She was 18 the first time she played Thunder Bay.

“I’ve been playing at Crocs and Rolls and eating at the Hoyto since 1990,” Bif Naked says, laughing at the memory. Back then, it was Port Arthur, a van full of gear and a young band called Gorilla Gorilla rolling through Northwestern Ontario. “We played Lakehead University many times, too. I’ve done breast cancer awareness luncheons there. So many great reasons to come to Thunder Bay.”

More than thirty years later, she returns — not with a band, but with her life on screen.

Bif Naked brings her documentary to the Thunder Bay Community Auditorium, where she’ll host a screening, live Q&A, and acoustic set — a format she says offers much more than a typical tour.

“You can stream it, sure,” she says. “But being in the room together, talking after, playing some songs — it’s different. It gives us a real sense of community.”

The documentary, filmed over three years, traces a complex life: from adoption and reconnecting with her birth mother in India, to launching a record label at 24; from surviving as a runaway to dealing with sexual assault and stalkers; and from navigating the music industry as a woman, to ultimately facing cancer.

What surprises her most is that it wasn’t even her idea.

“To be honest with you, kind of like my memoir, it really wasn’t my idea,” she says. “It’s very humbling that anyone wanted to do a documentary about my life.”

She describes it not as a closing chapter, but “another verse.”

Watching it for the first time, though, brought emotions she hadn’t expected to surface.

“I didn’t see any of the rough cuts. I only saw the finished product,” she says. “To be able to see Maureen — that’s my birth mom — to see her talking and to witness her being overcome when she was talking really hit me hard.”

Her birth mother is just 15 years older. Hearing her tell the story on camera shifted things.

“It was emotional. I really was,” she says. “I could watch it every night, and I cry every time.”

The film also revisits the chaos of her early career: at 24, she launched her record label with manager Peter Karroll, a partnership that has lasted since 1992.

In an industry built on turnover, that longevity stands out.

“I’ve had only one manager my entire career,” she says. “We’ve been through Germany, the United States, Canada — sometimes 300 shows a year.”

Karroll also co-wrote “Spaceman” with her. Their collaboration, she jokes, began when he grew frustrated that she wrote songs with her “little death metal boyfriends” to impress major labels.

Seeing him emotional in the documentary surprised her.

“He’s very stoic,” she says. “So to watch him talk so honestly — it was emotional for me.”

She has never missed a show.

“Even if I had strep throat or food poisoning,” she says. “There was a whole crew. You can not do the show.”

That same mentality followed her into chemotherapy.

“I definitely did not go through breast cancer as Beth Torbert,” she says. “I definitely went through breast cancer as Bif Naked.”

Even in the chemo wards, she was recognized and felt watched.

“I felt I had a responsibility to be very positive,” she says. “They were looking up to me. I couldn’t be a downer.”

For much of her career, audiences have seen her as a symbol of resilience. When asked if the expectation ever felt heavy, she reflects on that period.

“I kind of always had to be on,” she says. “But I think it was for the best.”

Cancer led her to hospice volunteering, supporting others she met during treatment. Almost 20 years later, survivors still come to her shows.

“I always talk with them,” she says. “Every single time.”

If survival is a throughline in the film, so is continuity.

She still closes every show with “I Love Myself Today.” She still dedicates “Lucky” to nurses. She still runs into The Tea Party, Lee Aaron, Headstones and Our Lady Peace at summer festivals and screams when “Metal Queen” comes on.

“I feel like I’m a mid-career artist,” she says. “I’m in my 50s now. Tina Turner didn’t start playing stadiums until she was in her 50s. Why not just keep going?”

There is pride and perspective in that.

“We’ve already survived,” she says of her Generation X peers. “We were left on our own. The fact that we didn’t burn the house down is a miracle. And we still all get this look on our face if we hear Quiet Riot on the radio.”

Returning to Thunder Bay now has a new meaning. Touring has been slower since COVID-19, and gathering together feels more valuable than ever.

“It’s been a slow start for everyone getting back to touring,” she says. “So this is going to be really nice for us all to get together.”

Before ending our conversation, I asked her something I often ask the artists I interview. My wife and I have a 10-year-old daughter, Emmy. If she could speak directly to a young girl growing up today — navigating social media, pressure and expectations — what would she want her to know?

She doesn’t hesitate.

“Never take anything personally. Ever,” she says. “When girls hit 10 or 12, they start to feel everything so deeply. If someone is acting badly toward you or giving you a dirty look, they’re probably very shy. They’re hurting. It’s not personal. Never, ever take anything personally.”

It’s simple advice. But it feels lived-in.

And when the night ends — after credits, Q&A, and sing-along — who is she alone in a hotel room?

“I’m tired,” she says, laughing. “My head hits the pillow. There’s a morning flight. I’m tired, I’m happy, and ready to do it again.”

Bif Naked will present her documentary screening, Q&A, and acoustic performance at the Thunder Bay Community Auditorium on March 13 at 7:30 p.m. Tickets can be purchased in advance from the TBCA box office or online through their website.

For someone who has spent more than three decades getting back up, Thunder Bay isn’t the end of the story.

It’s another verse.