I’m On the List

Text and image by © Robert Barry Francos

Did you hear about the poseur punk? He paid to get in.

That’s an old joke from the ‘70s. While I’ve paid for more shows over the years than have been on the guest list, I have also had the honor of having my name at the door quite a few times.

I don’t really remember the first time I made the list for my work on my fanzine (1977-88), but most likely it was either at CBGB (RIP) or Max’s Kansas City (RIP). However, making the list itself could have come earlier, in 1976, while I was Arts Editor of my college paper and had the opportunity to see a number of shows for free, such as Sparks and Mott at Avery Fischer Hall, or Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers at both CBGB and the Bottom Line (RIP).

Actually, there are different levels to the list. The primo is considered the backstage pass at a bigger show, which usually results in a laminated card that is either hung around the neck or clipped to your clothes. As I mostly review independent artists (I’m still proud to say I turned down a chance to interview Duran Duran during their heyday because, well, who cares), the odds of the pass being that sophisticated is unlikely. In fact, the only laminated pass I have ever received, as far as I can remember, was to see the revived New York Dolls play a private concert at the now defunct Tower Records on lower Broadway, in 2006. Admittedly, I had nothing to do with it really: my pal’s son, Ben Kugel, used his influence to wrangle a pass for himself plus one, which ended up being a very fortunate “Uncle Robert.” We even got to hang out a bit with the band after the show.

When going for a guest list at the level to which I am used to, there is no fancy memento, even for some of the relatively bigger names. The end result is usually my name handwritten on a sheet of paper at the front door, hopefully with a “+1” following it. Now, it is always a gamble that you’ll get down there, and either you were forgotten, the band isn’t there yet with the list, the management suppresses the list because it’s that much less money for them if you get in free, or you were lied to because it’s easier to say yes and then ignore it after than confront a requester. If this occurs (and it has happened to me a number of times) you’re standing there saying “I’m on [band name]’s list,” only to find them responding, “No, nothing here.” In fact, this is so common that when I went to see D.O.A. at Amigos in Saskatoon, I brought along a printout of the email from the record company, Sudden Death, saying that if there was any problems at the door, to have them “find Joey” [Keithley], the band’s frontman. Occasionally, the door person will believe you anyway and let you in, but that is exceptionally rare, even for the smaller venues.

And just what does one do in that situation? Do you say screw it and pay anyway, or do you say screw it and walk away? Well, for me, it depends on a formula based on the factors of who is playing, how much is the cover charge, and how much cash do I have in my pocket. Since I’ve been to Saskatoon, I’ve been pretty lucky, and every time I’ve been on the list, my name was there. But more on that in a sec.

Back in Brooklyn, when I learned about a club called the Punk Temple (RIP) in my own Bensonhurst neighborhood (held in a Synagogue basement) in 2002, I contacted the guys who ran the place via email and asked them to put me on the list in exchange for photos that I would give to them and the bands. The answer was solidly no, because there were people already taking pictures. Yeah, I thought, teenagers with little to no experience on cheap digi cameras (I still used film then). So, I went anyway, gave my $8, and handed in the pix in anyway. That was the last time I paid at the Temple.

I got there early for the Temple shows (something I still like to do) and started hanging out with the guys who ran the place, making myself known to them and the bands, many of whom invited me to other gigs elsewhere. And when the fans formed bands, they in turn asked me to come. Honestly, I don’t think I paid for a single show from 2002 until 2009. Somewhere towards the end of the Punk Temple heyday, around 2004, I was in the space waiting for the show to start. While the mean age was probably 19-20, I was in my mid-40s. Some pimple-faced smartass approached me and asked, “What are you doing here, you fuckin’ old man?” Unperturbed, I responded by asking to see his wrist. After some “Wha?” from him, he showed me his stamp. “See that stamp?” He affirmed in a “What about it?” I continued, “See the stamp on the hands of everyone here? See the stamps on the band setting up?” He was getting angry(ier) and wanted to know my point (though he stated it in different words). I held up my clean hand: “Do you see any stamp on mine? No? That’s because I can walk in and out of this place any time I want. Can you?” At that moment, members of two different bands came over to me. “Robert! So glad you could make it,” giving me that man hug/back pat. I looked over at the kid, and he could only shrug his shoulders and walk away.

Yes, I like being on the list. The show could be for $50 or 50¢, it doesn’t matter. It’s sort of like the old First Nations’ “coup” (a bloodless game of war where you won by touching the opponent). But for me, no matter how I joke about this, it’s not something to be taken lightly, ever. When I’m on the list, for whatever the price of the ticket, for me it’s a contract that I intend to honor. I have never thought, “I’m not in the mood for the show; I’ll just blow it off because I didn’t pay for the ticket.” No, it’s a sacred bond; a promise on my part.

I’m not a musician, though I’ve tried both the guitar and bass. I’m untalented musically since I cannot remember chord streams and I have absolutely no sense of rhythm when it comes to actually playing. However, I still want to give to the scene, so what I do is a write and I photograph, making the photos accessible to the bands. This is how I contribute. Whenever I have been put on a list, I have reciprocated through documenting the show through reviews and/or photographs (lately, mostly on this blog). The bands can then use my thoughts and images for their own publicity. See, when I don’t pay cash to see a show, I still give my time, my mind, and my art in exchange, so it remains two-sided.

Since being in Saskatoon, I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Johnny Winter, D.O.A., the Saskatoon Reggae and World Music Festival (including Jah Cutta), the Oral Fuentes Band, and Absofunkenlutely [AFL], while being on the entrance list. For the last three, it was pretty easy because I’m friendly with Oral, who is my neighbor, and through him met Randy Woods, leader of AFL; Oral also runs the Reggae Fest. Even with the personal connection, I have contributed solidly through photo and review.

With Winter and D.O.A., well, I asked their management or record company through emails. I had reviewed a bunch of Winter’s material previously, such as one DVD collection of his performances from the 1980s, and another of his shows in Germany from 1979. The management was uncertain about letting me in, I could tell, but after I published the review, they were quite happy and informed me they would let me know when any of their other artists hit town. For D.O.A., well, I’m sure Joey knows about my fanzine from the ‘70s-‘80s, which may have given me some extra credibility, and I’m hoping they liked the review and photos that are two blogs back from this one (see the list on the right).

Most of the time when I ask, especially with larger touring acts such Simon & Garfunkel or Roger Daltry who were to play in town (both cancelled), odds are I won’t hear anything back but the tumbleweeds, but it never hurts to ask. As S&G may have said, this is my blog for the asking, if you will.

That being said, do I consider myself a freebie whore? No, because part of the deal on my part is that I will be honest. If there is some act I see and don’t like, I was say so. I don’t whitewash just for a name at the door. When I agree to see a show, my end of the bargain includes my true opinion. I have had bands mad at me for saying they sounded out of tune, or were boring. Without honesty, there is no credibility. I am not merely a human press release, so it is a gamble for the band because of my sense to truthfulness, but it’s also one for me because the show may be, well, crap. Fortunately, most of the time, I have not been disappointed, and have had a blast.

So, you acts out there who are either in town or on tour coming this way, let me know, and if I say yes, I will be there, with camera and notepad in hand. But please, don’t forget to put me on the list (plus one).

My Life with the Police, the Feds, and Jail

Text (c) Robert Barry Francos, 2011
Images from the Internet



Since moving to Saskatoon in 2009, I have been asked for security checks in order to live and work here. So briefly, here are my experiences with the law through my life.

When I was in grade school, I used to love going on field trips, not only to get out of class, but to explore the world. Even then I was curious. Some of the memorable ones include a 6th grade trip to the then-relatively-new Lincoln Center. My teacher, Mrs. Lowenberger, was an major opera fan and supporter and knew the community at large in that field. She managed a backstage tour of the opera house. In an earlier grade, we went to the Pepsi Bottling Plant (20th Street, Brooklyn; right off the East River) to see how the soda is made (in today’s fit-conscious society, I wonder if that would happen now, and I’m not sure if that is good or bad). We were given 7 oz bottles right off the machine that fills them, and we scarfed them down. They were very warm, and mine came right up again.

Even before then, the class was taken to Bauer’s Bakery (RIP), on 18th Avenue and 82 Street, in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, which made rolls, bagels and bialys for the local grocery stores (including my local one, then run by Holocaust survivors; it was the first time I saw the number tattoos). We were given fresh rolls literally right out of the oven. Tasty, but we all burned our little fingers. The bakers thought this was very funny, and apparently this was a common practice for them on class visitations. In retrospect, this is not surprising as my scout master, a major bully and sadist, was a bagel baker.

However, one of my most memorable trips was to the 62 Precinct House (Bath Avenue, a block off 19 Avenue), our local cop shop. This was exciting, getting to see a real police station. One of the things we learned right off was that it was not called the “sixty-second,” it was the “six-two.” We met the desk sergeant, the station chief, and then they took us up to see the holding cells (what we kids really were hoping for) which were empty at that time, and often were in the early ‘60s. Back then, it was a mostly Jewish-Italian working class neighborhood, where everyone watched out for each other, and the local mafia kept things running smoothly (this is not an endorsement, just the truth) and pretty much crime-free (other than the occasional body in a truck kind of thing).

We were invited to look at the stark cells, which I was the first to do, being the shortest boy, and then one of the kids in the class slammed the heavy metal barred door behind me. It locked immediately on its own, and I was trapped in the cell. The officers who were showing us around thought this situation tremendously amusing, and were feigning that they could not find the keys. Needless to say, I stated bawling. No, I didn’t think I had done anything wrong or would be stuck forever, but I was thinking in my 7 year old brain that if my parents had to come to pick me up in jail, they would think I had done something terrible. After what felt like a very long time, though it was probably no more than 10 minutes, they let me out. I don’t remember much else of the visit. So if people ask me if I was ever locked in jail, I can honestly say the affirmative. A pure example of something being “true but not accurate.” It made me skeptical, even to today, of news reports that claim they are “objective” (I’m talking especially to you, Fox News and Sun News).

After graduating from high school, I worked for eight months at a major corporation at 99 Church Street (a couple of blocks north from the WTC). It was my first real job, in their mailroom. I knew it was just for a few months, until I started college, but gave it the detail it deserved (as I always do in a job). The last month I was there (before they knew it was), the management gave me another duty: I was to carry funds from the company to the corporate bank, about a half mile away in the Wall Street district. Taking a lie detector test and signing some papers, I was officially bonded to do so. The first day out, while I was waiting for the okay, I counted what I was about to carry. In cash and cashable bonds, it was $1.3 million. That is not a misprint, and that’s in early 1970s dollars, remember. So, there I was, all 110 lbs of me, carrying just about that much cash (give or take a few hundred thou) every day, rain or shine, to the bank just before 3 PM. Did I think about taking it and running? Yeah, but not realistically. It was totally “If I had this, I would buy…” kind of fantasy, but the thought of actually doing it? No, not at all. However, what concerned me the most was that I would get robbed, and then the company would think that I was in on it. I was terrified each one of those walks, and for $90 a week gross (a good pay then for my level), the anxiety was not worth it. Luckily it was soon September, and I resigned to go back to school. However, I was happy to have been bonded.

Much later, a few years after Y2K, I started working for a media promotion and production company. A newbie on the job, I was still in the process of getting up to speed, when I heard a quandary that was going through the office. Apparently, they were going to promote the yet-unreleased new $10 bill, and had to find a way to get the image to their office in Washington, DC. It was way too sensitive to trust to either the express mail service (not always reliable) or messenger (strangers). Without a second thought, I proposed, “Well, I have a car; why don’t I just drive it there?” This impressed my supervisors (though it didn’t really seem that big a deal to me, just the right thing to do). For the next week or so, I had to fill out forms and get an identity check with the FBI to be cleared to make the trip. Of course, I passed. Really, I did not think my being locked in a jail cell for 10 minutes at 8 years old would come to much with the FBI. Hell, I didn’t even bring it up.

I drove my car into work that day in midtown, and parked it in a pay garage. Around noon, I was given a company cell phone and the package, and set out on my way. If I remember correctly, someone from the office came with me to pick up the car, just in case. And I was off, with my Google Maps printout and a full tank of gas to make the 5 hour or so trip to DC. The only time I stopped along the way was to answer the cell (luckily, it rang just as I was about to pass a rest stop along the NJ Turnpike so I could pull in), to answer the question “Where are you now?”

Rush hour traffic in DC was horrendous, and I had a 5:30 deadline to get to Avenue K. The directions on the printout were pretty vague and worthless because it didn’t take into account all the construction, so I got lost pretty fast. I managed to arrive at where I was supposed to be at 5:45. Parking illegally outside the building, I phone up to the office and told my contact I was downstairs. He came down 10 minutes later (so much for the deadline), and happily took the package (I asked to see some ID first, even though he knew my name, which he found amusing; last thing I needed was heat from the federal level of enforcement). Then I headed north (no, I did not stop at the 9:30 Club, though I was tempted), arriving home at 11 PM.

For my service, along with getting some nice intra-company cred, was money per mile (in both directions), overtime until I arrived home, and reimbursement for both gas and parking. And I got to listen to my tunes all the way. It was a nice way to spend a day at work.

When I moved to Canada in 2009, I had to go through a fingerprint search. Paying a fee, the Saskatoon police inked my fingers onto a form, signed it, and I sent it off to Virginia to the FBI. I wasn’t worry about it. I’d been bonded twice, once by the FBI, and had never been arrested. A few months (!?!) later, I get a letter from the FBI stating that my prints were unreadable (apparently, the older you get, the more your prints fade), and had to be redone. They suggested I put Vaseline on my fingers the night before, and wear gloves to bed, to plump them up, and have them redone; all payment for reprints was on me. Thanks…

I showed up at the police station again, and showed them the letter. They were both amused and annoyed at it, but they took them again (after I removed the gloves, of course) and they didn’t charge me for the second time (thank you!). Again, a few months later, I received the official notice that I was free and clear. I sent the info into Canadian Customs and Immigration, and now I’m waiting to hear back from them.

I did get my permission to work, though (a work permit), and have been looking for a job. A job had been offered conditionally, and all I would need was a police check (for which they would pay). Hey, no problem, I had been cleared by the FBI just a few months earlier!

My local police search came out clear, and then I was told by the police that I needed to have my fingerprints taken, even though I had done it for the FBI recently. Apparently, this time the prints were clear and defined. Great! “We’ll have the results back from Ottawa in 2 to 6 months,” they informed me. Whaaaaaaat?

I went back to the office and told them what they said about how long the prints would take to process, and they rescinded the job offer because they could not wait that long to fill the position. I’ve keep my record clean and still I’m waiting. To be honest, I don’t blame the company because I’m an unknown who has lived here for merely two years. As for the prints, as someone said to me, “Doesn’t the government have digital? They should have the results within the week.”

Who knows? Perhaps I should have had the police check done earlier on my own, but I didn’t even think of it after the FBI clearance. But once I finally get it, I won’t have to worry about it again. And I’ll keep searching for work.

Am I sorry for keeping my nose (and record) clean, considering this problem was no fault of my own? No, keeping on the good side of the law was the right thing to do, and I would do it again. Just wish I had that job, as it was something I really wanted.

But, as I tell a loved one often, “Life goes on…”

PRIDE Saskatoon 2011: Part I - Parade, June 11, 2011

Text and photos (c) Robert Barry Francos
Photos can be enlarged by clicking on them

I arrived at the parade late, with it already in progress. Dropped off a block away, I ran and ran (and ran) to get to the front of the procession, which went on for many block. It was much larger than last year's, I'm pleased to say.

Saskatoon has a large and vocal gay population, and that number was more than equalled by friends, families, and supporters, who lined the route, marched alongside, or rode on the floats. Car horns honking and people applauding were met by cheers from the participants and onlookers alike.

Here are some of the images I captured along the parade route, with some varied comments in between.

Diva's, arguably the top spot in town to see drag shows, was a sponsor of the parade and fest that followed. Their float had it's own DJ at the turntables, playing beats and lively sounds.





I love the image of the tattoo'd mom on skates next to the flag-carrying stormtrooper. No one was excluded.



Drag kings and queens abounded.

As with last year, Saskatoon's roller derby league was present and in force.


Religious groups also made their presence felt, one even offering to marry anyone, an obvious open letter if you will to those government clerks who recently refused to do so for "religious" reasons; they were told they must do so anyway by the courts.



The Punisher!
Note the two-fronted car, both of which have steering wheels. Rainbow Cinemas are the second run, cheaper theaters that we all love.
The only two "leather boys" I saw that day. The "Bear Flag" symbolizes men who like other hairy men (www.crwflags.com/fotw/flags/qq-ibbf.html).


While politicians were in attendance, it was interesting to note that the largest group making an appearance were NDP (liberal), with a couple of Liberals (moderate conservatives), and no Conservative or Saskatchewan Party (both strongly conservative with "religious" bent) represented.
NDP candidate, coordinator of AIDS Saskatoon, and our friend, Nicole White, on the right.

The next blog will be about the festival that followed the parade.