“When you travel long enough in one direction, you will eventually arrive where you started.”
“My god, is that some kind of apocryphal and ancient anticipation of the Einsteinian model of the universe?” I asked him wonderingly, my mind open like a window.
“No, Stupid,” he said slapping me, “Geography. The Earth is round.”
I was so smart to leave the Catholic church, I thought to myself as I packed my bag, having correctly interpreted the nuances and subtleties of my Master’s guidance, and doubled the speed of my efforts to accommodate the next resident of the cell which had been my home for a year, ever since the last time I saw The Hellmouths.
I remembered it vividly. They had drugged me and introduced me to a gathering of members of the Heritage Front as the world’s foremost authority on the historical Caucasoid heritage of serial killers. What I could make out of the notes in that state of mind seemed convincing, but I didn’t get a chance to elucidate any more than I could pronounce the word “elucidate” before I was swarmed on the stage. The last thing I remember was one of the Hellmouths laughing as they ran down the street, yelling madly, “That’ll send a message to the Normals!”
Now after a year of solitude in which I had to relearn how to read in addition to other things, I received a request from the entertainment department of Paternal Twin Quarterly asking me to interview the Hellmouths. The hapless editor, and his sister, told me that while the Hellmouths would grant the interview, it could only be with me. Oddly enough, they asked to be interviewed separately. My first appointment was with vocalist, harmonica player, and co-writer, Kyle Fitzsimmons, and I decided to break the ice by opening up with the topic that is always close at mind for this former veteran street musician and survivor of schizophrenia.
SM: Are still working on the book about your experiences?
KF: Got a smoke?
SM: Yes
KF: Thanks. I’m trying to quit. If I buy a pack it’s the end of me.
SM: The book?
KF: Oh yes. It’s going to be brilliant. I should make a fortune off university curriculum requirements alone. Show that Kayson bitch a thing or two. And Wurtzel, too. It’s a real story of survival. My goals are modest, though. I hope to have a house in the country outfitted for any contingency. (Smokes)
SM: Has any of this found its way into your lyrics?
KF: Got an ashtray? I threw all mine out. Thanks. To answer your question, I’ve written great soaring plaintive lyrics that speak to the human being in all of us–including some of the higher primates. We just haven’t written music for those songs yet. But that’s not my department. (Takes a drag)
SM: You and Stormin’ Garrry Norman are the song-writers in the group. How did you meet?
KF: He used to come around and sneak refills from the fountain at the fast food place where I worked. I saw a lot of potential in him, even then. But that was before I was mystically enlightened as to the basic bankruptcy of the afore-mentioned human condition–with the exception of the higher primates of course. We met again when I went back to high school to get my diploma. He was trying to get on the Creative Writing teacher’s class by writing a poem every day. I decided to take him under my wing. (Coughs).
SM: How would you describe your music?
KF: “Garage Folk” (Makes quote signs with fingers.)
SM: Who would you hope to be compared to?
KF: My father.
SM: Is he also a song-writer?
KF: No. He’s in auto-glass. He wanted me to go into air-conditioner repair. I earnestly hope to make more money than him. That would make my mother happy, and that’s all I really want, in addition to the fortress. The remote fortress. But not on an island and not so far away that I couldn’t shoot at anybody. (Reaches for my pack.)
We talked a little while longer, during which he bummed several more cigarettes and stole my lighter before catching a ride with me downtown to buy himself a pack of cigarettes on my way to meeting Stormin’ Garrry Norman. Norman, vocalist/guitarist/co-writer is an imposing figure, unexpectedly impish at times, and on this occasion, three hours late.
SGN: Fuckin’ bus. It clearly says on the schedule 12:00pm. There I am, spot on 1:38pm, and it doesn’t even show up. Can you believe that? (Sighs)
SM: When I was asked to interview the Hellmouths for this article, I didn’t hear from Ben Apgar, the keyboardist that played with you when I was commissioned to write your biography. I never got paid for that, by the way, but what happened to Ben?
SGN: He went off into the world to find himself.
SM: He was a searching wistful spirit?
SGN: No. He had leprosy. That’s always death for a keyboardist. Even in Branson. (Groans)
SM: Describe the process of song-writing in the Hellmouths. First Kyle writes the lyrics...
SGN: Yeah, and I always have final approval of the lyrics before I set them to music. (Glowers) Is he still talking about making monkeys cry? I think he’s done quite enough of that already, frankly.
SM: How do you connect emotionally with ideas that come from experiences so foreign to your own, as a non-medicated undiagnosed classification.
SGN: Kyle always goes on about how he’s seen things that would “make your blood run cold”. What I find interesting is how he’s parlayed folksy ballads from an essentially troubling history with women. That’s really where his unique talent lies; making the same mistakes over and over again in such a way that the songs he writes about them are different enough to be individually marketable – or at least they are when I’m through with them.
SM: How would you describe the music of the Hellmouths.
SGN: “Deathgrass.”
We spoke for a while during which I tried to leave against Garrry’s insistence that I would have plenty of time to get across town to Brendan McCallum’s home. I arrived an hour and a half late, and found the reclusive bassist in the back room at his computer. He smoked an entire cigarette, carefully ashing it as he went before turning his attention to me.
SM: Brendan, you were late in coming to the Hellmouths. Garrry and Kyle had been playing together on the streets for a couple years before you joined. What were you doing?
B-DOG: I had a job.
SM: Was it difficult fitting in?
B-DOG: No.
SM: So how do you fit into the Hellmouths?
B-DOG: (Smoking entire cigarette. Ashing carefully. Pausing.) I’m basically the glue that holds the band together, constantly mediating between two giant warring egos.
SM: Do you feel part of the creative process?
B-DOG: I always have the last word. I don’t even have to do anything. I subtly control everything.
SM: What are rehearsals like?
B-DOG: All smiles. Real happy like.
SM: And how would you describe the music you make together?
B-DOG: “Blue-thrash”.
With that, Brendan turned back to his computer. I left silently by the chimney. The Hellmouths have been playing under various configurations under the same name for four years. Their lyrics are caustic and poetic and their music propulsive; grave by turns, and others completely silly. They have played the Guelph Arts Festival and Cabaret Twice, Acton Leathertown Festival three times, Hempfest in Sault Ste. Marie twice, they had a long-standing regular gig at the Woolwich Arms in Guelph, various coffee-house productions, and are continuing to write, rehearse, and record. I just wish they would stop calling me.