Squeezing onto the Hip bandwagon
By Christopher Schobert, photos by Doug Springer
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Gordon Downie of the Hip.
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I have always been one of the relatively quiet members of the small community of Western New Yorkers who simply do not “get” the Tragically Hip. I can remember hearing them on Toronto’s 102.1—“Gift Shop,” “Poets,” “My Music at Work”—and thinking that the songs weren’t bad, but weren’t life-changing either. Part of my thinly veiled antipathy toward the band surely came as a result of the almost constant hosannas I heard from friends, many with musical tastes I highly respected. How could we be on such different wavelengths? Why is this group so beloved? I began to infer that it might have something to do with their live performances, as more than one person told me, verbatim, “You have to see them live.” So I made a solemn vow that the next time the Hip were in town, and I could get in for free, I would go. Unless I had to wash my hair that night.
Soon came news that the boys—Gordon Downie, Rob Baker, Johnny Fay, Paul Langlois, and Gord Sinclair—were to play “an epic two-night stand” at the Town Ballroom in Buffalo, and I went to work on finagling tickets. It wasn’t easy. The concerts sold out within minutes, leading to many crestfallen Buffalo Spree employees. But I was able to grab two, and quickly reached out to a friend who is a major-league Hip-ster. So much so that in addition to the band’s Town Ballroom gigs, he attended a show in Rochester a few days prior and their in-store session at FYE in Hamburg. I was impressed, but as we waited in line for the doors to open, I realized that this was the norm. In fact, I was in the minority in a big way. One line-mate crowed about attending more than 100 Hip performances. Soon, a friendly fan in a large Tragically Hip hockey jersey (I’m sorry, “sweater”) turned around and offered up the startling fact that he had seen more than 200—yes, 200—shows. I now officially felt like the line’s blushing Hip virgin.
I quickly picked up on a mood of joyful enthusiasm and Molson-and-Labatt-fueled revelry. In my experience, most bands with a large, panting fanbase seem to resent their followers, and in some cases, it’s easy to see why. But the Hip evidence a kind of reverse pomposity—they are the fan as rock star, with a clear sense of what a fan wants to hear and see. I cannot imagine the band giving a flying puck what critics or detractors have to say. Why should they, when the Hip faithful continue to turn out in rabid unison? Interestingly, the band allows, and almost seems to encourage, recording at its shows. Not only were folks visibly futzing with tape and MP3 recorders, but several camcorders filmed away as well. Again, a sign of a refreshingly open relationship between band and fan. Clearly, they are a band without casual fans; it’s all or nothing, and that will probably never change.
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That’s one of the reasons the Tragically Hip seem threatening to non-fans, those who think “Fiddler’s Green” sounds like an assisted living facility. But once the band hits the stage, it begins to make sense; at least, it did that night. An opening burst of “Family Band” and “New Orleans is Sinking,” a song that I always found ponderous on radio, began to hook me. What’s more, as the show progressed, I was startled to realize that I knew a great many of these tunes without ever having purchased an album, and not just from 102.1; this music had escaped from the speakers of umpteen bars in Buffalo. So the songs that grabbed me hardest were the songs that the die-hards probably saw as opportunities to buy another beer—“Ahead By a Century,” “Gift Shop,” and especially, a ferocious “My Music at Work.” Some of the band’s newer numbers, from latest album World Container, surprised me with the strength of their hooks, such as “The Lonely End of the Rink” and “Yer Not the Ocean.” And as someone who didn’t truly discover music until the nineties, an encore cover of Smashing Pumpkins’ “1979” put a smile on my face. Impressive, like Downie’s spastic stage moves. It brought to mind Thom Yorke’s strange jig during Kid A’s “Idioteque” at a Toronto concert in 2003—not a Dancing With the Stars-level tango, but an appropriately intuitive shuffle. Downie is an original, and the crowd seemed to feed off of his every move.
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A fellow Spree employee and an avowed Hip-hater (for his safety he shall go nameless) once told me a tale of being dragged to see the group in the nineties after being told of their stage prowess. His reaction? “I liked them better when they were called R.E.M.” Ouch. But I can certainly see that response. There is definitely a link, musically and aesthetically, with the composers of Athens, Georgia’s finest worksongs. But I don’t see that as a negative; to me, it’s undoubtedly a compliment. That being said, there is something about the band’s attitude and demeanor that will continue to irritate as many as they enthrall. In any event, I think, at last, that I “get” the Tragically Hip. I will not be following them around, nor will I be seeing 200 shows. But I now have some understanding of what everyone else is on about. My sneer is gone, replaced by a dose of respect, and a knowing nod when I hear someone exclaim, “You have to see them live.”
Some of Christopher Schobert’s favorite Canadians are Leonard Cohen, David Cronenberg, and Gob Bluth himself, Will Arnett.
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