Memories of Donnie Downchild and the Grossman's Era

 

Memories of Donnie Downchild and the Grossman's Era

The Early Days at Grossman's

I was one of the early regulars at Grossman’s Tavern in Toronto, where I became great friends with Al, the owner. Al allowed me to make and sell Grossman’s T-shirts, which became a lucrative side hustle—I made up to $300 a week. One of the first articles Richard Flohil wrote for the Toronto Weekend was about Grossman’s, but since he interviewed me, it ended up focusing on my T-shirt venture.

Downchild’s Arrival

I don’t recall exactly when Downchild showed up—it felt like they were always there. They were a fun band to know and hang out with. Donnie, in particular, had a playful spirit; he’d play anything you wanted for a shot of Jameson’s Scotch.

The Baseball League and Wild Times

I organized a small baseball league with teams from Grossman’s, the Pilot, the Paramount, the Vagabonds, and anyone else who’d join. It was all for fun and to sell more T-shirts. This was the 1960s, and I’d umpire games in a dashiki and a fez, often smoking reefer beforehand to stay calm and slow the ball down. I remember Donnie sitting in the outfield with a Dixie cup full of Jameson’s. When someone yelled, “Pop up!” he’d carefully set his drink down, lurch to his feet, and stumble around in his leather-soled cowboy boots, searching for his mitt. Someone else usually retrieved the ball, and he’d sit back down. Between innings, it wasn’t unusual for Kid Bastien’s marching band to take the field. At the season’s baseball party at Krash’s studio, Donnie played until his fingers bled.

The Corn Roast Pop Festival

My friend Hodge (Gary Hodgkins) hosted an annual corn roast at his place in Whitby. One year, I decided to surprise him by turning it into a pop festival. Hodge was building a large trimaran in his barn, surrounded by a hundred acres of Libby’s cornfields. I booked three bands: Downchild, Kid Bastien, and The Lubor K Zinc Band. I had posters and invitations printed, and on the Friday afternoon of the corn roast, I rented a truck, loaded up the bands, beer, a piano, and sound equipment, and we had a rollicking ride to Whitby. I had no shortage of drugs in those days, and it’s a miracle we weren’t stopped—I’m sure they heard us singing long before we arrived. Hodge wasn’t too surprised, as people with campers and tents had started showing up days earlier. About 500 people attended, and I was told everyone had a great time. After setting everything up, I dropped acid and don’t remember much else. The festival lasted until Sunday, and Hodge wasn’t too mad, except for Krash (John Radcliff) taking his Corvette and roaring around the property. He was just thankful no one burned the barn down. He even made about $100 when he returned the empties.

Albert King and Downchild’s Rise

We initially took Downchild for granted as a good party band, but one afternoon at Grossman’s, I walked in to find them playing with a black dude who turned out to be none other than Albert King. I bought him a drink during a break, and he said, “Wow, man, these guys are good.” That’s when we realized we should take them seriously. Around that time, the band started playing all over town, though it seemed like a slightly different lineup every time I saw them.

Life Changes and the Booze Can

I got married and moved back to Uxbridge for three years. After splitting with my wife, I returned to Toronto and went sailing down south for 15 months. When I came back, I opened a booze can across the street from the Horseshoe Tavern. In a moment of madness, I set up drums and a sound system and let musicians play for free beer. I almost went broke. One hot summer night, Donnie was jamming at 3 a.m., and it was so loud you could hear it six blocks away. As I was putting a fan in the window, I looked out and saw dozens of police cars, a paddy wagon, and loads of officers. A large sergeant led the charge up the stairs. “We have a complaint about the noise,” he hollered over the band. I quieted the band, closed the windows, and told the sergeant, “There you are.” He was bewildered, saying, “I have half the police force here.” I replied, “So I took care of the noise, right? Anything else?” and closed the door. Donnie and I peeked out the window as the police talked in little groups, shrugged, and drove away. We kept quiet after that, and I got rid of the setup.

The Harmonica Incident

Donnie was a regular at the bar, and during a fad for spicy food, Arturo gave me a jar of extremely hot peppers. Donnie, of course, had to try one, and we thought he might never play the harmonica again. Later, I went sailing in the Bahamas with Murray McLauchlan over Christmas and January. McLauchlan, knowing I was hopeless at guitar, bought me a $500 chromatic harmonica for Christmas, saying, “Anyone can play the harmonica.” Except me. I tried and failed. One night, Donnie saw it on the bar, tried it, and asked to borrow it. A week later, he returned, saying, “I’m sorry, man, but I broke your harp. The slide snapped off.” I told him to forget it—I couldn’t play it anyway. Months later, I saw him in concert with a custom holster for my harmonica, treating it like a prized possession. I was pissed but couldn’t get backstage. Over the years, I tried to catch them in Florida but never did. I wasn’t really mad—Donnie had played for me for free many times.

Reconciliation and Legacy

Years later, I caught Donnie at a CD signing at Grossman’s and jokingly told him to give me a CD. “Why should I?” he scowled. “For the harmonica,” I replied. He laughed, shook my hand, and gave me a signed CD. Recently, I received the band’s latest signed DVD and CD after sharing this story with Gary Kendall. I’m proud to see the band win a Juno and have always admired Donnie for his talent, blues integrity, and persistence through triumph and tragedy. I hope to hit him up for a few more CDs someday.