Forty Things We Share - Gord Downie

Untitled Part 1

Canadians of my generation share much more than forty things with Gord Downie. A nation of fingers and toes care deeply about his struggle with terminal brain cancer. There is an unassailable truth in The Tragically Hip's music that resonates within all of us. It reveals, disturbs, humiliates and commiserates with the highs and lows that corrugate the corduroy roads of our lives. We are not so much fans as patients that belong and identify with Downie's unique musical therapy. The Hip's reach, when measured by political borders and not the depths they reached into our collective souls, essentially petered out as the music crossed the 49th parallel. This did not deter them. They ripped up the rule book, metaphorically pulled their trousers down, and waived their collective derrières at the musical establishment. The end result was The Hip had a monstrous impact on a generation of Canadians. They cracked the Canadian code, much like a Tim Hortons double-double, stirring feelings distinctly Canadiana that reached from Clayoquot Sound to Cape Spear. We participated in their cult in a Canadian way and not through an American promotional machine. The lightning in the bottle was perhaps the very fact that their lack of appeal in the American heartland fuelled our ownership in a sound that was distinctly soaked in metaphors of Canadian love, misery and insecurity. 

The Hip was not the only musical therapy of our generation. Blue Rodeo, Sarah Mchlachlan and others fucked with our hearts. We found love, lost love, started families, lost parents and muddled through the emotional turmoil and pain associated with learning about life alongside their melodic and soothing stanzas. While Jim, Greg and Sarah commiserated with our broken hearts as well as celebrated the endorphin induced euphoria new love can invoke, The Hip reached for something different. It reached behind the everyday veil of our individual humanity and hinted at something deeper in life, which made us strangely present. Complicit even. Gord's eclectic mix of lyrics and metaphors rendered some hazy narrative that escaped most of us. His canvas often lacked lyrical coherence, but the experience was undeniably impressionable. The lack of intricate definition breathed life into his music and reached us somewhere deep inside. If he isn't the unofficial Canadian poet laureate, he will definitely be remembered as a modern musical impressionist, in the same way Degas, Monet and Pissarro's painting strayed from the realism or draftsmanship prevalent in their era. His lyrics and shimmering melodies, painted complex moods and themes in lieu of the clarity of clean lines used by Blue Rodeo and Sarah to describe love and broken hearts. He applied his art with a swashbuckling energy that captured our imaginations, even if we didn't fully appreciate his message. He captivated us with a musical language of the imagination.

I am not convinced Gord was looking to shed light on the truth, so much as he was searching for what torments the truth. I am not sure he knew his cause. Whether he stood for a religious party or subscribed to a political church. His vocation was to act as a Canadian troubadour, tasked with offering answers and observations before any of us really realized the questions. Therein lies the essence of The Hip's message. Like a glowing spark in the rain, they ever so gently pried us from within our personal tragedies. If Sarah and Blue Rodeo consoled our hearts in the light of day, The Hip offered musical brail for those things we couldn't see or hear, or we just weren't prepared to acknowledge in life. "How fragile we are under the sheltering sky. Behind the sheltering sky is a vast dark universe, and we're just so small", Peter Bowles described in his 1949 masterpiece (The Sheltering Sky). Gord knew this, I just didn't appreciate his insight. By gently subjecting us to his unique appreciation of what is behind our Northern sky, he vaccinated us with his observations of the constellations, one proverbial star at a time, punctuated by lyrics and a vocal style that can only be described as possessed. We were in good hands with Gord. For me, Gord's effervescent vision continues to become clear in all its comprehensible glory, even after all these years. His influence, which was so impactful in my formative years, will in some small way stay with me for the rest of my life. His legacy will leave an impression on generations of Canadians.

If I die of vanity, promise me, promise me,
If they bury me some place I don't want to be,
You'll dig me up and transport me, unceremoniously,
Away from the swollen city-breeze, garbage bag trees,
Whispers of disease and the acts of enormity
And lower me slowly, sadly and properly
Get Ry Cooder to sing my eulogy,
At the hundredth meridian
At the hundredth meridian
At the hundredth meridian
Where the great plains begin

The Tragically Hip - At The Hundredth Meridian / 1992