How the Blue Bird Cafe fire changed Montreal

   There was strangely little reporting on one of the biggest tragedies in Montreal history that took place on Labour Day 1972, killing 37.
   Before torching the stairway of the Wagon Wheel Club in the Blue bird Cafe building on Union just north of Dorchester, firebugs James O'Brien, Jean-Marc Boutin and Gilles Eccles spent a day drinking countless beers on a South Shore beach.
   They were so drunk that they drove to Campbell Park where they drove their car in circles in high speeds around the baseball diamond. Their unbridled insanity somehow didn’t attract police attention and when they were refused entry into a nightclub where they thought some of their friends might be, one of them filled up a container of gasoline at a station on de Maisonneuve.
    While a third friend slept in the car, the duo lit a fire on the stairs, never really thinking that the place could turn into a death trap for those inside. After they realized that their attempt at a prank had spiraled into the largest mass murder in the city’s history – killing not only their friends – but a total of 37 people, the trio panicked and regrouped at a bar in the Hotel Colonade at Crescent and Dorchester They fled to Vancouver but were apprehended soon after.
   And although the ensuing trial made the newspapers, it was bumped out of the spotlight by the Canada-Russia hockey series, which made for lighter entertainment.

    The legacy of that dark night can still be felt, as much for what this city has, as for what it does not. Had the 37 dead escaped and went on to have an average of, say, two children each and those children the same, there would be over 300 more people among us.
   And not just any people: the fire claimed vital, young hardworking folk from the Gaspe and various parts of the island such as Point St. Charles and Verdun, the sort of people that you can find in those areas today, honest, outgoing people with hearts of gold and an ability to tell a yarn. They provide a city not just with numbers, but with character and charm. Their stories were frequently told in their circles, largely far from the mediatized chattering classes.
   As bright as the memories of the victims live on, one can often heard dark tales of the perpetrators. One doesn’t have to go far to hear secondhand rumours about those who started the blaze and what become of them. One person told me that they wish no harm on anyone but that when they heard one of the arsonists suffered a tragedy in his life, they felt a deep sense of happiness. Another told me that he met a guy with a dark aura and a terribly foul mouth who he later learned was one of the perpetrators.

    But others such as Mary McGimpsey, who lost not only a daughter that night, but had previously lost another daughter to a hit and run, forgave the perpetrators. She saved her wrath for those who administered the aftermath, treating the victims’ families with aggression and disrespect.
   Mayor Drapeau, in the midst of doling out hundreds of millions to corrupt workers pretending to build the Olympic Stadium, hardballed the survivors and vigorously fought their entirely-reasonable request for compensation.
   My half-brother, who represented those victims, was a young, inexperienced lawyer at the time and actually recommended that they accept the laughably feeble pittance they were offered. It was hardly the sort of tale of justice that would have persuaded me to become a lawyer, as my father so hoped.
    It took almost 40 years before somebody really started to demand recognition. Sharon Share, who never met her father because her mother was widowed while still pregnant with her, has inspired many others to bravely face what happened.
   They are meeting tonight for a candlelight vigil at what’s now a parking lot on Union near Dorchester to recall what happened and hopefully get a remembrance, perhaps a plaque, permanently installed at the site. Sadly, it’s too late for some such as Mary McGimpsey – possibly the kindest person I can ever remember speaking to – and Kathleen Livingstone, who was sadly killed this year after the same fate struck her daughter in that blaze.
   Germans use the pechvogel: bird of unhappiness. That aviary manifestation hovering over Montreal took the form of a bluebird, but its shadow, one that has caused decades of shock and trauma, seems to finally be in the process of winging away from the city.

   The world of the early 70s was far different from that of today. Bank robberies were an hourly occurrence, prison breaks were commonplace, killers such as Richard Blass were turned into rock stars by a lurid crime press that reported on a murder rate far higher that that of today’s Montreal.
    But quietly amid all of this chaos, the Blue Bird Café fire inspired change.
    In the months following the murderous conflagration, the province started the Victims’ Indemnisation Fund (IVAC). It didn’t do much for the families of these victims, it helps out now. Fire authorities started enforcing much stricter rules about building safety.
   The fact that Montrealers now live in a safer, more just city, is a gift partially paid for by the lives of 37 country music fans 39 years ago. Let's always remember them.