Memories of Donnie Downchild and the Grossman's Era

 

Memories of Donnie Downchild and the Grossman's Era

 Grossman's Tavern back in the day? Man, that was a scene. I was lucky enough to be one of the early regulars. I got super tight with Al, the owner, and he let me sell Grossman's T-shirts. Seriously, that turned into a pretty sweet hustle – I was pulling in up to $300 a week! I even ended up in one of Richard Flohil's first articles for the Toronto Weekend, though it mostly focused on my T-shirt gig because he interviewed me about it. Downchild? They were just there, you know? It's hard to pinpoint exactly when they showed up at Grossman’s. They were just part of the fabric of the place. A really fun band to be around, too. Donnie, especially, was a character. He'd play pretty much anything you wanted if you slipped him a shot of Jameson's. The guy was always up for a laugh. Speaking of laughs, I even started a baseball league. It was all pretty loose – teams from Grossman's, the Pilot, the Paramount, the Vagabonds, whoever wanted to play. Mostly, it was just an excuse to sell more T-shirts, if I'm honest. This was the '60s, so picture this: I'm umpiring games in a dashiki and a fez, probably a little high to keep things mellow and make the ball seem slower. Donnie would be out in the outfield, nursing a Dixie cup full of Jameson's. Someone would yell "Pop up!" and he'd carefully set his drink down, wobble to his feet in those leather cowboy boots, and stumble around trying to find his glove. Usually, someone else would end up catching the ball for him, and he'd just plop back down. And between innings? It wasn't unusual to see Kid Bastien's marching band take the field. Seriously, it was that kind of scene. I remember at the end-of-season party at Krash's studio, Donnie just wailed on his guitar until his fingers were bleeding.

Then there was the corn roast pop festival. My buddy Hodge (Gary Hodgkins) threw this corn roast every year at his place in Whitby. One year, I decided to surprise him by turning it into a full-blown music festival. Hodge was building this huge trimaran in his barn, surrounded by acres of cornfields. So, I booked Downchild, Kid Bastien, and The Lubor K Zinc Band. I got posters and invites printed, rented a truck on Friday afternoon, and loaded up the bands, beer, a piano, and some sound gear. The drive to Whitby was…memorable. Let's just say I had access to plenty of "party favors" back then, and it's a miracle we didn't get pulled over. Hodge wasn't too surprised when people started showing up with campers and tents, because they had been arriving for days. I think around 500 people showed up, and from what I heard, everyone had a blast. I dropped acid after setting everything up, so my memories are a bit hazy. The party went on until Sunday. Hodge wasn't too mad, except for Krash taking his Corvette for a joyride around the property. Mostly, he was just relieved nobody burned down the barn. He even made a hundred bucks off the bottle returns!

For a while, we kind of took Downchild for granted. They were just a good-time party band. But one afternoon at Grossman's, I walked in and they were jamming with this black dude. Turns out it was Albert King! I bought him a drink during a break, and he was like, "Wow, man, these guys are good." That's when it hit us – we needed to start taking them seriously. After that, they started playing all over the city, though it always seemed like the lineup was slightly different every time I saw them.

Life took a turn. I got married, moved back to Uxbridge for a few years. Then, after the split, I went sailing down south for over a year. When I got back to Toronto, I opened a "booze can" – basically an after-hours club – right across from the Horseshoe Tavern. In a moment of sheer insanity, I set up drums and a sound system and let musicians play for free beer. I almost went bankrupt. One hot summer night, Donnie was jamming at 3 a.m., and it was so loud you could hear it for blocks. I was putting a fan in the window when I looked out and saw dozens of police cars, a paddy wagon, the whole nine yards. This huge sergeant led the charge up the stairs. "We have a complaint about the noise!" he yelled. I quieted the band, closed the windows, and said, "There you go." He was totally bewildered. "I have half the police force here!" he said. I just shrugged. "So, I took care of the noise, right? Anything else?" and closed the door. Donnie and I peeked out the window as the cops talked, shrugged, and drove off. We kept it down after that, and I eventually got rid of the setup.

Donnie was a regular at the booze can. There was this spicy food craze going around, and Arturo gave me this jar of insanely hot peppers. Of course, Donnie had to try one. We thought he'd never play the harmonica again.  

Fast forward a bit. I ended up sailing in the Bahamas with Murray McLauchlan over the holidays. Murray, bless his heart, knew I was utterly useless with a guitar. So, for Christmas, he gets me this chromatic harmonica – a fancy $500 one! His reasoning? "Anyone can play the harmonica." Turns out, "anyone" did not include me. I gave it a shot, failed miserably, and it mostly just sat around.

Then, one night, Donnie spots it at the bar. He picks it up, actually manages to play something decent, and asks if he can borrow it. A week later, he's back, looking sheepish. "Man, I'm really sorry," he says, "but I broke your harp. The slide snapped right off." I told him not to sweat it – I couldn't play the thing anyway.

But here's where it gets interesting. Months later, I see Donnie in concert. And there it is: my harmonica,  in a custom holster, like it was his most prized possession. I was a little ticked off, I'll admit. I tried to get backstage, but no luck. Over the years, I kept trying to catch their shows when they were in Florida, hoping to maybe reclaim my broken instrument, but never managed to connect. Honestly, though, I wasn't that mad. Donnie had played for me for free countless times.

Reconciliation (of Sorts) and a Lasting Impression

Years went by. Then, I ran into Donnie at a CD signing at Grossman's. On a whim, I jokingly told him he should give me a CD. He gives me this mock-grouchy look and says, "Why should I?" I shot back, "For the harmonica!" He actually laughed, shook my hand, and gave me a signed CD. Full circle, right?

More recently, after I shared this whole ridiculous story with Gary Kendall, I got the band's latest signed DVD and CD. It's pretty cool to see them win a Juno award. I've always admired Donnie's talent, his genuine commitment to the blues, and his sheer persistence through everything life has thrown at him. And, hey, maybe someday I'll hit him up for a few more CDs. You know, for the harmonica.