Luc Normand: Bio
To make a long story short...
Born in Nova Scotia, raised in Northern Ontario, and settled down to raise a family in the Nations' capital. I am a Canadian Indie Musician who, in spite of my French name, writes primarily in English.
I have written over 550 songs in mostly a folk/rock rooted style including ballads, blues, rock, country, humorous and, recently (thanks to my young family) children's music as well.
If you're a glutton for punishment, you will read from my ridiculously long, yet still unfinished bio (below) that I started out as a drummer in the early '80s and since have played bass, rhythm, lead, lead vocals, etc... On all except two songs on my latest release, I play all the instruments you hear on my recordings (since I do not have the equipment required to record myself playing the drums, for now I create custom arrangements on an electronic drum machine). I also sing all of the lead and backing vocals in all my songs.
A short story longer...
The ridiculously long but surprisingly unfinished bio...
1979...
She was a quiet unassuming beauty. I was an abnormally shy teen. After months of pining for her, I finally built up enough courage to ask her out... over the phone... "I would... if I wasn't going out with someone..." is all she said (or all I heard). I can't explain how I became so enslaved. And I can't recall if I planned on writing a poem to slip in her locker or if it just struck me to write a song out of the blue. Doesn't matter what the motive was I guess. I wound up writing "Check-Mate" and, in that moment, yet another young lady became the turning point in an otherwise dull and unproductive teen aged boy's life.
1982...
When a few co-workers were talking music, I opened my big mouth and told them I knew how to play the drums. Most of the time, a little white lie goes unnoticed. But this one would change my life forever. Little did I know these guys were musicians that just happened to be in the market for a drummer. So one thing led to another and before long I found myself in a music store putting a deposit down on a cheap drum set.
Johnny & the Deltas
Drums in tow, we drove to the old shack the band called home, unloaded the car and proceeded inside. All guitarists have to do is plug in their amps... meanwhile, there I was, for the first time, staring at my drums scattered all over the floor... and no instruction manual in sight.
Snare, concert tom, bass, accessories, stand, cymbal... and everyone in the room with their eyes on me. (What have I done?)... Snare... (Am I nuts?)... stand... (that was easy)... concert tom... (they're gonna know!)... onto the bass... (they don't seem worried)... pedal... (they're holding it back)... cymbal... (Oh God I'm an idiot)... stand... (this looks pretty good!)... (uh-oh!)... (this is it!)... (...) ...drumsticks!
Strangely enough, I felt a sense of security as I sat down behind that tiny drum set. The old shack had been silent now for what seemed an eternity. I eyed up the drums, positioned myself. All I had to do was apply what I had done to that imaginary drum set all those years. The right hand rides on the cymbal, the right foot accentuates every second beat alternating with the snare.
(Thump! Crash! Thump, thump! Bang!) It sounded crude, but everyone knew it was a cheap drum set. The beat was there. In one fell swoop, on February 17, 1982 I became a musician and the band "Johnny and the Deltas" was formed. Though the band would never go anyplace... for me, there would be no looking back.
"Here... Pluck it out on one string..."
After a month or so of semi-successful practises, I decided it was time to introduce one of my songs. By now, I had written over 30. Since Check-Mate was the first song I wrote, I decided to bring it to the band first. Of course, there was no music to the song, but all the members of the band and our growing "fan club" liked it.
Only one problem... none of the guys composed music. The next practise, John brought a rickety old pint-sized acoustic guitar, tossed it at me and said "Here... pluck it out on one string..."
"Pluck what out?" I asked. "The tune... for your song. Pluck it out and we'll figure out the chords from there." ...So, a month into learning the drums I was now learning the guitar.
Over the next few months, as I played the drums, I'd watch their fingers, memorize the positions and later on when I got home, I'd try to reproduce the sounds.
It took a while, but I eventually got the major chords down. My song writing took on a new dimension.
"Dear John..."
We never did put music to Check-Mate. We never rehearsed any of my originals for that matter. This was a "jamming" band satisfied with playing covers to the handful of listeners we could cram into the shack.
Even as the band "practices" became more and more infrequent, there was a certain plateau I had reached that gave me the confidence to move on. There was no big break-up, no "Dear John" letter, we just simply drifted our own way. As far as I know, none of the guys went beyond music as anything more than a hobby.
Of course, a hobby wasn't enough for me. The more I wrote, the more I was consumed by my own ambition. I can't remember exactly how it happened, if it was a mutual friend or just an ad in the paper that I answered, but my next venture was certainly a "nightmare"...
Sweet Dreams
Maybe someday someone from my past will come across this website and fill in the details... but as best I can remember, I answered an ad in the newspaper for a 5 girl vocal troop looking for a back-up band. Barb & Marg were sisters and together with 3 other friends they made up "Sweet Dreams".
We mostly played benefit concerts to help raise money for good causes but also were invited to a few festivals here and there. I can't even remember the name of the festival but I recall we were the side act between Wayne Rostadt and Family Brown Country as they readjusted the main stage. Being sandwiched between those two acts felt like quite an achievement.
We had fun. The girls were lovely, they had their hearts and souls into every practise and every show, and they loved to have a good laugh. Which was probably a good thing because, when our piano player suddenly quit, it left huge shoes to fill and though a good sense of humour didn't solve the problem, it certainly helped us get through the auditions.
Ottawa Valley Idol...?
Not unlike an opening episode of Canadian or American Idol, the auditions we held were peppered with varying degrees of talent and personality. I can't imagine sitting through the thousands of hopefuls as they do on Idol without completely losing every last thread of sanity because even 2 or 3 a night was all we could handle back then.
But you push through. You can easily be courteous to most of them and, for the balance, at least humane. All in the hopes of finding that gem; you know, the insanely gifted musician that is yet undiscovered but willing to be dragged all over Eastern Ontario without so much as a free meal.
David Crawley
Just when it looked like our newspaper ad had been a waste of time, in walks this young, clean-cut, extremely polite fellow. He introduces himself and proceeds to sit down to 'tickle the ivories'.
Someone said he was in his eighth year conservatory or something like that which my brilliant mathematical mind quickly told me he was probably... uh... well.. pretty young when he first started playing. Still, that hadn't really registered until he started playing and the creaky old upright piano suddenly began sounding more like a concert grand.
As we huddled and whispered with David looking on out of ear-shot, we knew there was no doubt we'd found our pianist, but there was one more thing I wanted to test out.
As I unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to him, I said "These are the words to a song I wrote called 'Check-Mate'. I'd like you to take it home with you and, over the next week, compose a melody for it." Without flinching, he took the song and said "Okay".
The next morning, David surprised me with a phone call. But the early ring was nothing compared to the reason he called. "Song's done." he stated without much exuberance. "Done?"
The next thing I knew, I was at his house experiencing one of the most invigorating things a songwriter could hope for: To have one of their songs put to music and rendered to exceed all expectations. He brought the words to life and carried the emotion of the song so gracefully.
He sang it again and recorded it on an old tape machine. I still have the original and it's the crown jewel of my collection.
David not only played the piano, he also could hold his own on the guitar and sing a few notes to boot. He quickly became a member of the band and a very good friend.
Double-Neck... Double-Whiplash
No sooner had we hired on a nice, clean-cut fellow in David, than the very next audition comes walking in looking like some cross between Steve Tyler and Mick Jagger. Rick walks in, skinny as a rake, long shaggy hair, carrying what looked like the most gargantuan keyboard case we'd ever seen.
I quickly spoke up "We thought you were a guitarist, we're not looking for a keyboard player..." To which he replied something, but he mumbled a fair bit and with me being a drummer and all, well, let's just say my ear drums have taken a pounding. He probably said something in the lines of "It's a guitar you [expletive]!"
Indeed it was a guitar. Not just any guitar. If memory serves, it was a 1971 Cream-Coloured Double-Neck Ibanez Guitar more than sufficiently amplified by a Marshall Tube Stack (which actually cracked a support beam in the basement of one house we practised at... sorry Dad!).
So... 5 lovely young ladies singing mostly country/gospel at community and church fundraisers, one very presentable pianist, one scruffy looking but well-hidden drummer... and this guy.
The girls gave us these wild stares, their parents were looking up emergency numbers in the phone book (pre-911 days), and David and I were kind of looking at each other thinking "Yeah, we could take him... he's not that big." But he was too fast. Before we could pick him up and throw him back from whence he came, he had set up his guitar, tuned it and started playing.
And there was that sound again... clickety clackety click... jaws dropping on the floor. Rick's fingers moved faster than the eye could see and switched effortlessly between the two necks as though he was born holding that guitar. A virtuoso by any standard, this guy was beyond anything we could have ever imagined. But would he... could he fit in?
I certainly didn't care. Visuals alone, we HAD to keep this guy. We'd be the talk of the town, and the name that would be on everybody's lips came so easily and made so much sense...
Sweet Dreams & The Nightmares
For the next year or so we toured around the local countryside performing at fairs, fundraisers and whatever other community event was happening. The name clicked with people and the fact it was tongue in cheek made them warm up to us a little more.
We practised, travelled and performed together but, oddly enough, we didn't really hang out together. There were the odd birthdays or holiday things but for the most part we all led our own lives. It was for the better, really. It was hardly our lifestyles that brought us together, just music. Had they had the choice, I'm sure any one of the five girls would have jumped at the opportunity to be a solo act. Same with the guys. Don't get me wrong, the gigs paid really well, if you count pride as currency. Unfortunately, no banker on the planet would give you a free mortgage just for being a volunteer and an all-round nice person. Shame.
We all knew the clock was ticking from the start but we held it all in check for an amazing amount of time. We managed to get community centres funded, churches built, helped raise funds for farmers, and a whole host of other causes.
I don't have many recordings from those days, and those I do were with other musicians that either came before or after. All I have of this, the craziest, improbable combination of talents and personalities, are my memories.
The shining moment was when we played at the International Ploughing Match which was being held in a rural town just outside the city limits. The arena was jam packed an hour before our show. Someone had hyped us a little too much, I thought. They sat so politely listening to canned music through tinny speakers as we drove up to the stage, unloaded and set up. We were so freaked out about 3,000 pairs of eyes on us for over 60 minutes that our sound check would have been barely audible to the neighbourhood bats.
...And then the Mayor stepped up...
Stealing the Show?
It was an innocent request by any stretch... "Could you boys play a few tunes to warm up the crowd?" The girls were in the change rooms getting all dolled up and we saw no harm in it. So we decided on a few well-known standards and primed the crowd a bit. We thought the girls would be happy to see the people dancing in the aisles as they came up to the stage...
...Apparently not.
Someone once told me that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions...
...Seems we'd just made it into a superhighway.
But when the Mayor came back at the end of the show and basically handed "The Nightmares" the key to the city, well... that superhighway suddenly had overpasses, off-ramps and fully appointed pit-stops at every 25 clicks...
We were all just kids really. Over all, none of us had any regrets and we all truly liked each other. But that night... it surely was a quiet drive home. Every up has a down. It's a shame that the best gig we'd ever played was the turning point.
Or should I say, the breaking point.
Movin' On...
I played a few more times with the girls and various transient musicians but the magic was gone. Every few years I bump into one of them (Barb) and we'll chat a bit and share a memory or two. The Sweet Dreams kept going long after I was gone and enjoyed increasing notoriety until life happened (as it does to all of us).
For me, it was family life that happened, or should I say near-death...
My father, (who never smoked, never drank to excess, always ate healthily and was a marathon runner who jogged on a daily basis) suffered a series of massive strokes which left him in the hospital and in and out of the operating rooms for several months. Several times within inches of his life.
When he did return home, it was only to find out that his career had ended, and that the life he'd known for all of his short 48 years had drastically changed. My parents quickly separated, but... oddly enough... they BOTH left. Leaving four kids (roughly in their teens to early twenties) with the house and the car.
Eventually, my mother moved to Montreal, leaving my father in his downtown Ottawa apartment.
For me, the youngest at 17, things got tougher and tougher, and with reason, many more songs were written. It was during this rough period and the few years that followed that I wrote most of my songs (depressing, hostile ones that are basically not too entertaining).
We'll call those the "Dark Ages" and move on....
Dan-O the Man-O
Fast forward to 1988. Can't remember what time of year it was, but it was warm enough for windows to be open a bit.
He was all business when he first got in. Getting right to setting up his drums in the corner of my unfurnished dining room. I was still trying to get over the sheer size of the boy... "Jesus!" I thought to myself "His biceps are about the size of my legs!!!" A nice enough fellow, we had spoken on the phone when he answered the ad, but still... I knew from my days as a drummer that even a little wet noodle like me could make an awful pile of sound come out of those drums... I thought "Well, this is it... hope you enjoyed living in the basement apartment cause you're about to be evicted..."
***KA-BLAM!!!***
My heart literally leapt out of my chest... "What the..."
***KA-BLAM!!!***
"...ugh... my ears!"
***KA-BLAM!!!***
I ran to get a Kleenex box in anticipation of the bleeding nose I was about to have... or worse... bleeding ear drums?
And that was just him tuning up his snare! "Uh... Dan? D'you mind maybe just toning it down just a bit cause I have neighb..." "Nope," he interrupted, "there's no volume button on drums." Well, I couldn't exactly argue with him on that. Still, I was sharing my apartment with my brother at the time and, well, it was kind of nice.
We'd hop off the bus one stop early and head into J&N Pizza, order a couple, then zip over to the video store, make a selection or two (sometimes three) then cut across the field to our place and get there with just enough time to get out of our monkey suits and the doorbell would ring with our fresh hot pizzas. We did this every night of the week. Weekends, my brother would usually try out some Indian food which basically meant that approximately 6 to 8 hours later I'd be suddenly struck with the urge to open windows (even in February).
People who drove by probably figured someone with menopause was living there. I'm sure my brother will be happy to know that the only mention of him had to include ripping yarns about his ripping ...er... something else.
But I digress... where was I again...? Oh yeah...
Next instalment... - If the house is a-rockin'... don't evict us!...
Tune in again next time when music starts coming back into my life... ...with a vengeance...