The last show that the Chemical Spray ever played as a two piece, just me and Jordyn, was at the legendary 1067 club off Granville Street. Around the corner from the neon sex shop and down the next alley behind a dumpster and through an unmarked and unlit doorway. A dim interior maze lead you through empty rooms with torn ceilings and cupboards hanging off the wall and eventually if you persisted and didn’t abandon the quest you’d find the club. A big room full of discarded furniture some of it piled against the wall. There was a big open area where the musicians would perform and a place where they’d sell beer and take money for whatever other things were going around. The 1067 was what might be called an underground or alternative jazz club and great players who were in town would gig there when they weren’t their proper shows because there were no expectations at 1067. Get up and play what you want to play. Be as discordant as you like, do a piece based on silence, play to the shuffling legs of the crowd, let the local powders hit you the way that stepped on shit you get back home never could. Vancouver was a kind of shangri la for touring musicians in those days. Maybe it still is if you got the right connects. Anyway, the room was beautifully ramshackle in a warm and open way and we always wanted to play there because we felt like we could fill it with what Jordyn called ‘acid angels tripping on distortion’. That's the sort of thing that Jordyn would say that really got my attention, made me excited to play and pulled me away from cutting tape or smoking cigarettes on the fire escape, and put in the time to get good. | image @iamthesoundman | vibes and history @fondoftigers