12 Step Program, part two, chapter thirty-seven
Whatever happened to Bob Jansen
Getting lost was easier than I expected.
Before leaving L.A., I paid off my credit card and then cancelled it. Made sure there was no outstanding rent. Just left the apartment as is. I didn’t have much furniture anyway and the fridge nearly was empty. Didn’t even ask about the damage deposit. I’m sure I left the landlord puzzled but happy.
At the hotel in Seattle, I just threw a few necessities into my over the shoulder bag and travelled with the guys to the Showbox.
After the gig, I slipped on my bag and stepped out the back door. Nobody noticed. The band was having too much fun, there was a party atmosphere, lots of noise and distractions Girls and booze and drugs in other words..
Outside, I flagged a taxi, told the driver to take me to a Greyhound bus terminal.
It was about 2:30 am. The ticket office was closed but would open at 4am. For the next 90 minutes, I sat on a bench, reading yesterday’s Post Intelligencer, clinging to my bag, warding off drunks or bums and trying not to fall asleep.
I didn’t know where I would go. That part I hadn’t planned. I just knew I couldn’t go back to L.A.. The first bus through was going in the opposite direction, to Vancouver. That sounded good to me, so, when the ticket outlet opened for business, I paid the fare.
At the border, customs officers boarded the bus. I had brought all my ID with me, including my passport. I duly was asked why I was entering Canada and told them I was joining a band up there as a singer.
Oh yeah, exclaimed one officer, sounding interested. What band?
I had to make up one on the spot and, like Fast And Bulbous, turned to the Captain Beefheart songbook.
Ella Guru.
Never heard of ‘em, said the officer, instantly disinterested.
I offered to sing for them and got as far as the first line of Paul McCartney’s Silly Love Songs.
“You’d think the world had had enough of silly love songs…”
The two grimaced, stopped me, and moved to the next aisle.
Everyone’s a critic, I harrumphed to myself but at least I was in. That was a relief.
I didn’t really choose to live in Vancouver; in a way, Vancouver chose me. It was the first arrival at the Greyhound station in Seattle. To me, it was the bus of destiny.
Like I said, I didn’t know where I was going after leaving the Showbox, as long as it wasn’t south.
The Hi-Steppers had played Vancouver a few times, before it left for Los Angeles. Do the Pink Pussycat, the Daisy, New Delhi Cabaret, or Grooveyard sound familiar? I know we played at Oil Can Harry’s in 1966. This was not long after the club opened. It was good. I don’t know what he was like later but this was the early days for the club so, owner, Danny Baceda, treated us well and the crowd was lively if a little too nice.
When I got off the bus in Vancouver I was ready for ’nice.’
Nineteen eighty-two was a crossroads.
I looked down one of those roads and didn’t like what I saw. It led to a place I didn’t want to go.
Twelve Step Program would be introduced as a “blast from the past”, which I suppose it was. Commercial radio wasn’t playing my latest records, the labels to which I’d signed were getting smaller and more short-lived, there were fewer people who remembered either Bob Jansen or The Hi-Steppers. The attendance was shrinking, anyway. Less money, dodgier clubs.
The package shows presented by Richard Nader beckoned but I didn’t want that. They were more about 50s names like Chuck Berry or Bo Diddley. There were package shows featuring 60s acts; I think The Turtles headlined a few. They probably could have put the spotlight back on me for a little but this didn’t seem creative. I still wanted to create.
Maybe if I’d hung on longer things would be different but in 1982 I was pretty well forgotten. Too old for MTV, definitely not grunge, modern radio was out of the question, classic rock radio was no solution. I was done.
So, I took the other road and that led me to Vancouver.
The morning I arrived, I checked into the Ivanhoe. Know it? Central to a lot of things that are kinda like landmarks, but what interested me was that it was across the street and short jag from the Railway Club. I’d heard about it in L.A. but I wasn’t expecting it to be so small.
Anyway, I spent a few nights there downing beer, saw a few bands that were emerging from the ashes of punk rock.
I needed a place to live. I found an apartment after a few days on Smith in Burnaby. From the outside it looked like it was built in the 50s but well kept. Trim garden, regular paint jobs. Promising things like that. The interior was very neat and lived up to that promise. A little more expensive, maybe, but it was obvious the owners cared. I put the money down and moved in. Been there ever since.
Being frugal – cheap some might say -I had saved some money that would last for a few months while I decided what to do first.
Which was to enrol in social work at Langara
I also took jobs I never thought I’d do. Swamping on a soda pop truck, cashiering at a convenience store, and, like you Matt, working as a paper picker but at the Saskatchewan Wheat Pool. Filthy, dangerous job. The pay was adequate, though.
It was good in another way. I’d be so damned tired, all I wanted at the end of a shift was to shower and go to bed.
Not only did this save me money but I stopped drinking beer and ate regularly at civil hours. I’d all but stopped going out nights. The groceries I put away reflected the change I was hoping to make. There were burgers and fries and pizza still but more salads and seafood, water and milk. I was getting healthy.
My American passport served me well while I was settling, but I didn’t have to use it much.
Around the world, Canadians are known to be polite; in Vancouver they go further by leaving you alone. There were no questions about my past, no meddling of any kind. I needed that calm. I needed to be invisible for a few weeks while I fashioned my next life. Vancouver swallowed me whole.
In rapid succession I made four applications: Change of name; Canadian citizenship, acquisition of a credit card, and how to be certified as a social worker.
Becoming Canadian just required that I be a permanent resident in four of a six year period, I could speak English and I had no criminal record.
Those promises made, I moved to get a credit card. The world turns around having a credit card.
With a credit card, I could apply and pay for a change of name
And that allowed me to pay my tuition at Langara.
I found work as a salesman at a hardware store that, seemingly, excelled at providing paint supplies. I soon proved useless as a handyman. Couldn’t tell a brad from a doornail.
A month later, the change of name was approved, which allowed me to get the credit card, which I needed to pay for fingerprinting on top of a fee for the application form if I wanted to be a social worker and a Canadian.
I could have gone into real estate or started a business, but it seemed to me I was qualified to be a social worker.
As a performer, I knew I could communicate and, temperamentally, I wasn’t going to get involved with my cases. I could be friendly and helpful but from an emotional distance.
I thought it would be as easy as that but I was wrong.
After nine months, I had my certificate and, as a first stop, I went as a counsellor to the Vancouver Aboriginal Friendship Centre. Indians! I declared, are screwed up; they just need to straighten out. I figured I could be the one to do that. None of my clients trusted me. I was white, middle class, so what did I know about the Indian.
First off, don’t call them Indian. Aborigine, ok, but, more properly, First Nations. I had to earn their confidence. To do that, I befriended an elder, Whispering Smoke, who spoke for me. If they were alcoholic, I helped them stop drinking. Drugs? Same thing. Sexual abuse? That was more delicate, but these three issues were rooted in racism, economy, opportunity. They touched on spirituality, lore, culture, ecology, history. I think the First Nation people helped me more than I helped them.
Some of the hospitals had more cases than they could handle. Lion’s Gate Hospital, for instance, sent me a few. I soon figured out I could freelance. So I set up a clinic and went into business for myself.
As I watched my clients getting older, I found a rewarding sideline going to care homes and leading singalongs. Once a week, one hour at a time, I’d show up in a cafeteria or hospitality room with a stack of lyrics and my guitar, though usually there was a piano in house.
Some of the patients had their own ukulele and were proficient, so I switched on those occasions to uke. I really enjoyed those sessions and I was able to sing.
Never married, had no kids. I could have. While still on the road as Bob Jansen, I met a few girls I liked and were nice. Nothing developed but we became friends and they’d always show up at our gigs whenever The Steppers was in town.
But I think Amanda was right. At that time, I was completely focused on my career – singing, writing, recording, performing. Was for years and I didn’t want any new relationship to go through that.
I wasn’t a monk. But most of the women were clients and were screwed up in some way. Ethically, it wouldn’t have been right to date a patient anyway.
There was a nurse at one of my care homes. We were together for a few years, but she grew more and more possessive while I grew more and more resistant. I didn’t mind being alone. In fact, I liked it.
I was Bob Johnson and I was doing all right.
That’s when I read about Bob Jansen in the newspaper.
