Local Vibe

Bad Pickle

I have warned local residents about the pack of roving, musical werewolves, but there is a far more insidious danger lurking on the village streets. It seems that there is a bizarre group recruiting members to worship pickles, of all things. I’d heard rumours of how devout their fans, commonly known as Pickleheads, were. “Be careful,” I was told. “They’re a cult.”
I felt that I was impervious to their charms. I have gone up against politicians, polluters and crackheads for stories, what did I have to fear from a bunch of rotten cucumbers? Little did I know.
Here’s what I found.
You will relish every song at a Bad Pickle show.
There. I’m done with the bad Bad Pickle puns. (Is there such a thing as a good pun?) My mental rolodex spins like a top with a string of one liners whenever I go to write about this band. (The song was a dilly, AC/DC cover songs are their bread and butter, peppered with more hot licks than a jalapeno,)
Bad Pickle front man Rob Puschelberg contacted us after reading how we wanted to spotlight local talent, and convinced me to come to a show.
I first caught up with them at Sidelines. When I arrived lead guitarist Danny Spence was decked out in a matching red and white striped toque and shirt. (His socks matched too, I found out later) The first thing that came to mind was “Where’s Waldo.” I’d soon find out just how appropriate the analogy was.

Getting pickled in the street

Spence’s fingers demanded attention as they danced up and down the fret board during their tight knit  rendition of Ozzy’s Mr. Crowley. Rock anthems such as Queen’s “We Will Rock You” and “Another One Bites the Dust” were a great contrast to tunes such as their reggae original “A Crackhead Stole My Bike.”
Patrick Fox on drums and The Legendary Jack Smith on Bass Guitar rounded out the Quartet.
It didn’t take the sparse crowd long to swell. Vic Lessard showed up with an entourage of local musicians that included Natalie from the Hingepins. It took little encouragement to get her on stage to belt out ass kicking renditions of “Whole Lotta Love” and Joplins “Bobby McGee.”
Puschelberg set my poor old Scottish heart a fluttering when he pulled out a set of bagpipes during a rousing rendition of “It’s a Long Way to the Top.” I tell you readers, although despised by a large portion of society, there’s nothing like a set up pipes to bring tears to a Scotsman’s eyes. Why, they made me so sentimental I almost cracked open the vault and bought a round. (I said “almost”) Bloody  cults.
If you aren’t familiar with the layout of Sidelines, the stage is one corner, the pool tables the other, and a wall in-between. This didn’t stop the pool players, or anyone else in the bar, from enjoying the show. Waldo, I mean Spence, and Puschelberg  made the most of their wireless technology to roam the room, and they didn’t limit their wandering to one room.
An impromptu outdoor performance was prompted by a fan’s request. It seems the hapless chap was under “orders from headquarters” (his wife) not to enter a licensed establishment under any circumstances. This unfortunate Picklehead had to feed his addiction, so he was listening from the street.
Spence and Puschelberg  disappeared from view during AC/DC’s Jailbreak, although they could still be heard loud and clear. I found them on the balcony, walking the railing like a tightrope, never missing a beat. Before long, they weren’t playing for one fan. Traffic pulled over and a crowd of passer bys joined the solitary Pickle devotee. I watched as the growing crowd became mesmerized, swaying to the beat. “Uh oh,” I thought, “More cultists.”
They continued to rock the night away, and you guessed it, everyone got pickled.
Several weeks later, while having a deep conversation on the meaning of life with my pet turtle Gladys,  I was hit with an irresistible craving for, you guessed it, Pickles.
Before I knew it, I was walking in a vegetative state up Hespeler Rd. to Doolys. Before you could say “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers” I was in the “Pickle Pack” in front of the band.
Puschelberg,  always the showman, took his microphone around and serenaded the pool players to the refrain of AC/DC’s “I’ve got Big Balls.”
Out of breath, after chasing him around the room to get a  picture, I decided that Patrick Fox, the drummer, was a much better subject for my pics. ( I knew he wasn’t moving) I sat with the rest of the “pickleheads” while the band rocked my red and white striped socks off.
I woke up with a slight hangover and a sour taste in my mouth, which I attributed to too much “pickle juice,” but other than that I had a great time. If you missed these shows, don’t get in a pickle. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.) They appear regularly on the local scene.
From AC/DC to ZZ Top, these rockers provided a steady diet of well known covers, sprinkled liberally with originals such as Blackballed, Handcuffed and Rubber Glove Love. There’s nothing but red meat for these guys, and don’t expect any “bubble gum” for desert.
If you end up a member of the Pickle cult, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Check them out at http://www.badpickle.ca