Fiddler’s Green: RIP Gord Downie

October 18, 2017 § 32 Comments

Gord Downie is dead.  This is a sad day.  For better or worse, the Tragically Hip have been the soundtrack of my life.  They have been the soundtrack for almost all Canadians’ lives.

In 1989, I worked as a line cook at an IHOP in suburban Vancouver.  There was this dishwasher there, Greg.  He was around my age, maybe a bit older.  But he got me onto the Hip.  I had seen the video for ‘New Orleans is Sinking‘, of course, it was on heavy rotation on MuchMusic.  But Greg got me into the band, and that brilliant début album, Up To Here.

Downie’s lyrics were what kept me hooked on the Hip.  Sure, the music was great, but Downie’s lyrics.  He wrote songs that seethed and snarled with energy.  He and his band also wrote some pretty ballads, one of which is the title of this post.

Live, Gord Downie was something else entirely.  He was a madman.  All this energy, whirling about the stage, singing and screaming and moaning his lyrics out.  In between songs, he told us, the audience, weird things.  He told us stories.  At Another Roadside Attraction, on Seabird Island in the Fraser Valley of British Columbia, he stopped in between songs.  He stopped still on the stage, crouched, looking out at the audience, his hand shielding his eyes from the light.  It was hot in the crowd, I was right down front with my man, Mike.  And Downie looked at us and said, ‘You’re a fine looking crowd.  But I wouldn’t get up in the air on any airplanes with any politicians if I were you.  Because if that plane goes down, YOU’RE the first ones they’re gonna eat.’  I have no idea what he meant.  But that was the point.

Gord Downie was the front man of a pretty straight-ahead rock’n’roll band.  And yet, he was a mystic, a poet, a shaman in front of us.  He sang Canada back to us.  He told us of cheap beer and highballs in a bar.  He told us of lake fevers.  He told us about the Legend of Bill Barilko.  We learned stories of the North from him.

I’ve never been able to explain what it was about the Hip that made them so important to Canada.  I’ve never been able to put my finger on what it was that made them our rock band.  It wasn’t the time they told fellow Canadian Lorne Michaels that they wouldn’t shorten their song ‘Nautical Disaster’ for Saturday Night Live. It wasn’t the fact that they could fill hockey arenas and football stadia in Canada, but played bars and concert halls in the US.  It was none of that.

I have been thinking about this since the night of the Hip’s last concert in Kingston, ON, last summer.  The CBC broadcast and streamed it around the world.  And so we were able to watch it in our living room in the mountains of Tennessee, where we lived at the time.  Today, with Downie’s death, I realized what it was that made the Hip so quintessentially Canadian in a way other Canadian artists aren’t: They made us proud to be Canadian.  We are not a proud nation, we are rather humble (and occasionally annoyingly smug).  We don’t really do patriotism, and when we do, it’s kind of sad and forced. We don’t have the great stories of nation formation other countries have.  No ‘Chanson de Roland.’  No King Arthur.  No Paul Revere.  We just kind of evolved into place.  But, in telling us our stories back to us in a way no one ever had, Gord Downie and the Tragically Hip made us proud to be Canadian.

At that Hip-curated travelling festival, Another Roadside Attraction, in 1993, they picked some pretty incendiary live bands to play with them.  Pere Ubu were absolutely nuts on stage.  And then Midnight Oil were the penultimate band. The Oils might be the greatest live band in the history of rock’n’roll.  Frontman Peter Garrett is something like 6’7″, rail thin, and a wild man on the stage.  And his band are louder, more aggressive, more prone to shrieking feedback and punk speeds live than on record.  I remember the end of their gig, the audience was exhausted.  We were spent.  Surely no band in the world could ever top that.

And then, the Tragically Hip wandered on stage.  And let ‘er rip.  I could see Peter Garrett in the wings stage right.  At first he looked shocked and then he had a big grin on his face.  The Oils had been blown off the stage by the Hip.

The early 90s were my hardcore punk days.  And yet, the Hip was something even us punks could agree on.  Our allegiance to the Tragically Hip was manifest at that festival.  Me and my main man Mike went.  But in the crowd, we came across all kinds of our people from Vancouver.

Losing Gord Downie hurts in a way that losing Leonard Cohen last year hurt.  Like Cohen, Downie and his band were the stars of my firmament.  They were the nighttime sky and the lights, distant in the darkness.

Unlike Cohen, whom I met, I never met Downie.  I did see him once on a streetcar in Toronto, though.  And this is what I always loved about Canada.  And still do.  I met Leonard Cohen in a laundromat in Calgary.  I saw Downie on a streetcar.  I talked to Dave Bidini of the Rheostatics once on a downtown street in Ottawa.  When he was the Leader of the Official Opposition, I saw Stéphane Dion walking down the rue Saint-Denis with his wife, shopping, one Sunday morning.  Our stars are our own, they  live and work amongst us.

The sky is going to be a bit dimmer tonight.

Even the Losers

October 6, 2017 § Leave a comment

Tom Petty died this week.  He was young, too, only 66.  Massive heart attack.  Like many other people, the soundtrack of my life has been peppered by Tom Petty, both with the Heartbreakers and solo.  I remember his single with Stevie Nicks, ‘Stop Dragging My Heart Around,’ in 1981.  It was an almost total radio presence as I sat in the backseat of my mom’s car driving around Victoria, BC.  ‘Don’t Come Around Here No More’ was a staple of MuchMusic (Canada’s MTV) in the mid-1980s, and remains one of my favourite videos of all-time.  ‘Mary Jane’s Last Dance’ was on constant play in the jukebox of the restaurant I worked at in the spring of 1994.  And while I haven’t followed his more recent music, his Greatest Hits package is in rotation in our house.

I can think of no greater tribute I can pay to Tom Petty than the fact that even in my hardest of hardcore days, in the early 1990s, I still dug on his music. Of course, I got gently mocked by my friends and roommates for my insistence on melody in my music.  But I remained unapologetic.

In the wake of his death, I keep reading how he embodied Americana in the stories he told in his songs.  I’m not so sure about that.  Tom Petty’s lyrics always seemed to me to be kind of out there, the characters of his songs out of some alternative universe.  He didn’t sing of white picket fences and apple pie.  He didn’t sing about Ford pickups and football.  In a lot of ways, he mocked this America.  His songs were about the underdogs, I always thought.  Like Eddie in ‘Into the Great Wide Open,’ which in many ways is a typical Hollywood success story, except for the dark undertones of the lyrics.  Hell, one of his biggest hits was called ‘Even the Losers,’ and it was them that Petty seemed to champion to me.

It’s a fact of life that people get old and they die.  But sometimes, the death of celebrities hits hard.  Last year, it was David Bowie and Leonard Cohen whose deaths left me reeling (especially Cohen’s, I don’t like a universe without Montréal’s favourite son in it).  This year, it’s Petty’s.  I guess this happens when the soundtrack to our lives gets suddenly muted.

 

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