Art's slow poison
The Ubyssey / September 21, 1984 / by Chris Wong

The year is 1980, the place is a high school auditorium in filthy rich Kerrisdale, and the occasion is a noon-hour concert by the local punk band, the K-Tels.

Your faithful scribe is on his first assignment for the Magee Messenger, the school rag. As I enter the auditorium filled with miniature Nelson Skalbanias and their female counter-parts, my brow sweats at the thought of interviewing three punk rockers who named themselves after a company that sells both bad records and “truly amazing, one-of-a-kind” home appliances.

  The music starts, and as if on cue, the school principal motions to an indifferent roadie to turn the amps down. But his efforts prove fruitless as strains of “We’re going to fuckin’  Hawaii” caroom off the auditorium walls and into the ears of 150 pubescent kids, all of whom are ready to spend their allowances on skinny black pants, chains and leather after this rousing performance.

At the end of the gig, most of the trendy tots trot off to class, but a few die-hards remain, hoping to find a song list taped to the stage floor or some other prized souvenir. I quickly wade through the tangled cords and equipment. With courage built up, I walk up to the drummer with the shiny clean-shaven scalp. When asked how he classifies the group’s music, he promptly responds “disco.”

  The interview continues like this with the interviewee using a vocabulary limited to about 50 works, including yes, no, and ah ha. As he packs his gear, I spot the tall, unshaven guitarist in the corner.

  He flashes an ornery scowl when I stare like a groupie at his banged up guitar. Pangs of embarrassment show on my face. I rush out the door, having enough of music outside the CFUN playlist’s safe confines for now.

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  The year is 1984. The place, an East Vancouver house. The occasion, another encounter with that same tall, unshaven guitarist – Art Bergmann.

  In the name of journalism, my brave photog and I walk through the foreboding dwelling’s back, trying to avoid beer bottles and sleeping bodies.

  It is dark, dank, and downright disgusting inside this house, known as the Snake Pit. A pleasant looking fellow named Ted ambles from a room. He apologizes for the mess, explaining the country punk band Rank and File had their after-concert bash in the house the night before. This solves the mystery of the woman with spiky boots and a western hat lying on the living room couch.

  Bergmann himself eventually saunters down from upstairs, apparently having no recollection of the prearranged noon interview. He quickly orients himself and we head to a local diner for the interview.

  The time is about 12:30, and the place is weirder than either the Snake Pit or the high school auditorium. The patrons of this place, Dr. Munchies, congregate at small tables, chomping a bizarre mélange of gooey substances.

  Art, a woman friend, and Ted, who plays guitar in Art’s band, order a meal. I ask Bergmann about his new band.

  “How’s your demo tape doing, Art?”

  “I’ve been assured it’s going to number one next week at CITR. Did you pay them yet?” he asks Ted.

  Next question. “The Georgia Straight says you’re making your first real serious attempt at going somewhere with a band. How do you react tothat?”

  “I don’t know what that means. Do you know? I’ve always been deadly serious,” he says with a ghoulish grin.

  Silence pervades, except for the trio’s giggling and chomping noises.

  “How old are you?”

  “You have to guess.”

  I contemplate gagging myself with a fork, staring into their plates, heaping full of ham, eggs, and hash browns. The remaining conversation, most of which is unintelligible on tape, turns to another subject: the music of his new band, Poisoned. Yes, it’s true, Mr. Bergmann, the man with ruffled hair, egg yolk on his mouth and beer by his breakfast, is the centre of local media attention with Poisoned’s sudden burst into notoriety.

  All major Vancouver publications ran stories on this man. And all glowed about his talent. Add one more to the list.

  His music should be force fed to every UBC sociology student. Poisoned’s 10-song cassette release is a brilliant documentation of the pressures and emotions human beings face in an imperfect world. Bergmann’s tunes do not make for silky pop songs that sell records. The music is concerned with the ugly side of life: broken romances and sexual power plays, the bums on skid row, and the arrogance, jealousies and pretentions existing in society.

  “That’s what I like to write about, not happy things, not pretty things. Happiness isn’t the be all and end all of life. Human beings are really ugly sometimes,” he says.

  There’s no calculated formula or pre-determined method to his madness. His songwriting is simply of the honest, slap-in-the-face variety.

  And Bergmann is a guitarist with a talent so hot that it must have come from the devil. No player in town, and few outside, can match his proficiency on the six-stringed instrument. His playing matches the sheer guts of Neil Young and the bluesy moxie of a young Keith Richard.

  And this guy can sing too. On tunes like Emotion, Vultura Freeway, and It Won’t Last, Bergmann wails like a man possessed, one who lived in a snake pit.

  No doubt about it, Bergmann’s penned tunes are verging on genius, and his playing has progressed substantially since his days of three chord punk songs. Years of performing with bands like the Shmorgs, the K-Tels (later renamed the Young Canadians) and Los Popularos paid off.

  Those bands faded into oblivion. The current ensemble is tight and capable of generating excitment after a string of gigs around town. But will Bergmann go beyond the local scene’s confines with his talent and message? I, for one, am content with playing Poisoned’s cassette until the magnetic tape snaps and catching their live performances.

  Poisoned’s music, full of truth and emotion, comes from a feeling only Bergmann can describe. “It’s when you have a real rotten taste in your mouth, when you feel wretched, aargh, like life is fucking shit. When you’re poisoned by guild, fear, hate, love.”

  Poignancy like it’s never been expressed before.