VEITCH, Kenneth Brian Veitch

If you ever heard a booming laugh before you saw the person, chances are you had just found Ken. His unmistakable voice could fill a room long before he entered it, and you always knew when Ken had arrived.

Ken found his perfect calling in sound and lighting, making magic happen behind the scenes, where his technical expertise and larger-than-life personality earned him the respect of performers and colleagues alike. His collection of autographs and accolades spoke to the remarkable career he built and the many people whose lives he touched. From concerts at casinos to shows aboard cruise ships around the world, including Atlantic crossings, Ken created unforgettable productions, among them a Beach Boys concert in Nassau.

Kenneth Brian Veitch was predeceased by his “Pops,” Kenneth Sr., who we’re sure had the stereo warmed up and waiting. Ken will be forever missed by his mother, Dianne, and her husband, Tom; his sister, Carol, and her husband, Jeff; his niece, Aislynn, and nephew, Drew; his brothers, Darcy and Tom; and his cousin, Trevor. He will also be deeply missed by his extended family and friends, who will forever cherish his stories around the table and the sound of his laughter. He leaves behind his jamming partners, Colin and Deb, and his former wife and forever friend for more than 33 years, Jenn, whose enduring friendship remained a treasured part of his life.

Ken left behind a soundtrack of great music, unforgettable stories, loyal friendships, and enough laughter to echo for years to come, even as he endured lengthy periods of depression and self-doubt.

Music wasn’t just something Ken enjoyed—it was woven into who he was. From an early age, he loved good tunes and guitars, and he was immensely proud of the collection he built over the years. His guitars weren’t tucked away in a spare room; they were proudly displayed in his living room, often at the expense of furniture. At one point, four guitars took pride of place where a sofa might have been, with comfy chairs scattered around instead—after all, concerts don’t have couches. Ken spent countless hours creating his legendary “Various Shit” tapes, curating the perfect portable soundtrack for every chapter of his life.

He appreciated quality in all its forms, especially when it came to his beloved Bryston stereo equipment. If it sounded perfect, Ken was happy. If it didn’t, he’d be happy to explain why.

He also loved his cars. His CRX and later his 300 brought him almost as much joy as a perfectly tuned sound system.

Ken had a soft spot for animals, but Benson the doorman—”Nobody got by him”—his beloved yellow Lab, held a special place in his heart. Ken was heartbroken when Ben crossed the Rainbow Bridge. It’s only fitting that Ben’s ashes are now mixed with Ken’s, together once again.

Ken was fiercely loyal. He treasured lifelong friends, appreciated kind neighbours, and had an incredible gift for making people feel comfortable. He never missed a game or a morning bevvie with his neighbour Mary Porter, and he was deeply grateful for Angie, whose nourishing home-cooked meals fed not only his body but his spirit. Time and again, people described him as a sweetheart and a genuinely kind soul.

Ken would probably rather be remembered with the music turned up than with tears. So, when you think of Ken, turn it up a little louder, tell a good story, share a laugh, and remember a man who made life brighter simply by being himself.

Much gratitude and praise go out to the amazing staff in the CCU at LHO for their kind and professional care of Ken, as well as for the patient, compassionate support they provided to family members at his bedside during his final hours.

The house lights may have dimmed, but the music plays on—in every story told, every laugh shared, and every song turned up just a little louder. For someone who spent a lifetime making the show happen from behind the scenes, KBV leaves behind a performance none of us will ever forget.