Just over two years ago, Toronto lost one of its most important queer

June 28-July 4, 2012 |
thegridto.com
Force
Will
of
Just over two years ago, Toronto lost one of its most important
queer civic heroes when local artist, DJ, activist, impresario, promoter,
party-thrower, café operator, community-builder, and lover Will Munro
died of brain cancer. We still haven’t recovered from the loss.
By Sarah Liss / Illustration by Daniel Stolle
41
42 | June 28-July 4, 2012
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This is a
love letter to
Will Munro.
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As I write this, it is two years and a month, to the day, since he
died at the unfathomably young age of 35 from brain cancer.
If you knew Will, this letter is for you. If you didn’t know
Will, I’m so sorry you missed out on meeting him. This letter is even more for you. And I can guarantee that in myriad
ways, you’ve tripped over, or passed by, or sat in, or danced at,
or made out to the soundtrack of something that only exists
because of him.
Will was a great many things—an acclaimed visual artist,
a diehard activist, an awesome DJ, a business owner, a party
promoter, a tireless advocate for underground bands—but
above all else, he was a bringer-together of people, groups,
and things in this city. It’s a terribly inelegant descriptor, but
I can’t think of a better way to articulate what he did that was
so special. This gentle, hilarious guy who looked, I swear,
like a whippet, was the bridge between hardcore punk and
drag queens, indie-rock and fetish parties, nudists and proud
prudes, youth support groups and textile art.
Will was a pioneer in the geographical exodus of LGBTQ
culture. Certainly, there were events happening in pockets
outside the Church-Wellesley corridor before he came along,
but he led a charge of queers into rock clubs and dive bars
from the Village to the west end of the city. In his hands, The
Beaver, on Queen West, east of Gladstone, was transformed
from a staid brunch spot that serviced spillover crowds from
the Drake into a de facto hub—not only for the queer community, mind you, but for a wide swath of both stroller-toting
Beaconsfield Villagers and creative oddballs who chased their
late-night booze with mid-morning espresso.
He was a fabric artist, and this will sound unforgivably
corny, but that medium seemed to inform his approach to
everything—he wove, he stitched, he sewed and appliquéd
things together that would never naturally have fused. He
brought the sleaziest roadhouse rock into his monthly queer
party, Vazaleen (originally Vaseline, until copyright infringe-
June 28-July 4, 2012 |
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ment got in the way), which he launched in January of 2000,
and which was itself a novel bridge-building exercise that
brought lesbians, gay men, bisexuals, transfolk, and genderqueers together under one roof. In an interview in 2003, Will
explained the rationale behind his parties. “Everything I do in
nightlife is a critique of mainstream gay nightlife,” he said. “We
need a space that’s not exclusively gay white men. We need a
space where our straight friends can hang out. We need a space
where cool, interesting people can mingle, get down, network,
have sex, get dressed up. I gave it a good chance, but neither
gay nor straight nightlife culture gave that to me.”
For a time, Vazaleen was the most idyllic, perverse, anything-goes community love-in that you could imagine. My
memories of most of these parties are admittedly hazy, but I
can vouch for the energy inside Lee’s Palace when “Fox on the
Run” or “Fuck the Pain Away” or “Jet Boy, Jet Girl” was playing, and weird, blurry porn flickered on the walls, and Will was
wearing a chicken suit, or a Limp Fist t-shirt, or a little boy’s
school uniform, or that brimmed grey-wool cap he always used
to wear, and smiling cherubically while a motley crew of weirdos bobbed for buttplugs: It was the most connected I’ve ever
felt to any other group of people. Will dreamed up Vazaleen at
a time when gay parties were all about circuit house, and lesbian parties barely existed. Mixed crowds, especially ones that
managed to welcome not only a wide spectrum of gender, but
race and class, were like unicorns.
Among Will’s gifts was his uncanny ability to combine
activism with hedonism, to fuse edification and unabashed,
over-the-top revelry. That might not sound like such a big
deal, but it was, and is, for a bunch of reasons: Traditionally,
queer culture is not something that’s been exceptionally well
documented—it’s challenging to keep track of a movement
and a group that, until very recently, was stigmatized and
forced underground. Will seemed driven by a desire to share
our collective history, and he did so in all his work. He quietly
put forward the notion that simply bringing a diverse group
of LGBTQ people together en masse at a nightclub could have
political consequences. Because Will didn’t let his own political beliefs (other than a staunch commitment to anti-oppressive ideals) dominate, you had the sense that any kind of conversation could—and did—happen in the spaces he created.
You could chat, for instance, with same sex–marriage activists while local gay indie-folk band The Hidden Cameras
played their tune “Ban Marriage,” a catchy critique of what
they viewed as a conservative institution. Trans punk kids
could safely talk about getting bashed for not passing while,
inches away, thirtysomething lesbians debated the merits of
known versus unknown sperm donors and traded bondage
tips. And yet, even with that range of experience and opinions, these exchanges were defined by an atmosphere of
mutual respect.
Recently, as the mainstream media has seized on our most
sexless, easy-to-digest fight for equal rights and privileges—
namely, gay marriage—our communities have become more
internally divided over which battles should be prioritized.
The beauty of the spaces Will cultivated lies in their tendency
to expose people to a host of different perspectives and spark
the open discussions that can shift even the most embedded
beliefs. Without them, the range of queer identities sometimes becomes distilled—in the media and within the sub-
43
culture itself—to an inane dichotomy between “good gays,”
who strive for socially permissible forms of equality, and “bad
gays,” who cling to the bacchanalian practices left over from
the disco era. The reality, which Will knew, is that there are
way more than two, or even 50, shades of gay.
I’ve been shocked by how swiftly his unifying influence has
vanished from queer nightlife. In talking about this absence,
I don’t necessarily mean the world still inhabited by Will’s
friends—and “friends,” here, is a big group (just attending one
of his events seemed to put you in a charmed circle). Two
years later, I can’t be the only one who still feels a real chasm
where Will used to be. We’ve lost not only a leader, but a sense
of far-flung connection that used to make the city feel whole.
REQUIRED
READING ABOUT
WILL MUNRO
Bruce LaBruce’s
beautifully
LaBruceian reflective
obituary for
Torontoist.
Benjamin Boles’
understated and very
personal response to
Will’s death in NOW.
“Generation V,”
R.M. Vaughan’s
perfect snapshot of
what it was like to be
at Vazaleen, which
appeared in Toronto
Life in 2007.
E
arlier this year, the art gallery at York University
mounted a mammoth exhibition of Will’s work,
titled “History, Glamour, Magic.” Many visitors commented on the display of Will’s trademark reconstructed Y-fronts, which hung like strings of hopeful Buddhist prayer flags across the cavernous ceiling of the gallery.
I loved the undies, but what gave me goosebumps was gazing
up at a giant wall of screen-printed posters for Will’s many
events—from Vazaleen to Moustache (at the male strip club
Remingtons) to Peroxide (his new-wave night in Kensington
Market) to No T.O. at The Beaver—and thinking, This is our
youth. By that, I don’t simply mean to reflect upon my cohort
of late-twenty- and early-thirtysomething queers. That wall
of posters documented a particular kind of coming of age for
Toronto’s queer community.
“The connections between young and old people in terms
of talking to each other and sharing knowledge, they’re eroding,” Will told me in 2003. “Instead, it’s all about fucking.
That’s great. That’s fine. But if you don’t have anything else,
then what’s gonna happen to our culture? Is our culture gonna
become Queer as Folk? How can you look to the future if you
don’t know the past?” Crowds at all these events, but especially Vazaleen, were made up of people who ranged from 18
to 78 years old, and that collision between generations was so
crucial to both the energy at Will’s parties and his investment
in making sure LGBTQ history was kept alive.
Maybe what’s died is this particular strain of youthful idealism. It’s a cliché, like finding love in a hopeless place. We
were younger and less busy then; we had better metabolisms
and more energy and genius plans to make art, or to combat
poverty, or to learn how to be DJs. But I don’t think that’s it.
To be sure, the collective anomie I’ve noticed building over
the last few years is highly subjective. I know that dedicated
listeners are still staffing the Lesbian Gay Bi Trans Youth
Line—an organization dear to Munro’s heart, and one for
which he volunteered for years and years. Thanks to city
councillor Kristyn Wong-Tam, the Youth Line—which was
named the year’s honoured group at Pride on June 22—has
introduced an annual “Spirit of Will Munro” award, which
recognizes youth organizations and individuals who’ve bolstered the local community through the arts. And Vazaleen
lives on in the form of periodic benefit shows, spearheaded
by Will’s brother, Dave, like this week’s Vaz/Shame party, featuring queercore icons Limp Wrist. That show will benefit the
Will Munro Fund for queer people living with cancer.
UNIVERSIT Y OF TORONTO SCHOOL OF CONTINUING STUDIES
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Learn
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Continue the celebration by opening doors
to a new profession. Classes available at
U of T St. George, U of T Mississauga, and
U of T Scarborough.
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For a free copy of our course catalogue, or
to register, email [email protected], or visit
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44 | June 28-July 4, 2012
T
his is not another obituary, but a reminder of what
we’ve lost, and a hopeful appeal to do better, to make
change, to draw connections and join forces and
dance our faces off, collectively, in efforts to include
as many voices, perspectives, and preferences as possible.
There’s no single person who can step in to fill the void, but
maybe it takes a village to make a Will. The Facebook group
set up in his memory is called “Honoring the Heart of Will
Munro,” and perhaps if we focus on bringing together a
bunch of people who, on their own, are doing work that resonates with Will’s energy and spirit, we can do some small part
in honouring his heart.
There’s a memorial for Will in Trinity Bellwoods Park near
the south end of the dog bowl. It’s a young tree and a plaque
with his dates of birth and death, and a simple inscription:
“An army of lovers will never be defeated,” a ’70s-era slogan
derived from a poem by lesbian-feminist writer Rita Mae
Brown, and a motto for the way Will lived his life. There are a
lot of lovers in this city, trying to bring about positive change
in a host of incremental ways. But our only hope of avoiding
defeat is to join our forces and build up our reserves.
THE GOLDEN GITCH AWARDS
Will Munro’s spirit is still alive in the work of people building bridges and filling
Toronto with art, electricity, and sexy crocheting. No one person will ever be able to fill his
bedazzled briefs, but we’ve compiled a highly subjective list of individuals whose
contributions deserve to be recognized for keeping the conversation going.
LEANNE ISKANDER
CASEY ORAA
ALASKA B
ALLYSON MITCHELL
WHO The 18-year-old
student who became the
face of the recent war
to allow Gay-Straight
Alliances (GSAs) in Ontario
Catholic schools.
WHO Writer, musician,
and QueerOntario political
action committee chair who
helped advocate on behalf
of students in the Catholicschool GSA fight.
WHY It’s hard to imagine
having the wherewithal
to face off against the
Catholic church on their
not-so-stellar gay-rights
track record in general, but
it’s downright impossible
to fathom being confident
enough to do so as a queer
teenager. A lot has already
been written about Iskander,
the student who rallied for
the right to have a GSA (and
call that GSA by its proper
name) in her Catholic
school, but her commitment
to making things better
right now helped set an
example for politicians,
educators, parents, and other
burgeoning queer activists.
WHY Oraa has written
about the intersection
between queer politics and
the Occupy movement,
bringing a much-needed
discussion of class into
LGBTQ culture, and with
QueerOntario, he’s worked
to infuse a host of Willapproved values—safe
spaces, sex-positivity,
liberation—into various
institutions through
community activism. Most
importantly, when Oraa
had Iskander’s back in
the mud-slinging Ontario
Catholic schools vs. GSAs
battle, it helped transmit
a message of crossgenerational cooperation
throughout the queer and
mainstream media.
WHO Half of the band
Yamantaka // Sonic Titan,
which fuses noise, rock,
opera, manga-styled
visuals, trippy effects,
Japanese Noh theatre,
and postcolonial identity
politics into one aweinspiring explosion.
WHO Queen of feminist
maximal art, fat activist,
videomaker, women’s
studies professor. Member
of size-positive performance
troupe Pretty Porky and
Pissed Off. Co-founder
of Toronto’s formidable
Feminist Art Gallery.
WHY Alaska B has been
outspoken about the
ways in which her various
identities (mixed-race,
First Nations, queer, trans)
influence her artistic
practice. Her willingness
to be forthcoming might
not sound that remarkable,
but when you consider that
Yamantaka // Sonic Titan
have become cult favourites
in the North American
indie-rock universe, and
that Alaska and her fellow
band member, Ruby Kato
Attwood, are, by and large,
performing and engaging
in these conversations with
members of the primarily
straight mainstream press,
you can get a sense of the
sprawling range of their
influence.
WHY Mitchell represents
many of the aesthetic
principles central to
Will’s practice: reclaimed
crafting techniques,
needlework, and a defiant
embrace of the gorgeous
grotesqueness of the body.
Her Feminist Art Gallery,
with its declared mission
“to grow sustainable
feminist art,” is a heartswelling group hug of a
thing—part backyard art
space, part collectiveminded support system,
part fuck-you to the
traditionally patriarchal
world of high art. Will,
who self-identified as a
“lesbro,” was an unwavering
feminist; he’d be right at
home at the FAG.
UNIVERSIT Y OF TORONTO SCHOOL OF CONTINUING STUDIES
Achieve
more.
Happy Pride Week!
U N IV
ER
SC H O SI TY O F
TO RO
OL O
N TO
F CO
N TI N
UI N G
ST U D
2012
NDA
2013 R
Learn
more.
IE S
Continue the celebration by moving ahead
in your career. Classes available at
U of T St. George, U of T Mississauga,
and U of T Scarborough.
CALE
For a free copy of our course catalogue, or
to register, email [email protected], or visit
www.learn.utoronto.ca
PHOTOGRAPHS (ISKANDER) ANDREW FRANCIS WALLACE/TORSTAR; (ORAA) PAUL DYMOND; (MITCHELL) MICHAEL ERICKSON; (CROSBY) MICHELE CLARKE; (MECIJA) IAN WILLMS
There are still brave and crazy punk-rock lovers (like notorious concert promoter Dan Burke), who bring left-field performers to town knowing full well they’ll probably lose money
on every show. There are kids doing drag, kids invading public space, kids dressing up and throwing parties. Remarkable
things are happening: About two weeks ago, the Ontario legislature passed Toby’s Act, a bill that will codify the rights and
protections of transfolk under the provincial Human Rights
Code. A number of unbelievably brave, self-possessed LGBTQ
youth recently faced off against the musty homophobes in the
Catholic church in their protracted fight—first to be allowed
to have Gay-Straight Alliances in Catholic schools, and then to
be able to call those groups by their rightful names. Queers for
Social Justice, a small but growing group of tenacious activists
formed this past May, is aiming to make a ruckus about issues
that affect LGBTQ folk inside and outside Toronto’s city limits; they organized a flashmob die-in at City Hall on Monday,
as well as a politically focused night march. And glimmers of
Will’s spirit are alive in the initial efforts of the Almost Not
Quite collective, a bunch of local art-makers and community
organizers whose stated mission is to put on art-focused events
that are a priori inclusive and invested with a sense of queer
history. These are all great and powerful developments.
But since Will’s death, as we’ve gradually tried to recover
from the shock of losing someone so vital to transforming our
city and our community, that grief has been twinned with
a different, nagging sense of emptiness. There are numerous tiny revolutions currently rippling through the LGBTQ
community and just as many fabulous parties, but the connection between the fights and the fêtes is tenuous at best,
while the sense of history has faded. And we’re missing out
on too many opportunities to make links between separate
groups and their (often overlapping) struggles—conversations that, in my smudgy recollection, happened so effortlessly in the context of Vazaleen. We’ve lost an overarching
sense that these fractal satellites—of activism and community and art and sex—could merge into a force of solidarity.
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