![]() Perhaps that’s why so many seemed so eager to proclaim Downie, and the Hip, as Canadian rock icons, even relatively early in their career: it created a role for him that felt more rooted, relatable in some ways. If the deceptive “ordinariness” of the Hip proved one of the band’s greatest strengths, Downie never seemed anything less than extraordinary, in ways that could be appreciated but, in the gap between artist and audience, never fully understood. And he did all of this with a poet’s poise, thoughtfulness, and, in many respects, distance. He did so with lyrics that meshed detail with abstraction, bringing to life stories that felt rich and lived-in even as they seemed to have space for listeners to find their own meanings. He did so with a stage presence that was less “look at me” than one that you couldn’t look away from, pulling forth his notes and movements as if they were guttural expressions of elemental truths. So, no, Gord Downie didn’t make The Tragically Hip great on his own. It made for an audience that was hardly without tension-picture the boorish chants of “Hip! Hip! Hip!” bellowing over acts that, foolishly, tried to open for them-but which enabled the Hip to become a consensus band the likes of which Canada will probably never see again. At a time when popular music fandom was beginning to splinter-shards which, today, seem as disparate as ever-the Hip bridged underground and over-the-airways crowds. T here’s a perception out there that the Hip were merely a very good bar band with a great front man-a view that doesn’t respect how the entire band (including Rob Baker, Gord Sinclair, Johnny Fay, and Paul Langlois) managed to craft a sound that felt familiar yet modern, classic even as it came fresh out of the speakers. The news of his passing this morning, thus, feels less like a full stop and more like an ellipsis that just trails off, unknowingly, into white space on the page. It seemed like every time Downie’s story had the perfect exit point, an ideal period on the end the gloriously evocative sentence his life has written, his story just kept going. ![]() But I confess that, as it progressed, I began to wonder if it was really a final act at all. I suspect we’ll look back at Downie’s final act with great fondness and appreciation: a man running out of time, determined to make the most of what he had left. Mere weeks ago, in late September, Downie suddenly announced a new solo record, Introduce Yourself, a double album produced by Secret Path collaborator Kevin Drew (of Broken Social Scene) due out at the end of October. Then, unexpectedly, there was Secret Path, a powerful multimedia project with illustrator Jeff Lemire that brought Chanie Wenjack’s harrowing story to a whole new generation and sparked the Gord Downie & Chanie Wenjack Fund in support of reconciliation efforts. ![]() There was The Tragically Hip’s farewell tour-never called such explicitly, but with the subtext clear enough to compel millions of Canadians to gather in front of their TV sets and in public spaces (in my case, Halifax’s Grand Parade) to watch the nationally broadcast final show from Kingston, Ontario. But I stalled, time and time again, as Downie’s final act kept extending into something worthy of consideration on its own. It was less a morbid exercise than a practical one: as the front man and lyricist of one of the most beloved Canadian rock bands of all time, Downie’s legacy deserves discussion, consideration, celebration, and doing so in short order following his eventual passing felt as if it wouldn’t do it justice. I started writing something about Gord Downie pretty much the moment his terminal cancer diagnosis was announced last year.
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