"Talking History" is a new biweekly series made possible through a special funding grant from the Department of Canadian Heritage. The series focuses on a wide range of topics in Canadian history, exploring the notion of history as a compelling form of storytelling of interest to large audiences. These articles by Canada's foremost historians and history experts use the power of narrative to bring the past to life, drawing connections between then and now to show how these stories are not just relevant, but essential to our understanding of Canada and the world today.

This week, we're presenting Geoff Pevere, who has been writing, teaching, and broadcasting about movies, media, and pop culture for more than 30 years. Currently a columnist with The Globe and Mail and author of the recent Gods of the Hammer: The Teenage Head Story, Pevere was a movie and book critic with the Toronto Star for ten years. He is the former host of CBC Radio's Prime Time, TVOntario's Film International and Rogers Television's Reel to Real, and a former movie critic for CTV's Canada AM. He is the co-author of the national bestseller Mondo Canuck: A Canadian Pop Culture Odyssey, and the original programme coordinator of the Toronto International Film Festival's Perspective Canada.

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From the very start, the members of the band Sloan appeared to be in it for the long haul. Look, on YouTube, at the four young Haligonians—Chris Murphy, Jay Ferguson, Andrew Scott, and Patrick Pentland—being interviewed between 1992 and '94, in the wake of their head-turning first-LP signing by Geffen Records, a development that instantly brought international attention to the band, if not of the consistently insightful variety. Yet again, this is one of things that raises one's suspicions that Sloan is no ordinary fly-by-night, sign-it-and-see-if-it-sticks sensation. We're in deepest post-grunge fallout here, and among the other ritual dumb-ass TV rock journalist questions the band must endure—like “Is this grunge music?” and “Why do you stay in Halifax?”—is the inevitable N-bomb. As in “Are you guys the next Nirvana?” Or, worse, “Are you going to be as big as Nirvana?”

They're not (in either case) and they know it. But what they do know, what emerges between the dryly witty quips, smirking sidelong glances at each other, and rather alarming degree of composure in the teeth of all the attention, is that Sloan is going to have to ignore all this if they're going to do what, more than 20 years, 12 albums and 200 or so recorded songs later, they have done: stay together on their own terms and continue to make the music they want to make. 

Sloan's most recent album is Commonwealth, the title of which is a typically coded reminder of the band's unimpeachably democratic creative practise—everybody writes their own songs, everybody else plays on them and on Commonwealth they each have a side of their own—and sturdy imperviousness to precisely the kind of industry expectations, temptations, distractions and general bullshit that has flattened more carcasses of promising young bands than there is roadkill on an Ontario highway in summer. 

The closest Sloan ever got to grunge was unsurprisingly Smeared, the first of two Geffen releases which was diddled with to conform to the N-word expectations, but which nevertheless yielded the stealth declaration-of-independence single, “Underwhelmed,” with its anti-anthemic, slacker singalong refrain “I miss the point/I miss the point", which retrospectively may sound rather exceptional given the band's subsequently steady steam up the deep but narrow stream of what has come to be called power pop, but which also told those who cared to listen carefully enough that these guys don't really care about anything but making music. Their music. Like it or leave. 

Commonwealth, Sloan's 11th studio album, was released a few months after my book about another admirably independent, imperviously stalwart and expectation-thwarting Canadian band (Gods of the Hammer: The Teenage Head Story) had come out. So I couldn't help but have Teenage Head on the brain as Commonwealth flooded my ears. 

The comparison is fascinating: between Halifax and Hamilton (Teenage Head's geographical and spiritual home), punk and grunge, rock and roll and power pop, the '70s and the '90s, sheer stubbornness and smart strategy, was a story of Canadian independent music in a pivotal phase of its maturation. The fact was, Teenage Head, formed in Hamilton, Ontario circa 1974, was amazing because somehow it had survived—barely, at times, it must be said—more bruising at the mercy of an industry that had no idea what to do with it (nor the band with the business) than just about any other gifted talented musical entity I could think of. And Sloan was remarkable because they'd had the supremely savvy wherewithal to know that in order to survive musically—to last as artists rather than twinkle as stars—they had to fortify themselves from the outset. Could it be the bullets taken by the Head were lessons to the like of Sloan?

Sloan comes to our attention in the full flush of the early '90s grunge moment, an ostensible resurgence of punk noise and spirit which is met from the outset by raised eyebrows and wary distrust. A reasonable response, considering that, the undeniable gravitas of Nirvana notwithstanding, the movement feels like marketing bullshit, an attempt to do this time for punk what had eluded it back in the original day: packaging, promoting, and making a killing from it. Even Sloan, so clearly not punk in anything but a certain D.I.Y. attitude and spurts of live chaos, gets tarred with the p-word in certain of these early rock news reports, which insist that the spectacle of slam-dancing at Sloan shows in Halifax is something like the Sex Pistols redux in the Maritimes. 

Nevertheless, if grunge provided the leg up Sloan needed to ultimately secure their independence—following the second Geffen release, the fine but troubled Twice Removed, Sloan retreated to their own label (Murderecords) and own counsel and have never looked back—punk had a similar springboard effect on Teenage Head some 15 years earlier.

Although not punk by virtually any purist definition (save again maybe attitude and performance intensity), Teenage Head was swept up in the first wave of punk sensation in the late '70s. But it was ultimately a Trojan Horse: the band had formed as an Iggy/Dolls/Alice, etc., glamrock band, a sonic legacy that dovetailed very nicely with the emerging new, stripped-down, aggressive, back-to-basics rock that was proving for such sensational international copy. So ultimately it didn't matter: if punk was the ticket to the spotlight, Teenage Head were suddenly a punk band.

But it was their generational legacy to surrender the reins of career destiny to forces outside of themselves, and when the wolves gathered with promises of record contracts, radio play, a steady salary and glory beyond national borders, they surrendered. And the result was, for its time, entirely to be expected: Teenage Head suffered from bad management, inconsistent recording circumstances, profit embezzlement, and regular batterings by disappointment and empty promises.

Fifteen or so years on, Sloan had already read the script, and they came to the spotlight prepared for the glare to swing elsewhere at any time. Meanwhile, they had learned the importance of generating their own light: maybe not so bright, but with power to burn as long as they needed.

Further Reading: 

Have Not Been the Same: The Canrock Renaissance 1985-1995, by Michael Barclay, Ian A.D. Jack and Jason Schneider

About the book: Capturing the spirit of Canadian rock from the late 20th century, this history tells the stories of the musicians and bands that made an indelible mark on Canadian culture and the global stage. Regarded by critics and musicians as the definitive history of the era, this massive tome has been updated to include brand-new interviews and up-to-the-present histories of the bands from Canada’s homegrown music industry, including Blue Rodeo, the Tragically Hip, Sarah McLachlan, Sloan, Barenaked Ladies, Daniel Lanois, and many others. Rich, extensive first-person interviews pair with a treasure trove of rare photos in this one-of-a-kind masterpiece, making it one of the seminal works in the field of Canadian music writing and a must-read for any Canadian music fan.

Gods of the Hammer: The Teenage Head Story, by Geoff Pevere

About the book: In the late 1970s and early 1980s, no Canadian band rocked harder, louder or to more hardcore fans than Hamilton, Ontario's own Teenage Head. Although usually lumped in the dubiously inevitable "punk rock" category of the day, this high-energy quartet consisting of four guys who'd known each other since high school were really only punk by association. In essence they were a full-on, balls-to-the-wall, three-chord, kick-out-the-jams band that obliterated categories and labels with the sheer force of their sonic assault, and everywhere they played they converted the merely curious to the insanely devoted.

And they almost became world famous. Almost. This is their story, told in full and for the first time, and by those who lived to tell the tale.

Perfect Youth: The Birth of Canadian Punk, by Sam Sutherland

About the book: While many volumes devoted to the punk and hardcore scenes in America grace bookstore shelves, Canada's contributions to the genre remain largely unacknowledged. For the first time, the birth of Canadian punk's transformative cultural force that spread across the country at the end of the 1970s is captured between the pages of this important resource. Delving deeper than standard band biographies, this book articulates how the advent of punk reshaped the culture of cities across Canada, speeding along the creation of alternative means of cultural production, consumption, and distribution. Describing the origins of bands such as D.O.A., the Subhumans, the Viletones, and Teenage Head alongside lesser-known regional acts from all over Canada, it is the first published account of the first wave of punk in places like Regina, Ottawa, Halifax, and Victoria. Proudly staking Canada's claim as the starting point for many internationally famous bands, this book unearths a forgotten musical and cultural history of drunks and miscreants, future country stars, and political strategists.

Treat Me Like Dirt: An Oral History of Punk in Toronto and Beyond, by Liz Worth

About the book: This gritty chronicle illustrates the emergence of punk rock in Toronto for the first time. The visionary bands that brought the original scene to life—and who still maintain loyal fans across North America—are documented in detail, from the Diodes, Viletones, and Teenage Head to the B-Girls, Forgotten Rebels, Johnny & the G-Rays, and more. Full of chaos, betrayal, failure, success, and pure rock 'n' roll energy, this layered history is assembled from interviews with those now recognized as innovators, pioneers, and outright legends in their genre. Their accounts go beyond run-of-the-mill anecdotes, venturing into the uncharted territory of sex, drugs, murder, conspiracy, violence, criminals, and biker gangs. Bold and brazen, this compilation also includes a wealth of previously unpublished photographs as well as one of the last interviews with the late Frankie Venom, lead singer of Teenage Head.