From Scotland to St. Albert: The Making of a Musician

Thanks for dropping by to hear about my journey as a singer, songwriter, and guitarist. If it works out, you’ll get a feel for where my music comes from and the crooked path that got me here. I hope you enjoy listening to my albums as much as I loved making them. So, where do I start this story, sifting through a smoky haze of memories—flashes of family, hockey, my first guitar, and that first kiss?

I was born in Glasgow, Scotland, and my family—parents, older brother, and sister—crossed the Atlantic to start fresh in Canada. We landed in Winnipeg, then moved to Toronto, where I’ve got clear memories of our old house and neighborhood, even though I was too young for school. Things didn’t pan out in Toronto—my dad couldn’t find steady work—so we headed back to Winnipeg. I spent my days with my mom, pitching in and swinging plastic golf clubs in the backyard all summer. But soon, we were on the move again, west this time. The story goes we aimed for Calgary but missed a turn and ended up in Edmonton, Alberta. Edmonton felt right. My dad got a job, and at five years old, I made some friends in our apartment complex.

Our last move took us to St. Albert, a small town north of Edmonton—a ten-minute drive from the city back then, now a busy place of 100,000. We bought our first house, and I still remember the pride my parents took in keeping it up. Two days after moving in, I was out front with my mom, sweeping the concrete blocks that passed for our yard. Across the street, two kids in jeans and jean jackets—looking like mini cowboys—laughed at how I held the broom and threw a rock at me. It missed, luckily. My dad had taught me to throw, kick, skip rocks, and stand my ground. So, like a five-year-old Braveheart, I picked up a rock, hurled it back, and—twang—it hit one kid’s head. He ran off crying, and my mom just said, “Nice throw, now finish sweeping the path.” That was my win as the new kid on the block.

St. Albert was a great spot to grow up—close to the city but ringed with open fields and forests, ideal for a kid’s adventures. I started school, and in grade two, I got my first kiss from Judy Anderson. I gave her my apple; she handed me a chocolate bar and a kiss. We snuck a few more at my house until my mom caught us and put a stop to it. Then music hit me when I saw The Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show. I was hooked, dead set on being a guitar player. I drove my parents up the wall, smashing brooms and mops as fake guitars, until they finally got me one. I’d sit on the steps, strumming Beatles songs for the neighborhood kids. But I needed a band—and that’s where the real story kicks in next week. Stick around...

-GB