A collaborative entry written by Amoret, Javina and (last but not least)
Stacy
:::S:::
Life came from the sea and it's where we return to when we
need to touch base with our roots again, drilling past all
the details to the core of our being. I dance until I can’t
breathe any more, until there’s a painful ache in my side
and the sweat traps loose strands of hair to my forehead.
Then I stagger off to the side and watch as the music
changes and a ripple of recognition runs through the crowd,
setting the sea of dancers in motion again.
:::A:::
Some months ago, Stacy made me a CD of random goth
danceables to keep me company in my rural isolation. I’m
listening to it now as we wing our way towards the Canadian
Gomorrah, my auld home, Toronto. My favourite song, right
off the top: Sex Dwarf, Soft Cell, the paean to dark S&M
depravity.
"When we hit the floor, you just watch ‘em move aside. We
will take them for a ride of rides."
I’ve had nights like that at the Savage Garden in the past.
And God willing, I’ll have another like it this week.
You see, I’ve always been enamoured with Toronto and
especially Queen Street West, from my days as a gawky,
denim-clad teenager wandering from the Eaton Centre to
Siren. My childhood in the suburbs was not the post-modern
wasteland that the modern & chic like to describe; but
while I may have been safe & protected from most monsters
that hide in the closets of the big city, I became
captivated with the dark beauty of Queen Street when I
finally visited without parents.
This store, this Siren, was staffed by some very freaky
people, people much like fellow highschool students whom I
considered the coolest of the cool. They sold so many
pretty velvet clothes! They sold dark & beautiful art, and
unique strange black t-shirts! They sold cheap crappy heavy
metal-type jewelry too, which was more what I consumed at
the time. I was not yet a goth, just a longhaired rocker
with some goth tapes. But it was coming, oh yes. I had
already devoured Anne Rice’s vampire chronicles, and was
beginning to wish that my forays into vampire costume were
not limited to Hallowe’en and the occasional movie
premiere. We started a band in our last year, as so many
people of my generation did in the wake of punk’s second
wave, and we called it Savage Garden in honour of Lestat’s
conception of the world. (look that up!)
One day, we walked down Queen Street West. I forget why.
What I remember is that a smiling girl gave me a small
paper flyer for a new bar. A bar that was "air-conditioned"
and on "Killing Floor Fridays" a character named "DJ Lord
Pale" would spin the goth tunes. And! And! They had taken
MY name! Now there was a BAR called Savage Garden! I vowed
never to patronize such a low-down, sneaky establishment.
Stealing my name! Well.
:::S:::
As a strange girl growing up in a small community, the
ocean was one of my best friends. I loved the solemn gray
of the Atlantic where it threw itself against the rocky
beaches and chiseled cliffs of the island, the miniscule
variations in the constant theme of roiling waves. I took
comfort from its tempests, from its frigid exterior and the
quicksilver life hidden beneath the surface. I loved the
way that it all looked the same to most people, a vast
uniform surface disguising the infinite variety of its
depths.
And then I moved away, 2000 miles from the ocean.
Landlocked in an urban environment, I went looking for
something to replace the sea, somewhere I could stand alone
and observe the glorious details that made up a uniform
surface.
I found it in the goth scene. A human ocean of black on
black, each one finding a unique twist on the common
denominators of black eyeliner and big boots. Like the sea,
I often felt completely alone as I stood on the edge of the
dance floor, watching the pretty freaks float by. That was
fine with me. I wanted to observe, not be intermeshed.
:::J:::
I live by the Pacific ocean now, seagulls and sea lions my
friends. Hiking boots and athletic wear replace the
platforms, fishnets and PVC outfits I used to strut around
in. There is no place for eyeliner here, and yet not so
long ago black eyeliner was part of a ritual dance in a
club where anything goes. Though I’ve left the goth scene,
a part of me still craves the freedom to express dark
emotions along with giddiness, whirling along to music
written by artists who understand the dichotomy we all find
ourselves in. Good, bad, indifferent, it was all permitted.
Artists wrote poetry, dressed seductively, brooded in
corners and smiled at like-minded friends. Goth standards
boomed through the crowd, which more than once prompted me
to stand up and gush, "Ooh! I’ve got to dance."
Savage Garden (a.k.a. Goth Club B in the eXhibition
archives) is a unique club. It’s a place where you can feel
a part of something bigger than yourself, while retaining
your individuality, in an atmosphere of acceptance and
respite. And as I wrote years ago, "The great thing about
this place is that the music both complements and
transcends it all. Nothing has to matter but the song."
:::S:::
Of course, you can’t stay on the sidelines forever.
Gradually, I met other people who enjoyed the same music,
found a similar delight in playing with (and sometimes
stomping all over) the visual constraints of the "scene". I
made friends and I took lovers. I became one of those waves
that I’d been watching all those years.
:::A:::
I moved away from Toronto almost a year and a half ago. As
Bjork sang, I live by the ocean, and one of the things I
miss most about my inland life is Savage Garden. It wasn’t
until recently that I found out what price a coastal
existence would exact. Because the Atlantic ocean likes to
reach out & smack you around a little - you know, remind
you who’s boss. Of course, these incidents don’t happen in
a straightforward, Perfect Storm-like manner, oh no. The
ocean’s far too subtle for that. Rather, it works its way
into your mind and heart, and then when you leave you
discover that you carry around a longing to be back
sleeping next to it. I thought that the Garden was an
ex-lover. Boy, did I miss the point.
It happened like this: I was walking down Queen Street
dressed as a bunny and accompanied by my two most stalwart
Savage Garden companions: Stacy & Dirk Nightshade (a.k.a.
the Palaver). On our walk we encountered a boy that I have
met at least eight times who displays an unflattering
ability to completely forget me the moment I leave his
field of vision. Once again, he had forgotten my name, and
I tried to refresh his memory with a little Six Degrees of
Savage Garden: I am married to Pixie Stix’s brother after
all and sister-in-law to the infamous Q. Unfortunately, it
rang no bells for this one. Later I tried bringing the Boy
over for a little visual refresher; he responded with
several comments about Pixie that offended me to the point
in which I contemplated breaking a bottle over his head.
But at the Garden, beer comes too dear to waste on every
asshole that lurks in its dark corners.
It was at this point that the ocean made its move.
I had made a reluctant decision to avoid a bar brawl when I
noticed that the Boy was deep in conversation with another
member of this little group. I drifted away towards my
stalwarts, and when the Boy rejoined us 20 minutes later he
told me that this other person was from Moncton. And like
most Maritimers in the city, he jumped on the chance to
talk East Coast with whoever came along. I was amazed and a
little humbled that I had been found out, exposed as an
coast-dweller even in the heart of the Garden. Finally,
something to top Six Degrees of Savage Garden.
:::J:::
I’ve written about the club and my experiences there many
times. Highlights: reading from my paper journal in front
of a small crowd while my breasts were bared. Meeting guys
galore - one of whom turned out to be a rapist, but hey,
that’s not the club’s fault. When my friends there found
out about it a vigilante group was born; lucky for him he
never showed his face again. Fetish nights, fashion shows
and S/M demonstrations allowed for audience participation,
and I was once offered a job by a well-known dominatix
after I performed the role with passion.
Vampires, would-be and otherwise, frequented the club. Once
I perforated my arm with a pin and Amoret sucked my blood.
Did anybody recoil in horror? No - it was just part of a
Saturday night, taken in stride. And I was flattered.
No matter what mood I was in, it was OK. Angry? Dance it
out. Sad? Drink and write. Happy? Socialise and chat. There
was no need to strike a pose, no pressure to be anything I
wasn’t.
My fondest memories are of a time when the club hosted an
open stage, where every week I would perform by reading
poetry and journal excepts. One person said I was the
"queen bee" of the scene. I made good friends and felt a
lot of support and admiration during a time in my life when
things were sad and desperate. The best birthday I ever had
was at Savage, when I was the "theme" of the night and all
the other performers sang songs and recited poetry written
about me. Could such a thing happen in Vancouver? No. The
seagulls know nothing of birthdays, or my life.
In Vancouver I quit drinking and rarely go to clubs, so my
goth clothes languish in a closet. There is no other home
for them, in a city so obsessed with fitness and the
outdoors. But even as I embrace the salt air, I miss Savage
Garden. There are nights when black eyeliner and fishnet
stockings seem called for and I am frustrated by the lack
of a fitting venue. The venue - the one at Queen and
Bathurst in Toronto.
:::A:::
A word about Six Degrees of Savage Garden: I made it up for
this entry, not because we don’t play it but because it
doesn’t have a name, at least as far as I know. Of course,
I’ve always lived on the fringes of the game; sister-in-law
to Q & friend of Stacy is as deep as I can work my way into
the labyrinth. But it was going to the Garden that brought
me to the attention of Stacy in the first place, causing
our eventual link. And my friendship with Javina came about
more or less through Six Degrees of Savage Garden: she &
Stacy had a boi in common which I think sparked their
correspondence, and she encouraged Stacy and I to meet. My
own link to Javina is not just separated by Stacy, though.
When she lived in Toronto, we were accustomed to meeting
there.
It was in the Savage Garden that I drank her blood, and
really, there can be no closer link in Six Degrees of
Savage Garden.
:::S:::
Sometimes my friends joke about how incestuous the club
scene can become. I recall a terrifying night when I became
trapped in a corner at Savage, surrounded by five men, all
of whom had seen me naked. I’ve been deep in the heart of
Six Degrees of Savage Garden, and it’s a scary place to be.
Even when you’re not at the club, its tendrils reach out
and touch other parts of your life. Sometimes bad: there
are moments when I worry about all the time I’ve wasted
over the years, drinking and dancing and having the same
repetitive conversations with people I only ever see in the
dark.
But there have been good influences, too. The film I shot
last summer, with a script based on my experiences at
Savage, would never have happened without Jesse and the
network of people he helped bring together, people that we
both knew through the club. I knew Jesse, of course, from
his days of working the Savage door.
I never would have met Javina if I hadn’t recognized her
description of a mutual friend (okay, boyfriend) from her
journal, another Savage connection. Ironically, I recall
going to the same open mike nights, as she documents in her
journal. I even have a vague memory of watching her read
one evening, although at the time neither of us knew one
another. Despite this proximity, it took the digital sea of
the online journal community to bring us together in the
end. That’s the ironic part of Six Degrees of Savage
Garden. It has a life of its own, even outside the walls of
the club.
Amoret and I would have met anyway, because she was dating
the brother of my best friend’s wife - a best friend whom I
had met through the club. Inspired by her entries about
Savage, I’d invited her along to a fundraising
party for a dance company, whose founder I also met at
the club, and she brought along Dirk. Afterwards, all three
of us headed over to Savage to dance away what was left of
the night.
There were many nights of dancing to follow, and after
Amoret headed off to the eastern shore, Dirk and I
continued to meet up at Savage. It’s where I first realized
that I’d fallen in love with him, waltzing around the dance
floor at three a.m. to Fairytale
of New York, and the only thing that made the night
less than perfect was not being able to drag Amoret into a
booth to whisper the secret to her.
:::J:::
Amoret was very much a part of the experience in my last
days in Toronto, the final stint of living in Gomorrah in
between moves from the Rockies and to Vancouver. She and
Stacy and their friends, as well as some of my old buddies,
welcomed my presence and again I felt acceptance and
freedom. Drinking my blood only solidified that bond. Even
now, while we live on opposite coasts, there are times I
wish we could meet up to dance, dressed in gleaming black
and slathered in glitter.
:::A:::
We’ve been to three two different bars tonight: Anarchist’s
Cocktail, Savannah Lounge (which is where I saw my first
clubgoths back when it used to be called Studio 69), and
now Savage Garden. The first two are both pounding out
music, shaking the mildewed brick, sifting out tiny bits of
Toronto dirt. But no one is in them - some drinkers &
chatters; half a dozen dancers, that’s it. This is the only
place full of people. The dance floor is packed and I don’t
want to go out there without my purse (a.k.a. the Pink Bag
of Justice) but I’m afraid of lit cigarettes kissing the
little-girl-pink surface. Or worse yet, my little goth
Groovy Girl getting it in the face. I like the music -
Stacy’s goth-in-exile CD has made me more familiar with
this stuff than I was before I left Gomorrah. Still, I’ve
nested in the back corner for now, holding court on a tall
stool with my back to the most beautiful street in the
world. Just like Pixie used to do when Q was a busser here.
I told a new acquaintance this, that the window showed the
most beautiful sight in the world, and she didn’t seem to
know if I was drunk, joking or mad. You might have to be
all three to truly adore this stretch of textile stores &
closed convenience stores. But I do anyway.
I’m beautiful tonight, too. (Here, writing this, Dirk reads
over my shoulder & breaks in: "you’re always beautiful.
Tonight it’s a particularly aggressive kind of beauty.")
It’s a costume, it’s always a costume when I come here, but
it’s one of my favourite masks. PVC pants, 8-hole docs,
Bauhaus t, sunglasses at night, big spiked leather belt
hanging over my hips. I dyed my hair black in June, and it
all seems a pre-cursor to this.
When I came on Saturday, I dressed as one does who
anticipates meeting an old ex. An old ex, that is, with
whom one parted on less than amicable terms. As I plucked
my eyebrows, I found myself wondering as to the point of it
all. Who would see my stray hairs in a strobe-lit goth bar?
But logic is nothing. I wanted Savage Garden to see how
well I was doing without it. And for that I needed to be
perfect.
That night I dressed in fishnets, corset & fuck-me skirt
and that night I really held court. Little Spider, Morgan,
Stacy, Dav, Jesse all around me. I smoked with LS and I
danced with Stacy and I sat quietly with Dav & Jesse
nibbled on my hand at opportune moments. Yet without Dirk
it felt wrong.
Tonight he is here and so I feel at peace with the world. I
don’t know the answer of the equation Dirk + goth music.
All I know is that it equals goodness. Dark goodness.
:::S:::
Sometimes I’ll stay away for months at a time, caught up
with a new boyfriend or a new script, overburdened with
work or uninspired at the thought of drunken babble from
people who never remember my name. But like the tide,
Savage always pulls me back. That moment when the
metal-plated doors swing open, the harsh beat washing over
me like a baptismal dousing, calling me home. Stepping up
the stairs past discarded cigarette butts and spilled pools
of beer, waving a quick hello to familiar faces as I shuck
off my coat in the corner by the window booth and race onto
the dance floor. That’s where the magic happens for me.
It’s about getting lost, in order to find yourself again.
Giving up those persistent worries about money or job or
relationships, stopping the steady stream of thoughts about
the past and the future in order to just exist in the
moment, swept up in the rhythm that‘s always there, waiting
for you to come back to it once more.
:::J:::
I look out my window; it's nighttime, and the black ocean
waves are shimmering with light from a ship in the harbour.
With the right music massaging my ears and my eyes
squinting just so, I am drawn to the rhythm of the sea and
I watch it reverberate all the way to Savage Garden.
* * *
3 years ago today: I shouldn't've taken 2 extra strength aspirin with Kraft Dinner and an iron supplement if this sort of thinking is a direct result.
