Right around the time Prince died, my brother and I had a slightly cynical conversation about celebrity deaths.
What was the deal with everyone and their dog pouring out their grief on social media and news outlets? Like, literally dogs – they have Twitter accounts too now: “Nooo, not Prince! I loved chasing his little red Corvette. Life is so ruff!”
Did hearing about the death of someone famous really hit all those people that hard? Sure it’s sad, but on the other hand, have you ever actually met David Bowie? There had to be some faux sentimentality bordering on click bait masquerading as real grief in all those anguished posts.
Then my brother asked me what I would do if a celebrity that I truly admired and respected died. Would I not feel the need to share my feelings with the planet so everyone would know that our world just got a little less fun, a little dimmer? He then went searching for just that person, the one entertainer I’ve seen in person more than any other, a man whose words “provided the soundtrack to my youth,” as the cliché goes. He ended his hypothetical inquiry like this: “Would you cry if you heard Gord Downie died?”
Gulp.
One month later I was settling in at my desk for a busy morning of work when I got another text from my brother. “Remember when I picked Gord Downie for our hypothetical thought experiment….”
Three things came to my mind when I went online to read the Tragically Hip’s announcement that Gord Downie has terminal brain cancer: 1) I’m sitting in a crowded newsroom, so … don’t cry. 2) My brother might be a wizard? 3) F--- cancer.
As my co-workers filed into the office, many of them – particularly those in their 30s – came over and commiserated.
“How are you holding up?”
“Tough day.”
I wondered how they all knew that I’d been rocking The Hip since I was 13 years old. Did they know I’d seen them eight times? Did they know the quote in my high school yearbook was “You can’t be fond of living in the past, ’cause if you are there’s no way that you’re gonna last.”
Then I realized it wasn’t just me. We all had been rocking The Hip for decades.
They weren’t just my favourite band. They were everybody’s favourite band. We’d all seen them half a dozen times or more, owned Gord’s solo albums and accompanying books of poetry, screamed “Wheat Kings!” at the top of our lungs at the end of rowdy bush parties, gotten sloshed to The Hip, gotten lucky to The Hip, grew up with The Hip.
We’d seen the video of Gord acting out an Al Purdy poem, laughed at the line about a fight between “two tough-talking goalies” from a secret bonus track, and wondered just what Gord had ingested before his epic “killer whale tank” live rendition of “New Orleans is Sinking.”
I’m guessing there are a lot of people between the ages of 30 and 50 sadly nodding their heads right now. The Hip made music that everyone could love. For the patriotic types, no band was more fiercely Canadian. There’s a photo floating around of the band meeting Prince Philip at a Royal Gala. Gord is wearing a jean jacket.
For the jocks, nothing rocked a crowded rink harder than a Hip jam, including the many songs written about hockey. For the artsy indie crowd, Gord’s lyrics were treasures to be unfolded and smoothed out, like an intricate hand-drawn map on the hood of a Cadillac.
For the bangers, well – just watch what happens at any show after Gord sings the lyrics “Yeah I can get behind anything.”
The Hip were our musical moral compass, and Gord was our strutting, shouting, off-on-a-tangent, finger-gun-shooting North Star.
I now understand the outpouring of grief from true fans when their favourite star dims. It turns out my brother was right, I couldn’t let this news pass without commenting on it for the world to see. But I’ve got it all wrong here – I’m using the past tense. The beauty of it is that Gord is still here, The Hip are still here. The day after news broke, the band announced the dates for one final tour across Canada, including a stop at Roger’s Arena in Vancouver July 24.
The band’s manager said Gord is determined to “blow people’s minds” on the tour. That’s a strange turn of phrase considering the brain cancer, but I have no doubt that it’s true.
These shows will be epic, and Gord will be up there singing and strutting his heart out. If this really is it, it sounds like a hell of a way to make an exit.
There very well may be tears, but not yet. Let’s just see what tomorrow brings.
Andy Prest is the sports editor for the North Shore News and writes a biweekly humour/lifestyle column. He can be reached via email at aprest@nsnews.com.
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