Brian Rading

Remembering Brian Rading

by Glen Hyde-Clark

Brian Rading (W.B. Rading), August 31st, 1946 – June 8th, 2016

Among musicians of our generation, the original Baby Boomers, Brian Rading was a gem. An excellent musician, bright, creative, original thinker, a rebel, amazing craftsman, he was a kind-hearted and really good friend. He meant so much to so many people that many of us still have an empty space now that he’s gone.

His death caused many of us to reconnect, an amazing feat. We shared the privilege of playing music with him and having him as a key member of our bands. He played a wicked bass in my band, and he could sing. He stood out in a greater-than-life presence that would pump the rest of the group up and along the way settle any minor ego conflicts.

As a 12-year-old, he took a few guitar lessons at $2 each. He turned pro at 14 and launched out of school and into touring North America with prestigious bands such as The Regals, The Staccatos (later Five Man Electrical Band) and others. There wasn’t much money to be made in those days, but the experiences were out of this world.

Back in Ottawa, Brian played with local bands and from 1975 to 1981 in my own Glenn Clark Band. There were other bands in succession: Powerhouse, Backyard Symphony, Messenger, Crucial Moments, etc.

There was never a dull moment when Brian was around, from his famous war cry “let’s cook this turkey,” to the day he showed up at his daughter Jennifer’s graduation in leopard print pants, earrings and makeup. Then there was the time when The Staccatos were driving to Oklahoma and were stopped by a Highway Patrol cop who called him “Bill” after looking at his license. Brian hated his first name William, so during the whole trip the group called him “Bill” to rattle him and had them all laughing to tears. For a fancy gig I booked that required tuxedos or dark suits, Brian wore a T-shirt with a tuxedo print in protest. He loved people, adored cats and above all he thrived on stage. Performing was his life.

Brian died of natural causes, following a bout with throat cancer. A memorial service is being planned by his daughter Jennifer for late summer.

Rest in Peace, Brian, we all keep the memories.

By Glenn Hyde-Clarke, with input by Michael Belanger (Bell) and others

Brian Rading: The Lion

by Ian Tamblyn

With the death of Brian Rading, we have lost a lion in our musical community—a lion who loved and cared for cats in his latter years. He was a lion in appearance, with his Foo Manchu moustache, his ponytail, his mane, his outrage and his possession of the stage. Brian was in stage makeup by night, drywall dust by day. Brian Rading was one curious cat.

I had the honour of playing with Brian from 1980-86, long after his heyday with Five Man Electrical Band. I am not sure quite how we met, probably through Bruce Wittet. Rading seemed an unlikely candidate for my folk rock band. Brian was a rocker through-and-through—one whose distinctive pick-driven style on bass was forceful and aggressive. “It’s just downstrokes, man!”

At the time, his style was far away from what I was writing. I was told not to play with him by the politically correct crowd—he was too threatening on stage; he didn’t suit my band’s material; he was the wrong kind of guy. But I felt Rading embodied rock-and-roll. This was my attraction. Rading was full-out the guy I seldom showed. He brought out the rocker in me, he brought out the anger and aggression, and I loved working with him. He always wanted to get it right, especially if the tune was outside his comfort zone. Brian loved music, he loved sound and sonics, and some of our most transcendental nights were founded on Brian’s deep groove. There were even a few times when we got kicked off the stage for being too loud—gotta love that!

On another level Brian was a bit of a back porch philosopher, and we had some great conversations. He was no doubt a troubled man and yet he was always searching for ways through those troubles. At times he would succumb to his demons. There were many performances wherein I didn’t know what was fuelling him—what was in that gym bag he always brought to the gig. And yet it was often at the end of those nights, after we had loaded-out his impossibly enormous bass amp down the fire escape at the Saucy Noodle, we would fall into a conversation about Buddhism, astrology, or some other path through it all. Brian was complicated and probably a true outsider.

At times he struggled to articulate that complication, and he was attracted to those poets and artists like Cyndela Whitney or Diane Woodward who expressed that outside edge so well. He was not an easy man to live with I am told and struggled at times to live with himself.

Last time I saw Brian he was at Irene’s, dressed in that dusty cardigan he always wore, and in failing health. He was drinking again but not like before; he was worn down and tired. His cats were dying mysteriously, he had lost several in the past months, and Brian was in mourning. He continued his life as a landlord for a building he had bought at height of Five Man, but his dry-walling days were over.

We talked about getting together again. He wanted another chance at some of the songs we did. He told me he’d been thinking about them. In fact, Brian remembered some of my songs I’d all but forgotten.

There is just one other thing I would like to say about the man. During a period of my life when I was going through a hell I brought on myself, Brian was there to help me. I can still hear his gravelly whisper, “Tamblyn (or Tam), it’s going be alright, it’s going to be alright.”

Addendum (Bruce Wittet file): I visited Brian Rading at his ground-floor apartment in Hull several months before his death. “What do you think of this place, Boo?” The kitchen walls were blood-red. I told him he’d made a clear statement of intent. Fifteen minutes later, we were off to the adjacent tavern. Everybody knew his name, and some knew of his Hollywood years and the band that took him there. He liked to arrive early and nurse a drink to ensure he was afforded a broad selection of pub grub. It gets dark early in October. When I left after 5:00 pm, I felt anxious. I was driving home to family.

Source: eNews Harp, September 2016