Vicki Fraser is released
I often addressed her by her full name—Victoria Mary Fraser! The exclamation point is important: because that’s how she lived her life.
She died on Monday morning in hospital of a heart attack—on Victoria Day. She was 57. Nine days before her birthday.
There was never anyone, ever, who was more excited to see you enter a room than Vicki Fraser. Her face would light up, she would exclaim “BAAHHHH!” like a Saturday morning cartoon character, and would then proceed to announce—loudly, unavoidably—to the rest of the room who you were, how she met you, and all the reasons why you are awesome.
She did that to me within weeks of knowing her more than 25 years ago, and she did it a few months ago at the Tranzac.
In the mid-90s, she blew into Guelph like a gale force wind, from her hometown of Ottawa. It was immediately obvious that she lived for music: to sing it, to play it, to talk about it, to critique it constructively, to scream enthusiastic delight at people who dared to do it.
Most important, she loved to do all those things with other people: even when she was a solo artist, she’d surround herself with anyone and everyone she loved, would nod them over to a microphone to sing harmony, would insist that everyone on stage took a solo. Vicki Fraser was nothing if not generous.
One mutual friend remembers a first encounter: they were both crossing Guelph’s main street, their eyes met—two total strangers—and they fell into a dance together in the middle of the street, twirling and then releasing. Only then did they share introductions and become friends later. Like the whole thing was a movie musical. If I’d heard this story about anyone else, I’d have trouble believing it. But I totally believe this. That was Vicki Fraser.
She quickly became friends with my band, Black Cabbage. She formed a trio with our violin player, Sheila Gruner, and local leading light Tannis Slimmon, called Crow’s Feet. She was a frequent guest at open stages. And if acoustic guitars were being busted out at a house party or a wedding or whatever, you can be sure that Vicki was leading the hootenanny.
In 1998, our friend Gentleman Reg put out a compilation of Guelph indie rock, called The Goods, featuring Jim Guthrie, Liz Powell, Tim Kingsbury, Jamie Thompson and others who would go on to be influential in the scene that spawned my book Hearts On Fire. (Feels weird saying that, only mentioning that here as context for non-Guelphites.) Vicki was the only performer on it over 30, and the only straight-up folkie. I don’t think she knew Tortoise or Cat Power or Neutral Milk Hotel or any of the other influences on the next generation, but that didn’t matter. She was excited by people doing stuff. She wanted to be a part of it and to help out in any way she could.
When both Vicki and Reg moved to Toronto, they were neighbours in the same Cabbagetown apartment—for almost 25 years. They were friends and, of course, Vicki raved about Reg any chance she could. As Suzie Ungerleider told me this week, Vicki was a “fierce and loyal and loving friend.”
A dear friend told me a story today about playing a show in Toronto where Vicki showed up with a renowned Canadian actor. Outside the venue, she introduced the actor to my friend and said, “You just HAVE to hear her lyrics! They’re SO GREAT!” and promptly insisted the awkward musician recite a verse to the befuddled actor.
Vicki thought we should all be sharing our art, all the time. No point being shy about it. She sure wasn’t.
When Black Cabbage broke up around the same time I lost my first real(ish) job, in 1999, she called me up to tell me that she was putting together a trio to promote her album and that I was going to be in it. I wouldn’t have been allowed to refuse even if I wanted to.
That was also true whenever she’d ask me to write a press release for something. Last year she called to make sure I was coming to one of her gigs because, by the way, I was going to play piano. One friend told me this week that Vicki once “asked” her and another woman to dig an outhouse for her on some family land outside of Ottawa. Not a normal request of friends, but again: you didn’t say no to her.
After our summer playing music together, life happened—as it does. I moved away and then moved back. We’d chat occasionally, but, of course, not enough. I’d occasionally drop by Caversham Books, where she worked and would happily recommend titles related to her work as a psychotherapist. I’d see Vicki at any large gathering of old friends, or at Hillside (same thing, really) and she’d always be the most excited person to see me.
Again, that certainly didn’t make me unique. She was just as excited to see you. And if she was talking about someone else she found particularly adorable, she’d say, “I just want to put them on a cracker!”
Reading everyone’s remembrances this past 24h, people felt seen. They felt embraced—literally, as she was renowned for her hugs. “Come over here and give me some sugar!” Friends felt comfortable with their own vulnerability. Vicki was the kind of person who would just randomly blurt out in conversation, “I fucking love you, man.” Not just once: repeatedly, during any given exchange. In doing so, she made you wonder why you didn’t do the same, all the time, with everyone you love.
What’s your hang-up? Just fucking say it. I love you.
When the pandemic hit, she already had health concerns that left her less mobile. Ironically, the isolation that everyone else was feeling fuelled her next passion project: online concerts featuring all her friends, for which she charged admission and made sure everyone got paid. (And made sure I wrote her a press release.) I don’t recall if she even performed herself: it was all about shining the spotlight on her favourite people, whether it was her musical mentor Rebecca Campbell, the internationally known Suzie Ungerleider, or a close friend who just likes to play. For two locked-down New Year’s Eves in a row, she would stage something similar, throwing an online party with friends near and afar.
During a time in history when it was hardest to find community, Vicki was determined to create one.
One of the last times I saw her was at Hillside last year, when Nathan Lawr (Minotaurs, Royal City, King Cobb Steelie, Constantines, etc.) invited her to be part of a large band featuring people from throughout his musical life. He chose her because her 1998 album, Dynamite Opening, was the first one he ever played on. He’s one of likely hundreds to feel bolstered by her encouragement at a pivotal time. He writes about that beautifully here.
Later in 2022, after a bout of hospitalization, she started staging songs-and-stories events at the Tranzac, similar to a folk festival workshop. Before the formal part of the show, featuring two featured songwriters, there would be a “harmony” session where friends were invited to lead everyone in a singalong. Other friends brought baked goods and flowers. Again, Vicki would announce every single person in the room—at possibly more than one occasion—during the gig. Everything about those afternoon shows was classic Vicki: creating community, talking about original music, and singing songs everyone knows. Four shows were recorded for an eventual podcast. She had guests lined up for more in the fall.
The very last time I saw her was at one of those gigs earlier this year, with one of our new favourites, Nicolette Hoang of the Nobodies. I wrote to her to thank her and say how much I enjoyed the set by our friend Geordie Gordon (U.S. Girls, Islands), who we’ve both known since he was a child, and was debuting new songs. She texted back with typical subtlety, “RIGHT?????? JESUS MURPHY MOTHER OF GOOD MAGIC”
One of the singalongs that day was, of course, “I Shall Be Released.” It’s a song I’ve heard and/or played approximately 10,000 times, most of them in Guelph a long, long time ago. Before now, I didn’t have any one particular association with the song. Now I don’t think I’ll ever hear it again without thinking of Vicki Fraser, whose voice will always be in my ear, whose spirit will always be in my soul.
Thanks, Vicks. For who you were, what you did, and what you brought to all of us. Rest assured that no one you ever met could possibly forget you.
I wrote to her in the hospital last year to tell her as much. She responded, “Aw, bless your cotton socks.”
Here’s a track that Nick Craine and I played on for Vicki’s album, with Steve Clarkson on drum programming, a song later covered by our bandmate Dave Withers on his 2022 record Fires Burning.
A beautiful tribute to a gal that I fucking loved beyond measure! You’re the bees knees, Michael!