Sick Young Fucks

Had Murray followed his intuition and avoided Jim Steveneau, he might never have been sent to St. Michael’s University School, the private boys’ school where he met Jesus Bonehead aka Brian Whitehead. Because Murray purposely ignored his “inner voice,” he set into motion a chain of events that led to the formation of the DayGlo Abortions. By moving towards the chaos, Murray had, in effect, chosen his own destiny.

“St. Michael’s was all about being bad,” remembers the DayGlos frontman. As a consequence of that poor behaviour, Murray claims to have done eight hours of hard labour every Saturday and Sunday the entire time he attended the school. “They were into full-on corporal punishment,” he says, with the weary resignation of someone who has accepted the folly of his ways. From digging holes and filling them back in again, to sweeping the parking lot with a tiny broom, no task was too onerous or difficult for our boy. The deputy headmaster apparently saw something in Murray and wanted to “cure” him of his rebellious ways. Good not only at academics but at sports as well, the boy could have been a top student. Sadly, for the deputy headmaster, that was not to be. Murray and a cohort named David Waddington became a target for the misguided educator, who did everything he could to break the recalcitrant students. “David was the worst kid in the school, even worse than me,” Acton remembers. “He was bad to the bone.”

Drugs were not yet a priority, but LSD was cheap and readily available. Powerful white blotter and good microdots were everywhere. Unlike today’s mild “acid,” this stuff produced vivid hallucinations and twelve-hour trips. “One of the things kids today are missing are good hallucinogenic drugs. A good LSD trip is something that every kid should experience at least once. It breaks down boundaries and makes magic possible,” insists Acton. Timothy Leary would have agreed wholeheartedly.

In Grade Seven, the juvenile who would later be known as Jesus Bonehead transferred to St. Michael’s School from Vernon, BC. Murray noticed Brian Whitehead immediately because students from Vernon wore slightly different uniforms, making them easy for the local boys to identify. “None of the Vernon Prep guys fit in that well. They were a bit rougher around the edges,” remembers Acton. Below average height and slight of stature, Brian seemed even more uncomfortable than his fellow transferees, and perhaps Murray subconsciously gravitated towards the outsider. “I remember Brian looking around the classroom,” Murray says, recalling the student’s unease.

Brian Whitehead was born in Winnipeg on December 22nd, 1959, and his father was stationed at the same air force base as Murray’s father was. The men knew each other but they did not eventually become friends the way Brian and Murray did. Although it wasn’t until the next year in Grade Eight that the two began to spend much time together, the unholy allegiance had begun.

St. Michael’s School boasted high academic standards, but it also housed students that didn’t fit the public school system. Brian Whitehead’s father, though he had left his wife years earlier, was good enough to set up a trust fund for the boy. Brian grew up believing his father had died in a fiery plane crash, but through a friend of Murray’s father who was in the same squadron as Mr. Whitehead, the boy eventually learned that his dad had simply bailed. Brian’s mother had substance abuse problems, so his father’s decision to leave the family is sad but unsurprising. Murray’s parents stayed together but paid three to five thousand dollars a year for their son’s tuition, which was a lot of money, especially back then. “They weren’t happy about it, but they always worried that I would grow up to be what I am, so they paid the money,” says Acton. Though he never did finish high school, the guitarist went on to earn a diploma in electronics. What self-respecting musician needed an education? All Murray needed was his guitar.

The singer claims that he was served his first beer at age thirteen in “an old wino bar” called The Station Hotel where Market Square in Victoria is now located. Apparently the server wasn’t put off by the fact that the students were still wearing their school uniforms. Since this was three or four days before Christmas, Acton invited several local barflies home for the festive meal. Murray’s mother, a fine Christian, did everything she could to make the guests comfortable, and was pleased at her son’s gesture of generosity. Her son, however, was not overflowing with the milk of human kindness and just wanted to ruin Christmas dinner. A cousin of Murray’s was a nurse, and one of the slightly inebriated ruffians asked her what she would do if he overdosed at the table and started to turn blue. When the nurse told him that she would administer Narcan, the old pirate rasped, “No, no! What you do is shoot a big syringe full of ice water right into the neck! That works every time!” At this point, Murray could barely restrain himself and was practically rolling on the floor. The Actons still talk about that meal.

Murray and Brian advanced to the senior school in Grade Eight. The youths ended up in the same homeroom, where they bonded after school with grass and music. There was no such thing as punk rock in 1975, so Brian’s social worker took the youths to a Grateful Dead concert. “Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen supported the Dead, and they were actually pretty rockin’,” the guitarist recalls, adding that he doesn’t want anyone to think that he ever liked the Grateful Dead. “I hope I never hear ‘Truckin” again,” he cracks.

Around this time, Murray and Brian met Spud aka Trevor Hagen near the bus depot in downtown Victoria. Bus depots everywhere commonly attract a lower element, and Victoria is no exception. Trevor, who was slightly older and a bit of a juvenile delinquent, immediately hit it off with Murray and Brian. Disco was at its glittery height, and there were several clubs in the area that the teenagers frequented when they could afford to do so. Evidently, bartenders were not as diligent in asking for ID as they are nowadays. The boys already had a taste for the nightlife, even if it involved disco music.

Trevor Hagen was born in Creston, British Columbia on September 2nd 1958, and moved to Victoria with his mother, four sisters, and three brothers when he was six. Ad, Trevor’s father, had passed away from Lou Gehrig’s Disease when the boy was four, leaving his wife Miros to the raise the kids alone. A woman of lesser fortitude might have put some of the children into foster care, but Miros could not bring herself to break up the family. As a result, the cupboards were not bursting with food, and luxuries were almost non-existent. Still, the rambunctious brood was relatively happy and well-adjusted, especially given the tight financial situation. Miros worked several jobs to keep a roof over their heads, which left Trevor almost completely unsupervised and free to do as he pleased. The boy was a DayGlo Abortion in training.

When Trevor was twelve, his mother, with assistance from her employers the federal government, scraped together enough money to buy a house on Gorge View Drive in Victoria. The migration was finally over. Despite the shortage of money in the Hagen household, Trevor got along well with his siblings for the most part, and feels that the family pulled closer together with the passing of Mr. Hagen. “The older kids looked out for the younger ones, so I had a lot of people taking care of me,” Trevor remembers. He was especially close to Lorne, the second youngest child. Tragically, Lorne (aka Gator) died in a 2007 motorcycle accident. For Trevor the loss is still very painful, and only time will ease the suffering.

It was at his mother’s house on Gorge View Drive that a neighbour gave Trevor his first guitar. The twelve-year old boy was delighted to receive the instrument, and was equally thankful for the chord chart that came with it. “A boarder painted the guitar all psychedelic for me,” recalls Trevor. This was the 70s after all, and a colourful instrument was mandatory. He plunked away at the bright acoustic guitar, determined to make it reproduce the sounds in his head. Although he soon learned the basics, the youth realized that it would be some time before he could play with the dexterity he desired. This was not the end, just the beginning.

When Trevor was fourteen, he decided to go into the world to seek his fame and fortune. He also wanted to get away from his oldest brother, who was a bit of a bully. The two clashed regularly, and Trevor was at a disadvantage. “My mom was great, but…” says Trevor, leaving the obvious unspoken. Packing a bag, the boy took the ferry to Vancouver and looked around for somewhere to live. It hadn’t occurred to him that accommodations might be hard to find, and though Spud stayed in charity hostels at first, he eventually found himself sleeping under the Georgia Street Viaduct with the junkies and winos. “Welfare gave us vouchers for $3.50 every day, and there was a store on Hastings that would sell us tobacco products, even though they weren’t supposed to,” recalls the bassist. He also remembers the large heating ducts under the viaduct that provided warmth in the winter. Nowadays, of course, those pipes are fenced off in a heartless bid to deprive homeless people of...