Okay, confession time. For over three decades, a Canadian rock behemoth has been filling stadiums, their anthems weaving themselves into the very fabric of a nation. And me? Well, until a mere fortnight ago, I was tragically unhip because The Tragically Hip were a glorious, gaping blank in my musical landscape.
Does this ever happen to you? That delicious, almost illicit thrill of stumbling upon a band who were massive, a cultural touchstone for millions, yet somehow completely bypassed your radar? (I call it Cold Chisel Syndrome, but that’s a blog for another day). It’s like discovering a secret room in a house you thought you knew inside out, suddenly overflowing with untold treasures. That’s precisely where I find myself, headfirst down the rabbit hole of all things Hip.
My belated arrival, I suspect, is a perfect storm of timing and geography. Back in their heyday, while Canada was pulsating to the rhythm of Gord Downie’s poetic pronouncements, my ears were firmly glued to the hairspray-drenched anthems of Bon Jovi and the polite pop of Phil Collins. Then came the seismic shifts – The Beatles, The Stone Roses – and my musical compass recalibrated. But pre-internet, marooned in a town where excitement was a rumour, connection to anything outside my immediate bubble was a slow, arduous process involving bus fares and hard-earned pocket money spent on cassettes.
And then there’s the whole “Canada” of it all. They weren’t just a band; they were a phenomenon. Bigger than the Beatles, I read. Their final concert, a national event, live-streamed and mourned by a Prime Minister whose tearful reverence in their documentary spoke volumes. They were the musical embodiment of Canadian identity, a unifying force. Try to think of a British band that has achieved that level of national connection. The Sex Pistols? The Jam? They sparked movements, yes, but the deep, resonant cultural bond The Hip forged seems on another level entirely.
There’s a bittersweet pang that accompanies this discovery. To find a band this compelling, this vital, only to realise their story, as a collective, has reached its poignant end with the tragic loss of their singer and lyricist, Gord Downie.
For me, the gateway to any band is invariably through their front man or woman, or through the songwriting dynamics. And Downie? He’s a revelation. A whirling dervish on stage, a shamanic presence channeling something raw and profound, Jim Morrison mixed in with the restless spirit of jazz fueled sentences that is Kerouac. From the moment I saw him move, heard him speak-sing those enigmatic lyrics, I was utterly transfixed.
And then there’s the album, Fully Completely. Released over three decades ago, it somehow manages to sound both distinctly of its time – those 90s alternative rock undertones, a hint of Pearl Jam here, a touch of R.E.M. there – and utterly timeless. What elevates it is its deep immersion in the Canadian landscape and psyche. The band themselves are a force to be reckoned with, a tight-knit unit whose musical interplay rivals the legendary Heartbreakers.
But it’s Downie’s lyrics, those wonderfully spiralling, freeform narratives delivered with such desperate passion, that truly steal the show. You don’t just listen to them; you feel them. Like a preacher he calls to the sinners and you are converted. They paint vivid pictures, evoke a sense of place and history, often leaving you pondering their deeper meaning long after the final note fades.
If I die of vanity, promise me, promise me
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
Acts of enormity
And lower me slowly, and sadly, and properly
Get Ry Cooder to sing my eulogy
Right now, I’m completely obsessed with “Hundredth Meridian,” its driving rhythm and evocative imagery burrowing deep under my skin. But “50 Mission Cap,” with its tale of hockey and loss, and the haunting beauty of “Wheat Kings” are close behind.
So here I am, late to the party, but arriving with an unbridled enthusiasm. The Tragically Hip may no longer be a going concern, but their music, their legacy, burns bright. And for this newly converted fan, the journey of discovery has only just begun. It might be thirty years late, but trust me, this is one party I’m thrilled to have finally found.
The Tragically Hip are and always will be:
Rob Baker
Gord Downie
Johnny Fay
Paul Langlois
Gord Sinclair
The World Outside the Window 