A Bearded Man Approaching Mid-Life Reflects on Gord Downie and The Tragically Hip

I had the blessing of an older brother until the age of 5. We played catch and football and played on the swings in the backyard. Around the time of the aforementioned age, my older brother of 9 years moved back to Michigan to live with his father, a man I’ve always — in a really weird way — considered a surrogate father if things in life ever came to whatever’s required for that to happen (thankfully things didn’t).

My musical learnings were heavily influenced by the semi-annual visit of my brother. At first it was White Snake, White Lion, White White and Every Other Shade Of White Animal, comingling with my own discovered obsession of Guns ‘n Roses and New Kids On The Block. As the late 80’s and early 90’s turned to the forefront of the airwaves, my brother’s musical influence of White X turned to Nirvana, King Missile, Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, Harry Connick Jr. and Red Hot Chili Peppers. But his visits became fewer and further between, and as I encroached upon the opening year of high school, I was forced to start forging my own musical path.

I recall buying Rolling Stone and heading out to HMV to buy the albums which received a 3.5+/5 reviews. I remember reading the review for Radiohead’s Pablo Honey, which concluded with, basically, A solid debut, but do they have the talent to go the distance? Only time will tell. They eventually went on to sell a gazillion albums for reasons I’m still trying to understand; Don’t get me wrong, Radiohead is amazing, but it’s puzzling how they’ve gained such success given their style. During this time I was forced to venture into music without the occasional brotherly influence: Bootsauce; Moxy Früvous; Jann Arden; Faith No More; Frank Zappa; The Ramones; Sun Ra; Charlie Parker; etc. etc. etc. It was an eclectic, potpourri of musical flavours. It was around this time I dicsovered The Tragically Hip’s Road Apples.

I was hooked. With songs like Little Bones, The Luxury, hell, the entire album, my yearning for an amazing Canadian band which I could call my own had finally arrived to the quiet city of Saskatoon. I back tracked to Up To Here, and shook my head in disbelief. Then, a year later, Fully Completely was released and my pubescent boyhood had a wet dream all over his Sony Walkman. The release of Day For Night left my head spinning with how something so awesome could come out of the city of Western disrepute, Toronto. I listened to those albums every chance I had. Going out to play pool? Plug the jukebox with quarters and have The Hip pour out of the speakers for the next hour. House party? The Hip. Cruising down the strip in your buddy’s restored 1984 Mustang with a 365 dropped under the hood? The Hip. Eyeing up your crush at the school dance? Wait for The Hip and grab her hand. The Tragically Hip were, needless to say, the soundtrack to my late elementrary and majority of my school years. I was so entrenched into the Way Of The Downie that by the time Trouble At The Henhouse arrived just in time for my highschool graduation I was so sick and tired of Canada’s band that I tried to all but completely ignore them. For almost 20 years.

Then, this past year while I was travelling through the South Pacific, I caught wind via Twitter that Gord Downie was diagnosed with a nearly incurable brain cancer, and his condition was terminal. I sat on my bunk in the four-person dorm, put on my headphones, and ratched up the volume of Fully Completely until I couldn’t hear the wicked laughter of a Kookaburra outside my room. I was crushed. I was filled with regret. I listened to their discography for a substantial remaineder of my travels: roughly 2.5 months. During this time, from as far away from Toronto as one can get, I swallowed common sense and forked over $300 on StubHub.com for a single ticket to The Tragically Hip’s first of three farewell shows in Toronto. The fruition of that purchase bloomed 2 nights ago, on Wednesday August 10th, 2016.

I’ve been to a lot of shows. I’ve seen a lot of music. I often leave a show half way through the main band’s act because everything is too familiar and my old balls boredom seeps to deeply into my scrotum. But Wednesday’s Tragically Hip show was both my first and last Tragically Hip show I’d ever see, and it was beyond powerful.

I’d never seen Gord Downie live. Sure, I’d watched him on TV at 1994’s Woodstock, I saw bits and pieces of his performances here and there, but a full live set of Canada’s wonder-poet was something into which I never immersed myself. I knew what to expect at this show, but I wasn’t prepared for it. Like a prepuscent child watching his friend makeout with the grade school hotty for the first time, I spent 95% of The Hip’s show cupping my mouth with my hand, my smile stretching the entire diameter of my face, while my head nodded and my feet tapped and body shifted back and forth in eagre antcipation of whatever was to come next. For 2.5 hours I was a kid again, but with the wisdom that comes with age to actually focus on Gord’s lyrics and stand in awe of what I’d ignored for nearly 20 years. Nobody and nothing has made the Toronto Maple Leafs more romantic than Gord’s lyrics, and nothing has made me feel as nostalgic as every single one of his songs.

When the last chord of the final encore faded into the cheers of 20,000 people I was jubilant, depressed, and most of all, thankful. I want to take Gord out for a beer. I want to shake his hand and thank him for writing the soundtrack to my youth, and providing a sequel decades later that returned my ego and wondering mind to the state of a thirteen year old. I want to ask him what it was like to want to write poetry and songs with his friends, only to be catapulted into the artistic echelon of that which defines Canada. I want his brain to get better. I don’t want him to go.

Like many Canadians I thought The Tragically Hip were immortal. They defined a sound which the entirety of Canada embraced. They wrote songs which were the backdrop to every road trip, every late night at the cottage, every loud and runny-nosed singalong on a cold as fuck chairlift to the top of a summit. My soundtrack was not the only soundtrack they composed. They touched nearly ever single person in this country. They are my generation’s Leonard Cohen, but somehow better.

I have no idea what Gord’s family is experiencing right now. I can’t imagine what it’s like to write music and play shows with somebody for 30+ years. I don’t know what it’s like to slave away with a pencil and paper, trying to find that perfect town name that rhymes with constellation. What I do know, however, is that when The Hip play their final show on August 20th 2016, every single listening of any one of their songs at a cottage will be a bitter sweet apprecition of what was, instead of an excited anticipation for their next album.

I’m bummed. I’m nostalgic. I’m reliving 25+ years of my life in a single week. I am deeply thankful. Gordie and The Hip will be missed, not only by me, but by every Canadian whether they know The Hip by song or not. Much like how The Kids In The Hall defined the absurdist humour of Canada, The Tragically Hip created a sound which defined, and was embraced by, a nation. It’s nearly impossible to think what our musical landscape would be without their contribution. Words cannot express our gratitude to what The Hip have given us.

Thank You, Gord and The Hip. You’ve given us many nights of cottage getaways, smiles and mosquito bites, first kisses, first tokes, first road trips, and first loves. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.