Bovine Sex Club - Toronto

My first time in the big city of Toronto was back in 2001, not long after the passing of the late great Dale Earnhardt. A race which weirdly, I was at. Obviously in '01 I was much too young to be slamming cans, but that didn't stop my parents from handing me the occasional Shandy. My grandad was absolute legend of a bloke, he had a unique ability to roll a smokeo in one hand, whilst driving a manual truck with the other, having only one eye. The funniest part in this, his best mate Ken, was also missing an eye. Only the other one, so they equalled each other out. How good's that eh? Monty Python couldn't have written a better skit. Two peas in a pod. I tell ya, they don't make blokes the way they used too. Maybe it had something to do with them growing up in London after the Luftwaffe paid us a visit. Sadly my grandad passed on not long after Earnhardt, but I vividly remember being a wee lad and sitting in the pub with him dipping my lollipop into his Guinness. This is probably where I acquired such impeccable tastes for pints, so thanks mate! Now, I'm sure all you bloody "do-gooders" out there will strongly disapprove of what I just said, and the way my parents raised me, but I reckon I turned out alright. One of my fondest memories from when I was roughly 11 or 12 (outside of discovering Guns n' Roses of course), was scuba diving in Spain with my old man and then having a beer afterwards to wash the sea water outta your mouth. Things like this are just different in Europe I guess?

A few years later, we moved to Canada. I spent a good portion of my teenage years growing up in Niagara, coming up to the big smoke more often than not. Moving countries is hard enough, but moving at the pivotal age of 14 was very difficult. To say I was ridiculed because of my accent and mannerisms in high school would be an understatement. This sense of "being different" is probably what's molded my deeply satirical, slightly morbid and defiantly miserable outlook on life, but I'm at peace with it. Somehow or another, the years rolled by, I ended up playing in a shit metal band and the rest is history. I'll be honest, I haven't ever had a lot of love for Toronto, but I will say in recent years the city has grown on me considerable. Yes it's still utterly impossible to drive from one side of town to another in any reasonable time frame. And yes, it takes a fortnight to get a midnight Roti delivered. However, I've grown to not completely hate it. Which much to mates surprise, is quite an improvement from where I used to stand. 

 Buried somewhere deep in the roots of all this concrete and traffic is not only Toronto's premium rock bar, but one of my favourite rock bars in the entire world; the Bovine Sex Club. These four walls are heavily decorated with car parts, bicycles, old instruments, string lights, band stickers and of course hundreds of empty Jagermeister bottles. Before you start thinking I'm into some weird bestiality or zoophilia, I'm not. I don't usually like to speak on the behalf of others, but I can safely say for everyones sake that frequents this establishment, they're not either. It's just a cool name for a dive. Defiantly got ol' mumsie wondering when I told her I was gigging here for the first time many moons ago. 

Of all the dives that I've oozed out of at the end of a night on the cans, this one is certainly my most frequented. There isn't a night that goes by without some sort of live event. Some of the greatest bands going have put on some of the purest punk and metal shows of all bloody time on this stage. I'd consider this place to be Canada's CBGB. I couldn't begin to count the amount of times I've been here, gigged here, worked shows here or even just rocked up at 2am after another show somewhere else. I know I mentioned this before but a good mate of mine and I spent a Canada Day here years ago absolutely sideways, listening to Tina Turner and watching Crocodile Hunter. Excellent night. The Bov boasts a heavy crowd all nights of the week usually until the most unholy of hours. 

I make the CBGB reference because the heavily graffitied bathroom doors from the Bov were recently forever immortalized among some of the greats at the Punk Rock Museum in Vegas. Sadly, I didn't get to witness this for myself when we played Punk Rock Bowling last year (more on that another time). The rest of my band paid a visit to the museum and did us proud. I'm sure one of my stickers from the past is buried on them somewhere. As a nice juicy added bonus to this place, The Bov also features an upstairs, open air Tiki Bar. The small, but mighty rooftop patio is usually serving up drinks the size and stature of a small rainforest, whilst spinning the best tunes on the planet. Not to steal a quote from Jason Statham in what I consider one of his greatest movies, but you could easily fall in love with an orangutang in some of these cocktails.  

I love this place. It's Toronto's melting pot for renegades, misfits, and troubadours. 

6/6.