Dear Gord...

Dear Gord,

I was listening to the The Hip’s new single today, a few hours after awakening to…that.

“Just gimme the news. It could all be lies. Exciting over fair or the right thing at the right time.”

You don’t say.

Today those words carry a certain weight that they did not possess 24 hours ago, like replacing your pocket knife with a broadsword. In a lead sheath.

I can’t begin to fathom the impact the news has had on you, your wife and kids, or your mates in The Hip, but rest assured it arrived on the brows of some of us not unlike a Sherwood cross-check would.

See Gord, you may not be aware, but we’ve been tight for years. Decades, in fact.

Okay, we only met once, for a nanosecond. One head nod and a “How’s it goin’” and that’s about it.

It’s goin’ good, man. It has been since 1987.

Around that time, my friend and fellow lifer Peter Orr popped a cassette out of a light blue case and into the deck of his light blue Dodge. I remember cresting Pim Street hill as you hit the Last American Exit, looking for a way back into your homeland, for one last chance. We joined the cruise on Queen St., two awkward teens lamenting yet another late night Smalltown Bringdown. Man, you had some rattle in those pipes then, but your words lit up when they were laid on top of that bar band boogie groove.

I saw you and the lads play live a year later, although the haze of frosh week has left me with a pretty narrow bandwidth of recall. Sorry man, it happens.

A year later you were in the Sault, and my girlfriend Donna and I were sitting cross-legged on scratchy old library carpet at Algoma U. As venues go, it was hardly The Horseshoe, but you guys didn’t give a damn. You had young minds to mold. No worries from our end either. We believed in you, and we weren’t leaving you that night.

Move ahead a year and things get kind of weird. The Sault’s city mothers and fathers decided to piss off a chunk of the country by declaring the city English only. You called us “smart as trees”, and it was hard to argue. My civic pride clashed with my bilingual brain, as I defended both you and my town. I didn’t tear completely in two, but I swear I was on the verge.

Years passed and the stories were born. You guys boycotted the Sault after that, or you were booed off the stage at the Eastgate, depending on who you ask. The truth was you had other stops to make. You were looking for a place to happen.

By the time you made it back here, Valentine’s Day 1995, you had the country in your grasp, fully, completely. Your newest disc had taken a darker turn, as the title Day For Night suggested, and damn if wasn’t the greatest thing I’d ever heard. And you killed that night, erasing any leftover hurt feelings still echoing through the Sault. Turns out we weren’t so hard done by after all.

A year later I made a lifelong friend thanks to two Hip tickets, a girl, and spite.  Break my heart, will you? No Hip for you. I’ll take this dude sitting next to me. What’s your name? Chris? Ah who cares…

20 years later and I’m having a conversation with him as I write this.

I never did thank you for that one, Gord.

Time passes, and we all found somewhere to go, go somewhere we were needed.

You had kids, so did I; two daughters including Grace, whom I swear I didn’t (knowingly) name after your greatest song.  There’s been one boy too, and only the sober Mom-to-be voice of reason kept a repeat of sorts from happening.

(That’s right, Ciaran, you were this close to being Gordie.)

Before you knew it, it was 2006 and we were all older, wiser. Gardens became memories replaced by, as you put it, our “new container”. But one thing remained constant. You and the band were in possession of the stage, always in view. You exhorted us to fly, turn our backs and put our faces to the sky.

Gord, you and the band have left your imprint on the Sault, like you have all across this country. You brought us to Clayoquot Sound, Moonbeam, Isle-aux-Morts, Attawapiskat, Cape Spear, Thompson, and of course, Bobcaygeon (although you really only needed something that rhymed with ‘constellation’, let’s be honest).  The rivers and lakes of this land course and rage through your songs. The pride, intelligence, and humour of its people take centre stage. You’ve shone a light on the injustice that befell David Milgaard, namechecked icons like Cartier, Trudeau, and Tom Thomson, and helped lift Bill Barilko to his rightful place in our lore.

Oh, and hockey. There’s that too. It only makes sense, seeing as your Godfather is a former GM of the Boston Bruins. Oh to join the rush, just like your man, Bobby Orr. But despite four songs referencing our game, you were never That Hockey Band. You are THE Canadian band, hockey being just another weave the tapestry of your, of our music. Each song becomes a vignette; a guided tour through the soul of a nation, and a celebration of all we find on that trip.

You’re our troubadour, our Rock and Roll Robertson Davies; Pierre Berton with a big beat.

And I have a feeling that, despite this new challenge, this Mount Logan of obstacles, you’re not done with us.

With all of the sadness and shock of the news today came a little ray of light. You’re fighting back. You feel well enough to get back out with the boys and give us another experience this Summer. You’ll knock us out with one more dose of your stagecraft, your performance art. Perhaps you’ll even give us one more knockabout with that insolent microphone stand.

Either way, I’ll be there, for a 14th go-round, what the Hell. I suspect an adoring nation will come along with me too. Life is fleeting. Experience is everything. Take it with you wherever you go, whatever you do. As my favourite line of yours goes:
“Makeshift, we are. We imagine us here, and here we are.”

See you soon, old friend.

Timbo