But, says Halifax songwriter Joel Plaskett, “Their brew is a totally distinct recipe. Their albums betray some obvious influences (Rolling Stones, R.E.M.) and some less obvious ( Sons of Freedom, Rheostatics, Eric’s Trip, Neu). The Tragically Hip, on the other hand, is irreplaceable. Nickelback, for all their objective strengths, can be easily replaced by a doppelganger. These are strange and uncertain times, so: maybe. eight million-but who’s counting?) Will we lament their passing the same way? Will children’s choirs assemble to sing “How You Remind Me”? Why this man? Why this band? Nickelback has sold more than six times as many records as the Tragically Hip. Outside of an Olympic hockey game, it’s hard to imagine an event of any kind-never mind a musical one-that could bind so many corners of this country together. 20, will be broadcast by the CBC and screened in public parks, outside city halls, and in theatres and bars across the country. Says one source close to the band, “They didn’t make a rock record or an acoustic fireside album they made something that has blood.” Then, this final farewell tour, 15 dates that started in Victoria on July 22 and will end in their hometown of Kingston, Ont., where they formed 32 years ago. Softening the blow ever so slightly was a new album, Man Machine Poem, completed before the diagnosis: released in June, the Tragically Hip’s 14th studio album turned out to be one of their finest in years, a left turn co-produced by Broken Social Scene’s Kevin Drew that proved the band was still capable of surprises. The traditional Tragically Hip-filled summer soundtrack suddenly turned sombre. Which is why the public announcement of his diagnosis-which came immediately after the first long weekend of the Canadian summer, so as not to spoil it-was almost as shocking as the news itself. The even more private Prince disappeared one snowy day in April, right after a solo piano tour. The intensely private David Bowie hid his illness, but left behind one final masterpiece mere days before he died. This year has been an annus horribilis, an avalanche of morbidity for music fans. Gord Downie and Sarah Harmer at the “Rock the Line” concert to protest Enbridge’s line 9 oil pipeline. The songwriter has been a close friend of the Hip for almost 30 years, since she was 16 she took her 84-year-old mother to one of the shows that week. “We can’t forget to celebrate,” Sarah Harmer told me the week of the Toronto shows. The improvisatory poet with such a bountiful command of language is now following a tight script-by crippling necessity.īut the shadow of mortality that hangs over the tour is far from fatal it is an impetus to revel in the present, to reflect on this gift we’ve shared for decades: songs and poetry and performances. Teleprompters are visible beside every monitor. Recurring among his typically amusing dance moves is one that evokes a centenarian doing a vaudevillian soft-shoe. On the first of three Toronto shows on the tour, to a roaring crowd of 20,000 people, a physically and mentally diminished Gord Downie begins his set singing, “ So consumed with the shape I’m in / Can’t enjoy the luxury.” But he clearly is enjoying the luxury of being able to perform for his fans one last time, of publicly kissing his bandmates and crew in appreciation, of mouthing the words “I love you” in painfully slow motion directly into a camera during one of his band’s jams, of standing alone on stage at the end of the set, waving for a good five minutes, a strangely intimate moment with 20,000 people.ĭuring the set, the normally lithe and animated Downie-one of the most powerful and enigmatic frontmen in the history of rock’n’roll-is noticeably restrained, employing discipline worthy of tai chi to the most subtle of gestures.
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