by Mike Mandel
The wrong place at the wrong time…
Today is a very sad day for my wife and me, and I had no plan whatsoever to write this.
The topic I’d originally chosen was quite different, but as I began writing, I felt prompted by my unconscious mind to write this instead, and deal with the underlying emotions. So I ask you to indulge me as I continue to process my grief.
In 1978, when I’d been performing onstage for three years, I got the opportunity to step up my game with a much bigger show. I’ve mentioned before how companies in Las Vegas, Huntsville Alabama, and Toronto helped create my space show, which took hypnotic subjects into outer space.
It was certainly timely, given the popularity of Star Trek, Star Wars, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and the like. Essentially, the show turned the stage into the bridge of a starship, with digital dissolves, rear-screen projectors, explosives, an amazing soundtrack, and fiber optic effects. I would “beam” onstage to the delight of the audience.
The space show was large, and required volunteers at an event to help at the loading dock, a three-hour setup time, and a ninety-minute teardown after the show.
For all this, we needed a road crew to run the sound, lights, and extensive pyrotechnics. To that end, we hired a Toronto company called Audience Audio, owned by a group of brothers who all had extensive experience in the Canadian rock band scene. It’s actually how I met my wife Heather, the only girl among the siblings.
Although I got along fine with the other brothers, one of them, Bruce, was by far my favorite.
Bruce had a mischievous streak and a great sense of humor. He also had a speech impediment that made it difficult for him to pronounce the letter R, and strangers often thought he had some sort of foreign accent.
But Bruce was so likable that, within minutes of meeting him, nobody even noticed his speech issue. He just sounded like the rest of us.
Bruce was a go-getter with a legendary amount of energy. I remember one night when our crew crossed the border from Edmundston, New Brunswick, into Madawaska, Maine, after a show. I won’t go into the details, but it was a crazy and hilarious night—and yes, beer may have been involved.
After crashing out at 2 a.m., Bruce and Bizzy (another crew member) were up and hard at work for the three-hour setup needed for a 10 a.m. show. As the performer, I was allowed to sleep in. Bizzy looked worse for wear, but Bruce, with the constitution of an ox, was unstoppable.
Thinking back, I have dozens of fond memories involving Bruce.
He was generous to everyone and always willing to lend a hand. Known as a super-nice guy, he was optimistic, upbeat, and a great friend to all.
As a sound technician and road manager, Bruce was second to none. His reputation preceded him from coast to coast, and everyone seemed to have a “Bruce story.” For instance, when he and another roadie drove the space show from Toronto to Colorado so I could fly down and perform at a nightclub in Vail, U.S. Customs asked why they were heading to Colorado. Bruce replied, “I’m going skiing.” They didn’t question the truck stuffed with staging, sound, and lighting equipment—they just waved them through.
Then there was the time he showed up at his parents’ house for Christmas with an entire case of Mumm’s champagne, which he shared with his usual generosity. Or the time he drove without incident from Vancouver to Toronto and rolled the truck just a few blocks from his house.
Years later, my wife and I bought a small cabin on Bob Lake near Minden, Ontario, just four cottages down from Bruce’s. He became a fixture in our lives, always puttering around in his garden or on his dock with his boat—or someone else’s.
But as I’m writing this, it’s the first anniversary of Bruce’s tragic death.

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A world traveler par excellence, Bruce went everywhere: Russia, Australia, Europe, the Falkland Islands, and countless other places, including two trips to Fiji.
One year ago today, we got a call from Bruce’s brother Wayne, who could barely hold it together as he told my wife that her beloved brother—the only one who ever took the time to call her on her Christmas Day birthday—had died tragically while on vacation in Cuba.
Bruce drowned in the ocean. He was most likely caught in a riptide, even though he was a good swimmer. The autopsy revealed severe heart disease, and I prefer to think that the heart condition took his life, rather than the sea.
Just the wrong place to be at that moment.
It’s so sad, and I’m glad that at least my last memory of Bruce is a very good one.
Back in the fall of 2023 Michael C. Anthony and Chris Thompson were my guests at our small rustic cabin. At 9 p.m. there was a knock at the door.
It was Bruce. He’d seen the lights and decided to drop in to say hello. Bruce already knew Michael, and I introduced him to Chris before handing him a nice glass of Irish whiskey. He stayed for two hours, and the four of us shared stories, laughed, and just hung out. Bruce fit in with our group as though he’d always been part of it.
I treasure that night because it’s a great last memory of a great guy.
And last year, at Canada’s Juno Awards, which honor musicians and songwriters, the organizers did something new, and Bruce was honored too in a new category: Sound Technician and Tour Manager.
That’s something he would have loved.
We miss him terribly, and after a year, the grief is still fresh. When I’m at our cabin, it’s painful to drive past his place, expecting to see him outside. But he’s never there.
My wife and I have a new tradition: We toast Bruce every suppertime.
We always will.
Bruce’s untimely death is a reminder to cherish the people in our lives while we still have them—and while they still have us.
Rest in Peace Bruce.