Drew Burns' Commodore Ballroom
Monday, September 29, 2014
 |
| Drew Burns |
Not too long ago I had
to photograph a couple of composers for the Georgia
Straight. I decided that taking the picture on Granville by the Orpheum and the
Commodore Ballroom was the right place. I was prevented from taking my
photograph by some tough guys who said that the Commodore Ballroom had all
rights to pictures not only taken inside but outside on the street. I sort of
sweet talked them into inquiring about getting permission from those involved
in running the Commodore. The permission came and I took my picture days later.
This would not have happened in times gone
by; the times when Drew Burns was in charge. In the 70s and 80s when I took
many pictures of bands performing there Burns always accommodated my needs which
sometimes were requests to take photographs backstage. Burns always invited me
into his office (a messy kind of office) and I remember he had a penchant for
shirts with polka-dots.
Such was my reputation, courtesy of
Vancouver Magazine, that the security staff played protective wall for me from
punks (the punk band punk variety punks) who liked to push and shove for fun but my cameras were more fragile than I was. These security guys would stand in front of
me and marched to wherever I wanted to take my shots. One security man, while
walking on Granville (he may have been involved with some motorcycle gang. His last name was Paisely.) was
shot in the stomach. In spite of the pain he ran after the gunman and wrestled
him to the ground.
Les Wiseman who wrote his crafty words for
Vancouver Magazine’s In One Ear was a snob. This meant that we sometimes
skipped the warm-up acts. In some rare occasions we skipped the headliners
(probably Images in Vogue) and left after the warm-up bands finished.
In one special evening that I remember
vividly we left for a cheap beer at the Dufferin before the headliners were to
be on. We ran into one of my fave exotic dancers, Miss Mew, AKA Fleen. We told
her where we were going. She warned us, “The place has changed.”
I never really imbibed but I
sort of enjoyed the second-string lineups of exotic dancers of the bar. One of
my fave sights was a waiter who looked like Laurence Harvey.
We sat down and Wiseman ordered his beer. I
ordered my coke. I noticed two men holding hands at another table. “Les, I
believe this bar has gone gay.” It had. In one of those strange, unexplainable
events of our city of the time someone had decided from one day to the next for the change, as
if there were a switch that went from straight to gay. The owner flicked the
switch and that was it.
To me the Commodore that was will never
again be that Commodore. It ceased being so when Burns, a gentleman, retired 15 years ago.
Some sort of mafia has taken over.
Somehow my memory of the Commodore Ballroom
had something to do with the many chandeliers and the tacky and elaborate red
wall paper going up on the stairs.
