Jan 28th 2012
This is what I wrote to be read at Ricky’s Memorial today…
I sat in my office and forgot about geology for a while when I seen Ricky had left us on facebook. I cried off and on all morning hiding in this little room knowing nobody at the mine could truly understand what the people in the DTES mean to me, I couldn’t talk about it. Mostly I cried for Ricky but I cried for a lot of brothers and sisters we’ve lost, and somewhat selfishly cried for myself and the parts of me I lost down there and will never get back. So many Woodsquatters have left us whether it be Taum Danberger, the first I knew to die in the DTES…or squatters who left us very young like Punk Rock Tom and his sidekick Kasper. I have outlived so many of my friends in the DTES and having been an activist, Co-op Radio programmer and PHS worker for 10 years there were times that these deaths happened intimately before my eyes…and I’ll never get over it, it will always hurt, I know this now. Losing Ricky opens up a lot of those wounds in me. In Vancouver I became an emotional shell of my former self, I was burnt out and left Vancouver, probably for ever. I’ve seen enough death so now my wife and I are creating life. As we lose some comrades more are born in their place, it is our responsibility to continue on.
I came to know Ricky as a squatter on the street in front of Woodwards, for as timid as he could be there was a lot of fight in him, he never stopped believing we could end colonization. He was one of those people who are often overlooked within a movement (or anywhere really), but they are the ones I feel most strongly about in my heart. Ricky never judged me or cared what my politics were, we were on the same side and that’s all that mattered. He didn’t care if people were trash talking me, we were friends and he always showed me respect. I really loved Ricky, nobody ever has or ever will be quite like him.
Over the years I would sometimes get Ricky to open up a concert I was putting on. He would be very excited about it, excited enough to call me everyday for two weeks before the show to make sure it was still on and he could still play. There may have been moments I regretted giving him my number, but they quickly passed. I don’t think Ricky had enough chances to play real shows like that, I don’t mean to say he didn’t perform for others lots, but he was rarely promoted in any larger way to the general public. He was an unknown star plucking away in the Carnegie, at protests or at Anza Club bluegrass jams. To Ricky playing a show with Joey Only and Andy Mason was the big time, I don’t think he would have differenciated between playing at BC Place or Cafe Duex Soliels, they were all huge shows to him…he would have arisen to any occasion on any stage. We should have produced an album of his songs, I’d hate to think that voice is lost, hindsight is 20/20.
He would waddle up to the stage, shaking his head left to right nervously while the audience thought to themselves ‘this should be interesting…’ But they never thought that for very long because when big Rick strummed that guitar in open G and sang ‘I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrow’ peoples jaws would drop. Sometimes I played guitar or bass behind him and it was never hard because every song was in the key of G, yet the audience never seemed to notice. If his voice wasn’t a thing of beauty enough for them his sense of humour and stage presence would startle them. I’ll never forget when he said at the end of the show ‘I can’t play any longer, I have to catch a flight to Nashville, I’m gonna be on the Grand Ole Opry tomorrow with Dolly Parton.’
I hope he’s at that Big Opry in the sky right now, I’m sure the creator has kept a special place for his spirit to take refuge. Ricky’s pain is over, now us still living must go forward and let him go rest. It is my advice to you in the future that you take nothing and nobody for granted because it all can end so quickly. Unfortunately I can’t travel the 900km to be there today with you…Debbie Krull wanted me to join you on skype and sing a song for Ricky, that also proved to be difficult for me to do in Barkerville. But you can hear the song I would have played if you google CBC RADIO 3 and JOEY ONLY…the song is called ONE LAST SONG and it’s a warning to all of you that you ought to tell your friends you love them whenever you can because you never know when the last time you’ll see them will be. I always sing that song last at my shows and raise a toast to our fallen comrades. There are many of you there today I would like to say to you in case we never meet again, that even if we didn’t see eye to eye all time, I have a lot of love and respect for you, especially those who stayed in the DTES and kept fighting when I could no longer do so. You are heroes to me.
Love and rage, from Wells/Barkerville BC,
joeyonly
Institution of Recovering Musicians
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INSTITUTION OF RECOVERING MUSICIANS
by Dr.Joey Only
Used to call me Canadian Woody Guthrie,
Used to call me Anarchist Stompin Tom Connors,
used to call me and call me before I became a goner,
used to recognize me from way over yonder and flash photographs and papparazi transponders that lit up with each new song I pondered,
everyone wanted to be the first reporter to catch me after recordin,
but I washed up before I succeeded on the wrong side of border and law and order.
Previously I was Johnny Anti-Cash because I rejected the values modernity has,
they wouldn’t call me Cash or Johnny Paycheque or Dolly Credit Card or Hank Bank Statement when no one ever worked harder at rejecting and objecting to Nashville’s glam obsessions,
they never called me a Daredevil from the Ozark Mountains and lately they aint callin me nothin.
They wrote on my report card that I was hard on myself like cement,
I read it in grade three and asked mom what self esteem meant,
then they reviewed my records but forgot to push play,
so they say this album sounds like nothin,
the truth was they never listened,
before they locked me into the prison of failed musicians,
something somewhere between a rehab center and a psych ward they’ve put us in,
there’s no rock and roll in here,
they sing old old fashioned hymns in this sanctuary of sick musicians,
they won’t even allow gospel because rhythm encourages dancing which is the gateway to heroin,
if you walk the corridors of dissonant chords and play out of tune pianos with your nose and guitars with your arms and nose and organs with your organ and direct the choir of liars while suppressing all desire they might not condemn you to eternal fire,
it’s possible to escape institutionalized rape,
but you will have to scrape by to survive five years of being out of shape,
they’re releasing my albums on 8 track tapes and don’t care that people use Mp3 players and gave up country music to listen to Slayer.
I wanted to be the wordsmith who forges poetry out of iron,
and makes metal music but I wanted to be the next Waylon Jennings,
but the producer took me to the forge and melted me down and molded me into something I am not,
you heard the songs we made but you just forgot about it a lot,
they called me the New Kid and Silly Vanilli and told me to blame my pain on the rain when I wanted to sing home on the range.
They called me Vanilli Ice Cube and marketed me in Cuba at the whim of a producer named Grand Pooh-bah Humbug Doo-Dah,
he claims he looked to the future and saw me sitting on a tonne of money,
liars are really that funny.
I would rather be Lawrence Welk than a one hit wonder,
I would rather be a tornado of thunder and blow down the walls that plundered me of every thought I’d wondered,
I’d rather be an earthquake so that nobody could ever take away my next big break,
so I could make this institution shake until my intuition makes the walls fall so that all the trapped artists in the hold can break free of their mold,
the producer was the warden and you did what you were told,
now we can escape those conservative conservatory to put on concerts and constantly tell our stories.
The problem with losing your mind is you can’t remember where you might have left it,
you’re just a shell who looks like he’s been through hell,
the clock is well after twelve.
I wanted to be the next best thing but didn’t remember how to sing,
my lost mind forgot how to play in 4/4 time,
I forgot how to make words rhyme,
it made songs that resembled slime and reduced me to a life of drug induced crime and beer with a hint of lime.
I willed myself to be the next Willie Nelson but ended up pretending,
it was never and never ending and continually extending,
I had the no hit blues that I drowned with booze until the institution decided to choose me and spit me out,
it chewed on my dreams and screamed at my very being,
cause I wanted to be the next Stompin Johnny-Guthrie-Willie-Waylon and me,
the next Hank Willie Stompin Tom shootin songs out of my sex pistols while raking in handfuls of godamned mammom.
I wanted to be the next Woody and the failure has been killing me,
all that disappointment ended with my pink slip and gave me a name tag that read ‘hello, my name is trouble’,
got any medication for musicians with addictions?
If I get through this I promise I will never sing again,
I’ll join the Army and play in the marching band.
You don’t have to understand my tragic lesson,
I just ask that someone would finally listen.
If no one wants to hear me sing anything then I just ask that you pretend to hear my story before my pre-mature end,
for lack of friends or compassion I’m coming to the last course of action,
either detoxification, extinction, anti-depression or reforestation,
when I rot down and feed everything as my last artistic act in the world,
my dissintegration is the basis of new life to happen…the end of this half man/half mad musician…let me out and I’ll do what I can.
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