Rob Siciliano

Toronto, d. 11.December.2004, cancer.

Rob Siciliano was a Toronto based bike courier, spoken word performer, poet, drummer, punk athlete and hockey nut. He performed in various punk bands until he discovered Henry Rollins, and decided to be a poet. He brought a punk rock ethic to poetry: do it yourself; no time to learn -- just start doing it; and do it full on. Rob did numerous tours, hawking Flammable, his self-recorded CD. He was always preparing Flammable's follow-up, but never managed to raise the funds with bike courier's wages.

Rob never let up as a drummer, and could be found on the street right through the dead of winter, playing a mangy old kit with a beaten-up suitcase for a kick-drum. He took off for Sao Paulo Brazil , where people would rather bang drums all night than drink, and came back writing verses in Portuguese. He ended up playing with the Escola de Samba de Toronto and features in the documentary We Are Samba.

The Samba School played a benefit, with a showing of the doc, to raise funds for Rob when he was in hospital, and many members were at his bedside and his memorial. Cancer came upon Rob suddenly, in the form of non-Hodgkins lymphoma, unnoticed at first among the discomforts of poverty like missed meals and holes in his shoes. He died in his sleep on December 11, 2004 at the age of 37. He is buried north of the 401, in an unmarked plot in Beechwood Cemetary, like many poor artists throughout history.

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Small blessings when life takes a wrong turn

Toronto Star, June 18, 2004

By Joe Fiorito

There was a swelling in his foot. At first he thought it was a strain, a deep bruise, whatever, who knows, it's probably nothing. But the swelling got worse and his foot got so painful that Rob Siciliano thought he ought to take some time off work.

A tough decision.

Rob is a bike courier, a poet, a musician. If he doesn't work, he doesn't get paid; none of his gigs provides him with sick leave or any other benefits in the usual sense of the term.

Although after you read this, you might be able to make a case for the benefits of membership in a samba band. Wait for it.

Rob owns two bikes, an Italian Gios and a Raleigh gearless; two bikes, because a courier needs a spare. After a couple of weeks off work, his foot was so badly swollen that he couldn't ride either one of the bikes to the hospital. He limped on to public transit. He hobbled over to Mount Sinai. He slumped into a chair in emergency.

There were the usual tests - ultrasound, x-rays, blood work. Not long after they got the results, the doctors asked Rob if he had any close relatives. He swallowed hard. That's a serious question in a hospital. They said the swelling was a clot. They told Rob he had non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.

Oh, man, cancer.

Rob is 37 years old. His only living relative is his older brother, who lives in Paris. All he has are friends.

The best of his friends are the guys in the band, We Are Samba, a loose collection of some 30 drummers. They play Brazilian music around town. Rob played steadily for many years; now he is an irregular. His instrument is the surdu, "the deaf one," a huge drum, the heartbeat of a samba band.

When word got out that Rob was in the hospital, his bandmates thought it was frostbite. Rob wears ratty old torn sneakers all winter long. Why? He's a poet. He's broke. His head is in the clouds. His eyes are on the horizon. Poets don't care about sneakers.

I dropped by to see him the other day. That's what you do if you want to see Rob. You take your chances. You can't call ahead. He doesn't have a phone. If he's home, he's home.

He came to the door on crutches. He is thinner than a vegetarian. His hair is wispy under his baseball cap. There are angry red marks on the insides of his arms where the doctors have drawn blood, and you can see by the marks they have drawn a lot of it. He was wearing a hospital-blue bootie on his foot. The foot is still painful. But he didn't look bad for a guy with cancer.

How's he feeling?

"My appetite's okay. I get pretty tired. This thing came out of the blue. It's telling me to slow down. People in Toronto are work-work-work. It's time to take a break." He paused, as if weighing something in his mind.

"I've had close calls before. I've been hit by cars maybe half a dozen times. That's nothing, a courier hit by a car. This is cancer. I'd rather get hit by a car any day.

"I just had a CAT scan. I'll have a better idea of how I'm doing when I get the results. But I'm halfway through the chemo. Four more rounds to go. I'm going to beat this thing. I'll be back leaner and meaner than ever."

How's he getting by without a paycheque?

"I wasn't eligible for employment insurance, so I'm on Ontario Works. An irony - I'm okay for money now that I'm not working, but when I'm healthy I'm just scraping by. Figure that one out."

Not hard to figure.

Couriers don't make much in the summer; it's worse for courier-musician-poets. That's the price of a certain kind of freedom. On the other hand, membership in the band has provided him with a literal benefit: We Are Samba is holding a fundraiser for Rob. June 24, 7 p.m., Bloor Cinema; tickets, $10.

A ticket gets you a rare chance to see a documentary film about the band. After the film, a song or two. If he's feeling well, Rob will pound a drum. He may read a poem. One of the members of the band is a travel agent, so there will be a raffle. You could win a trip to Rio.

The money they raise? Nobody wants to screw up Rob's benefits by giving him anything the government will claw back.

Last I heard, there were plans to bring his brother over for a visit. And, last I heard, the party will continue elsewhere when the theatre is cleared for the next movie.

Rob said, "I left the group, but the group hasn't left me. Samba is like soccer or hockey. It brings people together."