"Tony Balony is the first, finest, and to date only, legit guitar hero of the Vancouver punk/new wave scene, a player for whom the adjectives "gangling" and "rubbery" are barely adequate. Onstage at the Smiling Buddha it's frightening enough that within the space of one song he wrenches sounds that combine the atonality of Captain Beefheart, the pop-savvy and flash of Jeff Beck in his Yarbirds prime and the synapse-melting sonics of Syd Barrett-era pink Floyd out of a $100 Fender Telecaster copy and a borrowed amplifier but when he lets slip after a few post-gig lagers that he's not quite of legal age to be in the skid row club to begin with, much less headlining there, the mind fairly boggles."
- Brian O'Nolan, The Georgia Straight

That now-yellowed clipping was only the first in a career that has now survived going on three decades, during which a wearying list of passing fancies and momentary enthusiasms has come and gone - the new romantics, Goth, the new wave of heavy metal, grunge, ad infinitum.

It's a testimony to the lad that in all that time and all those "scenes", the (still gangling) Anthony Walker, as indeed he was christened these years ago in North Vancouver, has never once comfortably fit in to any of them. What Walker has been throughout that time is simply one of the best songwriters and guitarists to ever come out of the West Coast.

A little history, then - during the early days of the Vancouver punk scene, now justly regarded in terms of sheer talent amassed in one place as the equal of London or New York, a still too young and often too drunk to drive Anthony Walker was front and center at shows by DOA, The Pointed Sticks, Young Canadians, Active Dog, Modernettes and others. Already a ferocious guitarist when Active Dog disbanded he wangled an audition for Antheads, the new group being assembled by the group's bassist and songwriter, Mooch Flamand, to which he arrived carrying his guitar in a garbage bag and it was that discount carrying case that earned him the nickname Balony. Or it may be simply that it rhymed with Tony, who can remember and how could it matter anyway?

More to the point, it was in this band that young Walker made his debut as a professional musician and embarked upon the usual course of endless rehearsals, countless gigs, and minimal paydays, pausing only to release instantly obscure records. What was apparent even in those early shows was that Walker was one of the special ones, what they call in genetics a "sport", a pure fluke of evolution that cannot be replicated.

For one he was a flat out monster of a guitar player who cared less about solos than he did about songs. Beyond that he could write the damn things as well as anyone could and from the first he had what the critics call "a unique voice", in that despite the fact he had obviously gone to school with the best songwriting of the late 20th century and wore his influences proudly - from the Stones, Hendrix, and Bowie through to Sex Pistols and Iggy - what came out was undeniably Tony Walker, or pure Balony, as they case may be.

Walker released the Hash Assassin/Vagabond single with his then-band The Actionauts, a brilliant post-punk, neo-psychedelic pop masterpiece based on Hassan bin Sabbah, the legendary Old Man of the Mountain, founder and grand master of a radical Islamic sect in the 11th century who created a cult of assassins known as the Hashishin from their habit of smoking hashish before their (usually fatal) missions. The single (released on Zulu Records) now fetches exorbitant sums from collectors.

More recently, Walker co-founded the Real McKenzies, a group put together as a one-off to celebrate the joys of Scotch and all other things Scots. So good was the joke that Walker spent the next 7 years touring the world in a kilt, releasing 3 albums and becoming a MuchMusic staple with the national hit Mainland, which Walker wrote and sang(from Clash of the Tartans, on Sudden Death Records.) This did not sit well with the group's alleged lead singer, who had little to do with Tony center-stage but pluck the cat hair off his sporran and think of amusing things to say between songs.

And so Walker's tenure with the group ended, and in deciding what to do next, the fates roused themselves and lent a hand. At a drunken jam in the trackless wastes of Surrey, which even he can't explain how he came to be there in the first place, Walker made the acquaintance of one Walter Brady, an even more gangling fellow who - cue eerie music - turned out to be a childhood neighbour of Walker's on the North Shore although they had never met until this fateful evening - who also happened to be a classically trained piano prodigy who, to escape the stress of university level theory courses had picked up the bass in order to actually enjoy music for a change.

Fulfillment of biblical prophecy? Cosmic alignment of the planets? Pure chance? Dumb luck? Who can say but before the hangovers had fully cleared the Tony Balony and the Rubes was born as a three-piece with the addition of Toronto drummer (Crash Kills 5) Alex Koch, and Walker found himself on a writing binge, set free stylistically by the knowledge that none of the material need be about scotch, moors or haggis and that he himself would be singing his own songs.

Tony Balony and the Rubes emerged for its first shows with an arsenal of smart, hard, loud guitar pop, each song the kind that attaches itself to the brain center with fishhooks and refuses to leave, ever. They set both attendance and bar sales records at one of their first shows, at the Railway Club. They became headliners almost instantly because no band would ever let them open for them twice. They recorded an album's worth of material and put it out on their own label, sold millions of copies and now spend their time between sold out stadium tours relaxing on the South Seas Island they bought from Marlon Brando's estate with the billions of dollars (US) they earned. Bare-skinned, long-limbed teenage wenches scurry about the compound mixing drinks and dancing in the surf while Anthony Walker adjusts his (still gangly) frame in the woven grass hammock where . actually, most of what happened after the business about recording an album is less than 100 per-cent accurate, although it would surprise no one with an iota of taste or love for fine guitar noise and catchy choruses if it worked out that way.

And in a better world, it doubtless already has.

- John Armstrong, award-winning music journalist and author of the best-selling book Guilty of Everything.

Feel free to email any comments gripes, drink recipes or other info to info@tonybalony.com