October. 21, 2003 differed little from other days that year. During this fine eve, Johnny Generation and his three closest counterparts were returning to their seaside town from the outskirts where Johnny resided. McNaughton, the driver, had always been a radical behind the wheel. Tonight, bourbon as fine company, his capabilities had disintegrated.
Attempts to persuade the impaired operator to provide more care and attention had failed. Johnny had become somewhat violent in his attempts make clear the message, swiping McNaughton's shull with a fist, and only then did the reckless actions subside. But they were short lived. Johnny had repeated his actions several more times before other occupants had intervened and set the situation right.
They made a stop shortly afterward for Clark to enter his residence and make some acquisition before they would continue. "I thought we'd share some stir fry, bro," he offered.
With whiskey chewing at his insides, Johnny was quick to accept. "Too kind, Jo. You are too kind." The two friends picked at the plate as the Tempo began travel towards their final destination, wherever that might have been.
Four blocks down the road, engaged in mindless conversation through cellular telephone and a speed of more than twenty-five kilometres per hour over the recommended limit, McNaughton rode the Tempo into the cement support of a telephone pole at 9:16 pm. Hennessey, sleeping in the front passenger seat, found his head had been punched through the windshield. Johnny was fast unconscious, having landed his own connector with the window frame.
The two alert and frantic men heaved Hennessey from the wreck. Clark dragged him up the bank to the roadside and made brisk attempts to slow the steady spurts of currant escaping Hennessey's skull, peeled for exposition. McNaughton had roused some neighbours with his manic hollering and they came to aid the men.
First responders, the local volunteer fire department, were forced to extract Johnny from the vehicle by mechanized means. An ambulance soon arrived and rushed the lad to the town’s emergency room. His heart stopped twice en route. Pronounced with severe brain trauma, half of his body unresponsive to reflexes, they flew Johnny Generation by helicopter to the nearest neurosurgery ward in Vancouver. It was here that the doctors were unable to uncover bleeding and designated him to the intensive care unit for further observation. Hennessey regained consciousness while doctors were sewing closed his scalp and was remanded for the night. The other two men had originally escaped with only bruising, though McNaughton would spend the next evening extracting tempered glass from his forehead.
Days later, Johnny awoke to a world not his own. His left extremities were useless. Sounds and colors were not as he had left them. Music oozed mysteriously from the hallways and into every of his senses. His first words to the nurse, an older woman eager to listen to the whispers of recovery, left him quietly. "What radio station is this?" He asked.
Perplexed but retaining her grace, she replied, "You mean the intercom?"
"Can you hear the music?"
She shook her head, smiling. "Are you ready for some food?"
Johnny's appetite evaporated as quickly as it had arrived as did his hunger for speaking.
She followed with a second question. "What day is it, Johnny?"
In his head, Johnny asked his own. What is my name? Where do I reside? Why am I in this hospital room? In the seconds it took for fear to completely saturate his mind he cleared it and instead focussed on the meal. While the nurse took only a few moments to leave and return with something edible, it could have been hours for young Generation to reach for the memories that were no longer there.
Only a few days later, two friends of Johnny's came by on notice of his release. He made the point of detaching himself from the trepidation that walked alongside, and they made for the exit. Johnny hesitated for some moments to follow. Though without connection to the events in which he had arrived at the hospital, entering a vehicle seemed impossible. Somehow on some conscious level, he was aware that motor vehicles had been the catalyst for this current predicament. As they drove for the ferry, he shook nervously for the present and in waiting of emotions to come. What would he do in a home he was no longer a part of? How long would this abyss last?
His mother was darting feverishly around her living room when the girls brought her son back; Moving day. No space for sanity. She took a moment to crumble as Johnny limped inside, the paralysis still lingering. Unable to cope with the situation of not recognizing his maternal figure or the young chauffeurs, Johnny tucked himself in a back room piled with boxes and awaited the days confusion. Hours later, in his mother’s new abode, he ate two morphine tablets and fell asleep.
The next morning with the house to himself, Johnny stared at the waves of Georgia Straight while combing through what he knew of the world, the little he had gathered in only a few short days. Feelings overwhelmed him. He vomited frequently, and not from the pills.
Returning from the patio, he spotted for the first time an old Yamaha acoustic his mothers' friend had left behind from the housewarming the night before, all of which Johnny had missed sleeping. Overwhelming was his attraction to it and electricity stood him upright. Seconds after acquiring the weathered instrument, he found that he could play. Not only was he familiar with strange chords but he could translate almost completely the rythms that had haunted him since the moment he had awaken. They were unorthodox sounds and melodies but within them in those introductory seconds, something about that moment made sense. He questioned whether he was slowly connecting to his pastimes and was relieved for a time to be remembering things again. But then he noticed scooped imprints from the strings and the absence of calluses.
Then his mother returned home from work and found him strumming awkwardly, yet somehow in synch with the world. Her mouth was in knots searching for the proper language and finally managed a stuttered sentence. "Did you learn that today?!"
"I was hoping you would tell me how long I've played for," Johnny responded.
"I don't think I understand, " she stammered. "You didn't play before."
Johnny knew then that the skills that were upon him had arrived in place of all known life and he spoke no further.
Adaptation soon became his art. He recognized most faces, strangely, but found great difficulty in recalling names or memories together. He skilled himself at acting as though he remembered every detail. After some practice, he was soon living the untouchable past though the eyes of an unfamiliar character. But he loathed the role and more so his inability to recall anything worthwhile.
For the better part of the next year, Johnny became a recluse, befriending opium to combat excessive migraine headaches and obsessive exploration into a void that was his timeline. He played guitar day and night, lost in the melodies and happy for them to replace the unknown. He felt as though he was racing into the center of the sun and leaving no trail to follow.
At the conclusion of that year, a few months after joining the workforce as a chef once again, Johnny Generation had an old friend, Mr. Vogan, come for a respective visit. "So I'm taking off, buddy. Alberta. You should join me"
Compelled to stay but eager to seek answers to his losses, Johnny accepted. Without knowing he was completely secure that where they were to travel to would support his newfound passion. Two days later, they crossed the Rockies and into the plains.
Johnny worked the oil industry at the start, taking in the new attitudes and extreme climate with confusion and awe. Shortly thereafter, a lawyer called with details of a settlement from the accident and Johnny was able to break for a time, moving to a beautiful high-rise and continuing the search for explanations as to why music had become his life and not criminal antics as before.
By chance, he met Shoemaker at a local pub and they soon recognized each others similar tastes in music. Collaborations were discussed but differing schedules intervened. That is until a young woman, at that time a stranger, befriended Johnny at the same pub while he had come to search for the presence of Shoemaker, who was again vacant from the premise. He accepted an invitation from her and her roommate for him to join them for a smoke circle at their home down the block. Having been away from such regular social correspondence for a great while, he quickly accepted.
While conversing about the likes of their lives, Shane entered the room with great surprise. The two men marvelled at their attendance and agreed it was a sign for them to get creative. And so for the next many weeks at Johnny's apartment, they began the workings of a band.
Finding other members for the project proved almost inconceivable. Once again young Generation was dismayed at the futility of their searches. He had convinced himself a move back to the ocean must take place despite some early indications of musical magic where he was. On the night of packing and planning, he removed himself from the suite for air and received a phone call from Shane and another gentleman, where they discussed the possibility of them forming the skeleton of a band. Johnny was delighted and agreed to move forward.
Though consistent line-up changes would plague the members for more than two years, the early members of Sunset Trip knew they were meant to persist. Eventually, Sean McGonigal accepted Shoemakers' repeated requests to come play drums and once it had occurred, the trio was convinced the potential was becoming ferocious. After two weeks of rehersal they began the recordings of their first EP. The project was rushed to acquire demo material, but the members cared not. The priority was to share this sound with anyone willing, a sound brought onto this trio by supernatural means. Their first full length, The Destiny Manifesto, explores the bizarre events that brought the group into existence. As they explore the likes of the future uncovering answers to the strange phenomena surrounding them, their melodies are the question...