Daren and I used to play this pub, in the sketchier down-town area of Toronto, whose name I will simply not mention. In that pub were some of the odder types of people. The types of people that talk to themselves and answer themselves, people that wave their hands in spell casting movements as you try to perform for them. The kind of people that drink and drink and drink until the bartender carries their unconscious bodies out to a cab. A colourful atmosphere and the seats were rich in texture from overuse and bubble gum. It was also the kind of place that Brent went to.
Brent was a hippie from way back yonder. He juggled drinking beer and going out to smoke and you could see him getting swept away in whatever thoughts whirled around in his head.
At 9:00 PM we started... the house lights dimmed and we began to play. We performed many classic rock favourites and ended the first set with Jefferson Airplane’s ‘White Rabbit’. When the song ended, a solid round of applause rippled through the mostly empty pub and we took a break to eat something.
We hadn’t been seated long when Brent approached us...
me, actually. I looked up at his hollow sunken face, his hair long gone with his youth, his eyes were shiny and his face was wet. “Hello,” I said. I find when a complete stranger comes up to you, crying, ‘hello’ is a safe introduction.
Brent fell to his knees and began to blubber something about it being 1966... saw Gracie Slick... was the best night of my life... you brought me back... thank you... and then he stumbled away, his shoulders shaking as he tried to suppress his emotional state.
I didn’t know what to say to him, life had obviously given him quite a beating. So from that point on, I always dedicated ‘White Rabbit’ to Brent when we played that pub... even when I noticed that he wasn’t showing up anymore.
The Broken Hippie