I have a very clear memory of us spending a chunk of the walk down with this mondo intoxicated group of guys plus one woman who looked like a really haggard new wave version of Julia Phillips. They seemed to be playing some variation on You Touch It, You Drink It, and I distinctly recall her complaining loudly about having just downed what amounted to several shots of bourbon followed by everyone withholding their beer as a promised chaser, with her screeching at all of them in a hectoring growl.

As for my immediate fraternity, I was already fed up by the time Doofus took a stumble, landing in a ditch by the road, rolling around in the mud, hee-hawing amid the hilarity. Julia Phillips stood by, pointing and cackling with laughter.

It was at this point that I was wondering how in the hell I was going to put up with this level of tomfoolery all day long. It was barely 11 am and the bullshit was already wearing out its welcome.

At day's end, as I made my way back to the parking lot following Elvis Costello's terrific late evening set, I was exhausted yet over the moon with joy following my very first festival experience.  I was similarly beatific that I had managed to spend the day sans Doofus and did have a feeling of dread about now making my way back the parking lot to resume up-close’n’personal quality time with Idioticum Rexus.

Unfortunately, things were not quite so simple, as I found myself in quite a predicament — with all sorts of unexpected results.

Entering the crisp cool of the building, I approached the clerk, explained the situation, and asked if my ticket purchase had come through yet.  No, it hadn’t but he assured me that it would be no problem.  He also explained that it was now noon and that every Sunday at that time, the office closed for one hour for lunch!

Surely he was kidding.

No.  He wasn’t.

And back outside I shuffled.

Nothing was fazing me by this point, and the passage of time was something of a blur.  I distinctly remember leaving the gorgeous air-conditioning to venture back out into the furnace-blast of the noontime sun, plopping myself down on the ground like a sawdust doll with a punk haircut, my back slouched up against the wall, in a daze.

One hour later, I was let back in and handed my ticket.  Hoo-fucking-rah!

After continued zoning in the refreshing AC, my train finally arrived and I boarded, relieved that I was finally heading home.

Shortly after getting seated, I discovered that I had some change in my pocket that I somehow previously missed.  And, by Jove, it was enough to buy a coffee.  Oh, the humanity!  Some caffeinated nectar of the gods!

I excitedly ordered one from the car service.  It was scalding hot and with the very first sip, I burned the tip of my tongue.  There I sat, some degenerate looking 17-year-old all in black in late August who hadn’t showered in two days, groaning and holding the tip of my throbbing tongue outside of my mouth with my index finger and thumb, sitting across from a horrified mother and her two small kids. 

Alas, I reached my destination and my concerned sister-in-law was there to greet me.  After thanking her and assuring her that I was fine, she let me know that Doofus had called her and he was in Toronto.  Apparently, he and That Guy had run into some Toronto friends in the crowd at Heatwave who had managed to sneak in booze, helping them continue on with the weekend bender.  From what he could recall, the Toronto crew wanted to head back after the Pretenders and, in his alcoholic oblivion, had it in his mind that I was going to have no problem getting a ride back with someone else.

They then left, with Doofus driving on the (always massively busy) 401 for an hour into Toronto, and then right into the city itself for a night of partying.  Remember: this is a guy who was drunkenly falling over and rolling into a ditch at 11am.  One can only imagine the state of saturated inebriation that he would have been in at that time.  Thank heavens he wasn’t in an accident on the way there, not so much for him but for any innocent person who might have been injured.

Doofy had woken up on someone’s floor (I'll bet) in Toronto at some point on Sunday, with the bits and pieces of reality slowly seeping back into his thick skull, eventually making that sheepish call to my sister-in-law mid-afternoon.

She got me home and fed, I took a leisurely bath and then made sure to phone my folks, letting them know I’d gotten back safe and sound with everything running smoothly.  Yes, a noble lie.  After that I tried sleeping but was so overtired and wound up that I couldn’t, so my SiL gave me a sleeping pill. 

I was lying in bed for a period, waiting for the land of nod to arrive, thinking back on all of the momentous events from the past 48 hours or so — and then it was 15 or so hours later.  The pill must have kicked in hard, as I fell into an instant coma.

After my late Monday morning awakening, I sauntered downstairs.  As I made my way through the upstairs hall, I could hear the bloated monotone that was the voice of Doofus, mumbling in the kitchen.  I was faced with an odd dilemma, namely that I should have been enraged with him and what he had done, but truthfully I wasn’t. 

Okay, perhaps that’s an overstatement.  On one hand, yes, I was darn pissed.  But there was the other hand, the one that didn’t like him in the first place so it was not like it was some huge betrayal or love loss.  It was also particularly the hand that recognized that everything had worked out fine in the end, leaving me with an adventure I could look back on.  But most importantly, had I stuck close to him, I would have missed the Talking Heads, Elvis Costello, and The B-52s — not to mention the tent experience!

Pausing for a moment or two, I tried to figure out what I was going to say and how I was going to present myself, eventually deciding that I wasn’t going to let him off any hooks and instead milk it to my advantage.  I then marched down the stairs and into the kitchen, immediately confronting him on what an asshole he’d been and just what the fuck had he been thinking?

Doo knew he was already in the doghouse, but this was now a special blend of the two of us ranging on him.  He more than realized that he’d fucked up big time and began apologizing profusely.  Once again, underneath it all, I really wasn’t massively angry but felt I couldn’t let him off by knowing that, so I kept up the tirade, with my sister-in-law egging me on.  She made a faux suggestion that I may want to take a pop at him, with which he replied “let’s not get too excited, now.”

Before decamping to Toronto, Doofus had picked up a Pretenders t-shirt at the festival which he handed over to me as a conciliatory gesture.  I indeed took it, wearing it for years.  I had always kept it as a memento but, sadly, it was one of the things that got lost during our last move.  Damn.

Strangely, I would not see a show of note beyond a couple of small local gigs for another year.  And when I did, it was my second festival, namely the first Police Picnic (no.009), occurring exactly one year to the day of Heatwave.  While that day is also a notable one, with particularly memorable sets from the Specials and Iggy Pop, it went off with a whole lot less drama.