In the summer 1978 I was making my rounds of the Vancouver bars as a solo entertainer. This was my summer job while going to U.B.C. I wasn’t very good with mainstream music and depended on folk and standards. You know, Mr. Bojangles, The Breeze, and anything by Neil Young and Gordon Lightfoot. The crowds usually ignored me and that was fine by me. Being ignored meant that heckling was kept to a minimum.

The Mr. Sport Hotel was on Kingsway, almost out to Burnaby, and there was a lounge, bar and cabaret. I played in the lounge and various bar bands plowed through the tavern. The cabaret was saved for weekends and featured traveling showbands. Many of these were good American bands and I enjoyed listening to them after I finished. And many of these band guys came in the lounge and supported me, as well.

One group, called “Steppon’ Stones,” was a disco band whose worst-played song was better than anything I ever heard in any of my bands. They were that good. They could cover anything to perfection; Gerry Rafferty, Chuck Mangione, Boz Scaggs and other contemporaries, along with Mowtown greats. And they wore gold outfits with purple polka-dots (They looked better than my description).

The local rednecks, however, didn’t appreciate the band and some even made comments bout their African-American descent. One of the band guys confided in me that he couldn’t believe this was Canada.

The best heckle I ever experienced was in this lounge. I played both a Yamaki 12-string and Gibson Hummigbird 6-string that traded back-and-forth during the night. These were amplified by Barcus Berry pickups plugged into the small PS system. When I switched guitars I would say something like this, “I’m just going to take a minute to change from the 6 to the 12 string guitar and I’ll be right back.”

This night one drunk at the back piped up, “Hey, Mr. Guitar-Playin’-Man.” At this he stood up. He had a longish hair and a scruffy beard. His table of friends and he might have had a set of teeth in total. But he wasn’t rude-sounding.

“Tell me,” he continued, “if you can’t play a 6-string, how in hell are you going to play 12?”

Well, he had me. All I could do is concede defeat and say, “I’ll be back in 20 minutes.” The good news was, there was a new group of customers in the lounge when I came back.”