While Up to Here was climbing into the Canadian Top 10 and all three singles were headed for #1, The Hip toured all over Canada and found themselves becoming quite the sensation, triggering scenes that harkened back to the early days of rock ‘n’ roll rebellion when the films Rock Around the Clock and Blackboard Jungle encouraged teens to riot and rip up the seats in movie houses.

Up to Here came out the summer before I arrived at Queen’s,” recalled Dave Ullrich, who played drums in a new Kingston duo called the Inbreds. “Almost every time I’d go to the Toucan, they would play that record in its entirety. There was something in the air. Something was bubbling up.” Crowd response was getting rabid. Colin Cripps, whose band Crash Vegas had just released its debut album, went to see the Hip in his native Hamilton in early 1990. “It was in the east end,” he recalled. “Terrible venue, beside a Triple A rink. The buzz was big, but they were only playing to 600 people or so. All the elements were there: there was an electricity in the room, and Gord was fantastic as a front man. The crowd was about 90 per cent male, Friday night in the east end, knucklehead crowd: you could feel the electricity rising. I grew up in Hamilton, so I knew this wasn’t going to end well. I stayed until the last song before the encore, and I thought, ‘I gotta get out of here.’ I left. Sure enough, the next day in the paper there’s a story about the Hip gig and a huge riot in the parking lot with guys beating the shit out of each other.” “It was just like a Western movie,” said Baker. “People were getting chairs busted over their heads, and trays went flying.”

Barclay, Michael. The Never-Ending Present: The Story of Gord Downie and the Tragically Hip (p. 69). (Function). Kindle Edition.

The Hip also played in some of the U.S. cities close to the border, and though they managed to create small but loyal fan bases in those locales, the response was tepid in comparison and the marketing was an outright disaster: “Reaction was not the same in the U.S. The MCA marketing department didn’t help: the first press release they ever issued for the Hip called them ‘a quartet from Nashville’ even though the accompanying picture showed five men. (At least it was the right five men.)” (Barclay, p 70)

After a LONG drive home from Vancouver, the Hip learned they had won the much-coveted Juno Award for “Most Promising Group.” Their collective response will tell you a lot about their priorities:

If ticket sales, record sales and radio play weren’t enough to validate the arrival of a major new act, the Juno was considered prestigious in the mainstream media and at major record labels. The band wasn’t having it: “We were always the kind of guys who would get together with a box of beer on Grammy night or Juno night and throw slices of pizza at the TV because it was such a gruesome show,” said Gord Sinclair. “‘That guy stinks! That guy sucks! How could they do that?’ It was weird to find ourselves in the opposite position. We were mortified thinking of someone in their dorm room throwing pizza at us on screen.” The Junos offered to fly the Hip to Toronto for the broadcast. They declined. “We thought if we’re going to be the most promising band, then we should be where the most promising band should be—out working,” said Downie. (Barclay, p. 71)

The Hip did just that, continuing to play gigs and using any free time to come up with songs for the follow-up album. Sometime during that period, Gord Downie suggested they hold a meeting with an agenda focused on plans for the future. Up until that point, the band had worked on songs collectively, contributing to both music and lyrics, so when Downie opened the meeting by telling his mates that he only wanted to sing his lyrics, the request initially landed with a thud. “That was a difficult band meeting,” Sinclair revealed. “Both Paul and I kind of got our wings clipped a little bit in terms of our ability to evolve as songwriters as well.” Baker added, “I think there was resentment for a long time over it. If it had developed in a natural way, Gord would have ended up writing 90% of the lyrics anyway.” Johnny Fay completely understood Gord’s point of view: “Gord wanted to be in the loop, and he felt the best way he could do it—and his instrument is his voice—so the only authentic way for him to do it was to write all the lyrics.” (No Dress Rehearsal)

Understanding the importance of group cohesion, Downie was adamant that the royalties would still be split evenly between them. In No Dress Rehearsal, he expressed his firm belief that “A song that we write is not really a song that we write until every guy’s put his stamp on it.” Manager Jake Gold recalled, “Gord just said, ‘I wanna write the lyrics, I don’t need to be paid to be a lyricist’ . . . Most bands have broken up over the years because of publishing; this is one of the things that kept them together.”  Though disappointed at first, Gord Sinclair knew that they lived and died based on the quality of their material, and Downie had the soul of a poet: “His real artistry is his ability to take our collective experience, diarize it and put it in a lyrical form that resonates on a universal level. That’s why we tasked him with writing all the words—because he’s so great at it.” (Barclay, p.73) In the documentary, Sinclair explained their modus operandi going forward: “We would get together, whether it’s at a jam space or a sound check and start playing something new that would tick something in Gord’s brain that inspired him, and the book would come out and he’d start filtering through it, and he’d settle on something that would fit, perhaps a melodic idea that we had and he would start riffing on it and that’s how songs were born.”

After things settled down a bit, it was time to make a record. The Hip had heard that producer-songwriter Daniel Lanois was turning an old mansion in the French Quarter into a recording studio, and with management’s approval, The Hip chose to record the new album in New Orleans with Don Smith continuing in the role of producer. After the recording was complete, there was still one more hurdle to overcome:

The album was set for release in February 1991. The band, Johnny Fay in particular, wanted to call it Saskadelphia, a geographical portmanteau that spoke to the dislocation felt by a band that played 200 gigs across North America in 1990. Management and label both balked. “Terrible fucking name,” said Gregg. Nor were they impressed by the alternate suggestion, Call Me Ishmael, a reference to the narrator of Moby Dick. The cover image had already been chosen, a shot of a horse in front of an RV park. That inspired what turned out to be the perfect title: Road Apples. It’s a euphemism for horseshit, and in the frozen north, those droppings would be used as road hockey pucks. It was both innocuous and subversive. (Barclay, p.75)

What Barclay failed to mention is that the Americans loved the new title because they interpreted “apples” as “songs performed on the road,” confirming the oft-repeated claim that “Americans don’t know shit.” In keeping with that well-earned reputation, MCA America refused to invest another dime toward promoting the album in the States.

Management knew they had a hit on their hands. Jake Gold gathered as much of MCA Canada’s senior staff as he could in a recording studio, where he pressed play and cranked the volume. “We hadn’t heard a note up to that point, and we were blown away,” said Kevin Shea, the head of the label’s national promotions department. “Jake was so proud.” MCA America was not impressed enough to pay for a video for “Little Bones.” Allan Gregg shelled out instead.

No matter: Road Apples went platinum in 10 days. (Barclay, ibid)

It’s more than likely that the American moguls were turned off by Downie’s lyrics, where “Canadian history and current events collided in the corners of Downie’s imagination alongside Shakespeare, New Orleans lore and personal history.” (Barclay, ibid) The fact that the Hip were dishing out some of the best rock ‘n’ roll of the era failed to move them off their ethnocentrism. They also downplayed the enthusiastic response of fans in those border cities, thinking that the minuscule size of the crowds proved their inability to move American audiences. They failed to recognize that those fans probably couldn’t have possibly understood the lyrics when they were hearing them for the first time in a live venue. They were moved by the music and the energetic performances of an extremely tight band.

It wouldn’t be the last time that an America First orientation would come back to bite Americans in the ass.

All songs written by the Tragically Hip. 

“Little Bones”: I watched three live performances of “Little Bones” on YouTube, and as soon as Paul Langlois started playing the opening riff, the crowds invariably went nuts. I was relieved to hear that reaction, because I get wet during Paul’s intro and come to full orgasm when Johnny and Gord Sinclair enter in full syncopated force while Rob Baker responds with spot-on counterpoints. I warned you about the “sexual reactions I have to certain music” on my About Me page, so live with it.

“Little Bones” was written in New Orleans after a chance encounter triggered Gord Downie’s innate creativity:

When the band first arrived at Louis Armstrong Airport, they were picked up by a large African-American cab driver in a decked-out LTD. When he found out they were in a band in town to make a record, he gave them some advice: “You gotta make the young girls cry.” He also recommended a local restaurant, with the suggestion that one should “eat that chicken slow, don’t worry about them little bones.” Downie thought that was odd, because at the time he was reading Timothy Findley’s Last of the Crazy People, where a family’s cat is named Little Bones. During that first week in New Orleans, playing pool in Kingsway’s billiard room, it was so humid that Downie had trouble making shots because his cue finger was so sticky. All those elements, along with references to Jack Kennedy and recently deceased eugenicist William Shockley, came together in the album’s opening track, “Little Bones,” the album’s lead single and the first sign that Downie was truly tapping into a new vein of creativity.

Barclay, Michael. The Never-Ending Present: The Story of Gord Downie and the Tragically Hip (p. 73). (Function). Kindle Edition.

Though I would classify his vocals on Up to Here as excellent, Gord’s phrasing and delivery are even stronger and more confident now that he’s singing his own lyrics. That said, Gord Sinclair nailed it when he said, “What makes his lyrics special as they are is that they’re very open to interpretation.” (Barclay) It also makes them hit-or-miss, but I will say that even his misses have an odd appeal. In considering Gord’s lyrics, one has to remember that he faced a challenge that Shakespeare never had to face in his sonnets: striking the right balance between poetry and music. Old Willie could whip out a sonnet in no time because all he had to do was follow the rules of iambic pentameter; he didn’t have to deal with syncopation, melody, harmony, rock rhythms, or the need to imbue words with vocalized emotions. Sure, he veered off the da-DUM-da-DUM-da-DUM-da-DUM-da-DUM from time to time to highlight a passage, but the foundation was still there to provide an easy path home. Sometimes, Gord had to resort to implication in his lyrics, simply because the music wouldn’t allow him to spell it all out.

The opening verses are “no-doubt-about-it.” Welcome to the Crescent City!

It gets so sticky down here
Better butter your cue finger up
It’s the start of another new year
Better call the newspaper up

Two-fifty for a highball
And a buck and a half for a beer
Happy hour, happy hour
Happy hour is here

From a literal perspective, the line “It’s the start of another new year” is not truthful, as the band recorded the album in September. I think it’s meant to convey that New Orleans is the ultimate party town and every day might as well be New Year’s Eve. I have no idea why he wants to call the newspaper up, but somehow the line works. I LOVE Gord’s delivery of the second verse, and I think the people who run the New Orleans tourist board blew it by not approaching the Hip and asking them if they could use the song to advertise the city’s cheap highballs and beer. Yeah, Gord would have told them to fuck off, but it would have been worth a shot (pun intended).

After a brief and seriously hot instrumental break, we arrive at the second pair of verses, where the narrative shifts to the greater USA and two influential figures of yesteryear:

The long days of Shockley are gone
So is football Kennedy-style
Famous last words taken all wrong
Wind up on the very same pile

Two-fifty for a decade
And a buck and a half for a year
Happy hour, happy hour
Happy hour is here

William Shockley was an early tech-bro who won the Nobel Prize for Physics with three other scientists for co-inventing the transistor and is considered the founder of Silicon Valley. I also credit him for being the first in a long line of arrogant tech-bro weirdos who use their fame to publicize beliefs that they should have left in the psychiatrist’s office.

But Shockley the brilliant scientist had a another side — white supremacist and eugenics proponent. He was convinced that race-based IQ differences existed and spent most of his career after the 1960s promoting his racist theories and a high IQ-sperm bank. “In particular, he warned of ‘retrogressive evolution’ because he believed blacks were reproducing faster than what he considered to be intellectually superior whites. His proposed ‘solutions’ included replacing the welfare system with financial incentives for ‘genetically disadvantaged’ individuals to allow themselves to be sterilized.” Shockley was also by multiple accounts a horrible boss, paranoid and autocratic. Joel Shurkin, who wrote the Shockley biography “Broken Genius,” told NPR he may have been the worst manager in the history of electronics. (SF Gate)

While Gord is delighted that Shockley is yesterday’s news, he reminds Americans of the vim and vigor they lost when JFK was assassinated: one step forward, three steps back. The line “Famous last words taken all wrong” refers to the mistaken belief that Kennedy’s last words were “My God, I’ve been hit,” which would have been impossible because the first shot severed his vocal cords. His true final words followed a comment made by Nellie Connally as the limo neared the Texas School Book Depository: “Mr. President, they can’t make you believe now that there are not some in Dallas who love and appreciate you, can they?” Kennedy’s reply – “No, they sure can’t.” The false version would eventually “Wind up on the very same pile” with all the other bullshit conspiracy theories surrounding the assassination.

As for his repurposing of the “happy hour” verse, I think Gord was celebrating Shockley’s departure from the scene while raising a glass to the President’s memory. We drink to celebrate good news; we drink to drown our sorrows.

The verse chord pattern of F#-A-B gives way to the first bridge, where a combination of elongated D-E chords mimics a slowdown, followed by another move to an E-F#-A-B sequence where the boys return to kick ass. The two shifts not only keep things interesting but also increase listener curiosity about what might follow. In this case, we find Gord reaching out to the natives for the right word to describe the New Orleans vibe and maybe pick up a bit of life advice in the bargain:

I can cry, beg and whine
To every rebel I find
Just to give me a line
I could use to describe it

They’d say, “Baby, eat this chicken slow
It’s full of all them little bones
Baby, eat this chicken slow
It’s full of all them little bones”

Life is full of little bones—tiny irritants that throw you off your game if you’re not careful. Chill out and don’t let life’s many annoyances get to you.

The chorus is followed by the third set of paired verses, where we find Gord exploring the ghostly vibes of NOLA, commenting on the omnipresent music scene, and paying a visit to one of the many Voodoo shops that cater to tourists.

So regal and decadent here
Coffin-cheaters dance on their graves
Music all it’s delicate fear
Is the only thing that don’t change

Two-fifty for an eyeball
And a buck and a half for an ear
Happy hour, happy hour
Happy hour is here

What follows is a second bridge that gradually declines into a false outro. Gord repeats the line “nothing’s dead down here, it’s just a little tired” four times, and on the last rendition, it sounds like he’s ready to go beddy-bye. My mind conjured up memories of videos featuring one of his classic live performance moves where he eases himself down to the floor and assumes a fetal position behind one of the monitors as the crowd goes wild . . . then BOOM! The boys start rocking and Gord jumps back up to deliver the closing chorus with renewed energy. The REAL outro is an absolute gas, with the rhythm section pumping away and Rob Baker delivering one of his best solos.

The opening number to any album carries a heavy load: the song has to grab the listener’s attention while setting the mood for the entire album. With “Blow at High Dough” and “Little Bones,” the Hip revealed a gift for choosing the perfect opening number, and as the years progressed and they expanded their musical palette, those instincts would remain intact.

“Twist My Arm”: This funk number features a tight rhythm section and some hot licks from Rob, but the constant repetition of the main riff gets rather tiresome pretty quickly. The lyrics give the impression that Gord chose random phrases from his notebook that fail to gel into coherence. I do like the couplet “Martyrs don’t do much for me/Though I enjoy them vicariously,” even if I don’t get the point. I will admit that “Twist My Arm” is a great dance song, but it’s not one of my favorites.

“Cordelia”: It’s time to bone up on your Shakespeare! King Lear rarely makes an appearance in high school English, so unless you chose English as your college major, you may not have read it. I will therefore give those thus deprived a quick rundown as it relates to Cordelia, Lear’s youngest daughter.

King Lear is getting on in years and decides it’s time to retire. His succession plan involves dividing the kingdom between his three daughters, and he conjures up a scheme worthy of earning himself a place in the Narcissist Hall of Fame. He decides to subject the three to a “love test,” in which the daughters are challenged to profess their undying, eternal love for the egomaniac, and those who do so to his satisfaction will get a piece of the pie. The older daughters (Goneril and Regan) know how to play this chump and put on an all-star display of metaphorical ass-kissing and cock-sucking that thrills King Trump . . . er. . . King Lear to no end. Cordelia is up next, but before she responds to her father’s request, she turns to the audience to deliver an aside regarding her sisters’ performances.

Cordelia [aside] Then poor Cordelia;
And yet not so, since I am sure my love’s
More ponderous than my tongue

Lear turns to Cordelia and asks, “What can you say to draw a third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.”

Cordelia: Nothing, my Lord.
Lear: Nothing?
Cordelia: Nothing.
Lear: Nothing will come of nothing. Speak again.
Cordelia: Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave my heart into my mouth. I love your majesty according to my bond, no more, no less.

Stunned, he gives her one last shot, but she refuses to budge. Lear asks, “So young and so untender?” and Cordelia responds, “So young, my lord and true.” The megalomaniac fails to get the hint, disowns poor Cordelia, and pawns her off to the King of France, who finds her honesty admirable and agrees to marry Cordelia even though Lear refuses to attach a dowry. Cheap-ass!

Of course, Goneril and Regan betray their phony vows and turn on Lear, who responds by going mad. He leaves the castle and wanders about in a heavy rainstorm, unable to return to his former home because the bitches have locked the gate. Somehow Cordelia gets word of the goings-on, and despite having been royally screwed in the ass by daddy, she remains true as ever and rushes to his aid. It is that aspect of Cordelia that Gord Downie highlights in the song: unrequited loyalty based on family ties and traditions.

It’s also important to note that “Cordelia” is not autobiographical. Gord plays the role of a typical young man in the 90’s, suffering from angst and nihilism. I believe that Gord intended to shine a spotlight on the disillusionment and despair of the youth in that era, a decade where teenage suicide rates peaked in many countries, including Canada and the USA. Musically speaking, “Cordelia” is appropriately a dark song (in G minor), which “excited Sinclair because he and Fay got to depart from the usual straight-ahead rock rhythm and get into some heavy funk metal.” (Barclay)

The song opens softly with Rob’s minor-key arpeggios and single-note support from Paul and Gord Sinclair. After two go-rounds, Downie enters in his role as the cynical young man who has nothing better to do than waste time (all caps mine):

Angst on the banks, spittin’ from a bridge
Just to see how far down it really is
Robbing a bank, jumping on a train
Old antiques a man alone can entertain

It takes all of your power
To prove that you don’t care
I’m NOT Cordelia, I will not be there
I will NOT be there, I will not be there

The mood shifts suddenly to a heavily-powered display of anger and despair with hard whacks from Johnny, accompanied by a descending figure from the guitarists. What follows is a pattern of four verses followed by the chorus (including a reprise and musical repetition of the opening verse), where we find the young man ridiculing the rite of marriage, courting bad luck and danger by daring to mention “the Scottish play,” and comparing his miserable life to that of a desperate thief who has abandoned all hope of a life worth living:

Tin can man, dragging from a car
Just to see how alive you really are
Marrying words, falling in your wake
Just to tell what you can’t eliminate

Treading the boards, screaming out Macbeth
Just to see how much bad luck you really get
Jump in the ring with your hidden cape
The bull can’t decide what it is that he really hates

Thief lingers on, on his hands and knees
Must be one more thing he’ll really need
Die in your dreams, falling on your knife
A thief blinded on the job has to steal for life

I was in my teens during the nineties, and I had many friends who thought that nihilism and cynicism were the ultimate in cool, and those attitudes have carried on to the present day. If you take one thing away from listening to “Cordelia,” I hope it’s the realization that we cannot continue to breed hopelessness in our youth, and it’s up to parents, friends, and leaders to combat negativity by taking meaningful action to replace indifference with genuine concern, friendship, and assistance in helping them find a brighter outlook on life.

“The Luxury”: In the liner notes to Live Between Us, Gord explained the song’s background: “This is about a man who was sort of down on his luck. So he took to the streets shaking a banana at people, trying to convince them it was making a sound.” Uh . . . there’s nothing in a song about a banana shaker, so . . .

There are references to Quebec nationalists smouldering in prison, sporting fleur-de-lis tattoos, and the now-defunct Golden Rim Motor Inn in the BC Rockies that Rob remembered driving by on their cross-Canada tour. My favorite verse involves the pay-as-you-go form of intimacy:

She said, “and why are you partial to that Playboy con?”
When you can see me naked any time you want?”
If I had loads of money to make me tame and sour
I could pay you to remind of my baby by the hour

The lyrics don’t come close to coherence, but the music is notable for its jazz leanings, most apparent in Rob’s use of a B(addb9,no3) chord. The softer sections are quite mesmerizing, and the rock segment is as strong as usual, so I suggest that you just enjoy the music and Downie’s wordplay instead of trying to make sense of it all. 

“Born in the Water”: I grew up in a multi-lingual environment, so you may understand why I’ve never understood the fuss around multilingualism—and neither did Gord Downie:

Injustice has always made great fodder for songwriters who wish to expose embarrassing offences and The Tragically Hip are no different. “Born In the Water” deals with a language controversy that gripped a town whose name in French means “Saint Mary’s Falls” (or rapids).

In January of 1990, the Ontario town of Sault (pronounced “Soo”) Ste. Marie became briefly synonymous with intolerance due to the actions of its reactionary mayor. In response to the Meech Lake constitutional accord (which sought among other things to establish Quebec as a “distinct society” within Canada) and a provincial law which brought civil services up to date (i.e. available in both official languages) with 1970 standards, the city’s council passed an irrelevant and unnecessary declaration claiming that Sault Ste Marie was “English only.” The irony went beyond the usual unfounded arguments of a majority “protecting” itself against minority rights, since Sault Ste. Marie (as you might have already noticed) was founded and named by explorers and missionaries from New France. (The Hip Museum)

I hasten to add, “and at the time boasted a sizeable French-speaking population.” When I learned about this silliness, well, Gord Downie took the words right out of my mouth:

Well, how could you do it?
Well, how could you even try?
When you were born in the water
And you were raised up in the sky?

The ordinance was struck down in 1994, and Gord’s response likely helped spread the sense of outrage across the country. The music is “sassy rock” with plenty of punch, heightened by the choice to cut the drums on the first and third lines in each verse before kicking into overdrive on the closing line and chorus. The guitar interplay between Rob and Paul is as good as it gets, Sinclair’s bass runs help fuel the fire, and Johnny . . . well, let’s just say that Johnny has become one of my favorite rock ‘n’ roll drummers.

“Long Time Running”: This slow, sad number is packed with emotion from the get-go, with Rob Baker choosing to drench his arpeggios in heavy vibrato, reflecting the shaky relationship depicted in the lyrics. Playing the role of the male half, Gord begins the story at the point where the couple has reached the point of separation or divorce, and unfortunately, a child is involved, trapped in the middle of the mess created by the two warring parties:

Does your mother tell you things?
Long, long when I’m gone?
Who you talking to?
Is she telling you I’m the one?
It’s a grave mistake and I’m wide awake.

Ugh. Asking a kid to take sides is cruel and unusual punishment. In the following verse, the narrator reflects on the situation and employs a metaphor to describe the often long period of denial that precedes the collapse of a failed relationship. He then uses the chorus to justify the denial as “well worth the wait,” arguing that the “long time running” was an attempt to salvage the relationship and avoid the ugly consequences of a split.

Drive-In’s rained out
Weatherman wet-fingers the sky
He pokes it out, he pulls it in
He don’t know why
It’s the same mistake

It’s been a long time running
It’s been a long time coming
It’s well worth the wait

In the next verse, the hubby describes their cliché attempts to light the spark: “Let’s go on a trip, honey!” Diversion never solves anything, and I bet they had the radio blasting all the way to wherever so they wouldn’t have to talk things out.

We don’t go anywhere
Just on trips
We haven’t seen a thing
We still don’t know where it is
It’s a safe mistake

The two closing verses find the narrator resorting to dirty pool and threats against the missus. (Note: “drop a Caribou” translates to  “a clever and lyrical way to say ‘I’ll make a phone call,” since Canadian quarters have the image of a Caribou on their reverse sides.) (Hip Museum)

Well, well it’s all the same mistake
Dead to rights and wide awake
I’ll drop a caribou, I’ll tell on you
I’ll tell on you, I’ll tell on you

You’ve got a boat-load o’nerve
But I would say you’ve been told
You work me against my friends
And you’ll get left out in the cold
It’s the same mistake

The song ends with a repetition of “It’s well worth the wait,” but we don’t know if it’s a continuation of self-justification or “I’ll see you in court, bitch.”

I feel sorry for that poor kid, and I’m sure that Gord did, too. He plays his part to perfection, conveying pathos in his phrasing during the early segments and pent-up anger in those last two verses. The music is in perfect sync with the mood, sticking to a funereal beat for most of the song.

“Bring It All Back“: The door swings both ways. A couple starts a relationship, and either the man or the woman turns into Rodin and tries to reshape their love interest into something they’re not. Obviously, Gord approaches this conundrum from the male perspective, which may be more common because of societal expectations, but women are just as guilty of the crime. The tension in those relationships tends to lead to an early breakup, but bless his soul, Gord offers a path to relational bliss.

Chisel in hand, the male half starts carving away, desperate to find the perfect woman hidden behind what he believes is nothing more than a façade:

I’ve been carving you
To see what form you take
You were hiding in ivory
I just wanted to free your shape

Bringing me down
It’s too quiet to breathe
Who wants to hear their heart beat?

He soon realizes that his sculpting isn’t producing the expected results.

Oh, it’s got to be here
In your spiderweb alphabets
Did I read it all wrong?
Have I just not gotten it yet?

Hip Head Tina accurately interpreted “spiderweb alphabets” as a reference to Charlotte’s Web, with Gord playing the part of a dumbed-down Wilbur. That seed of doubt soon blooms into a burst of emotional intelligence, resulting in a sincere apology:

You got what you want
You wanted release
Can you be appeased?
Can you bring it all back to me?
Bring it all back to me

Bringing me down
The obvious turns out to be true
And all that I couldn’t see
How it was turning me on

Oh, I don’t want to pare you down
Oh, I don’t want to wear you down
I don’t want any more than what’s there
Oh, I don’t want to pare you down

This is a much healthier approach than the sexual struggle depicted in “Under My Thumb.” You gotta let people be who they are, because they always manifest “the real me” sooner or later.

The chords are as simple as simple gets: G-C-D with a slight change to G-Bb-C right after Gord’s passionate plea performed in stop-time. Those patterns may lead one to believe that the song is the ultimate in Dullsville, but the clever arpeggios from the two guitarists and Rob’s imaginative and thankfully extended solo cover nearly every possibility in that simple pattern.

“Three Pistols”: One of the more solid sources on the Hip can be found on Reddit, where thesilverpoets96 offers interpretations and musical evaluations of Hip songs. The entry for “Three Pistols” focuses largely on the music, largely because “the song has a ton of complicated lyrics while the music is pretty straightforward.” The Canadian references are not the problem, as there are several sources on the Net that supply explanations. The title is the English translation of Trois-Pistoles, a small town in Quebec, which Rob described as “A road sign while touring.” The opening verse references Tom Thomson, the great Canadian painter of the Ontario landscape, whose mysterious demise is the subject of many conspiracy theories. I can’t explain the reference to Hamlet, or the woman (or womanly ghost) who “waits in the shadows ’til after dark” to gather the flowers little girls placed over graves on Remembrance Day (what the yanks know as Veterans Day). The three pistols are equally elusive.

While I can’t provide an accurate translation, I can share what I believe is the essence of the song, and that begins with the ghost of Tom Thomson (italics mine):

Well, Tom Thomson came paddling past
I’m pretty sure it was him
And he spoke so softly in accordance
To the growing of the dim
He said, “bring on the brand new renaissance
‘Cause I think I’m ready
When I was shaking all night long
But my hands were steady”

The italicized phrase is repeated later in the song, but this time it’s Gord Downie speaking:

I say, bring on the brand new renaissance
‘Cause I think I’m ready
I’ve been shaking all night long
But my hands are steady

I believe that the song is Gord’s attempt to encourage his fellow citizens to “bring on the brand new renaissance,” exactly what he was trying to do while shaking all night long on the stage. The love affair between Gord and his Canadian audience was a two-way street: they loved him for his music, and he believed in their unlimited potential. The Hip never cottoned to American-style patriotism; they loved their homeland because of its ethos, “the characteristic spirit of a culture, era, or community as manifested in its beliefs and aspirations.”

The message in the music couldn’t be clearer—bring on the heat and rock the fuck out, baby! The big booming bass from Sinclair, the power-laden guitars from Rob and Paul mixing power chords with sharp, muffled-string attacks, and another muscular performance from Johnny on the kit supplies Gord with all the power he needs to deliver one of his strongest and most memorable vocals.

“Fight”: Rob Baker steals the show in this blues-rock number, varying his attack from soulful to kick-ass, shifting tones and holding notes like a champ, and throwing in a bit of wah-wah for good measure. I can’t believe that this guy isn’t on any of the greatest guitarist lists, and I urge the Canadians to launch a protest against such an outrage. Gord’s lyrics about a bickering couple are pretty ho-hum, so just sit back and listen to the guy with the Strat.

“On the Verge”: Geez, did these guys ever get tired? Yes, Gord got tired in “Little Bones,” but he was just playing a part. In nearly every live video I’ve seen Gord is drenched in sweat. “On the Verge” is another wild ride through rock ‘n’ roll heaven, and praise the lord or whoever, this one earned an E rating for explicit language. Internet users seemed baffled by the lyrics, and I’ll admit that I find some of the lyrics inpenetrable. Most of the evidence points to New Orleans, so I’m going down that road.

The arpeggios in the intro give way to straight-down-the-highway rock ‘n’ roll. They only stop once (probably to take a leak) and slow down only for a short while as the traffic gets a bit heavy. You can pierce through the alleged mystery of the lyrics if you employ the equation (On the verge = horny as fuck) and translate “headlong walkers” to “hookers.”

Here we are now where are we?
It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen
We got horse-throated huckster’s whispered gimmicks
Rubbernecking all the curious cynics
And headlong walkers, one born every minute
Do I plug it in or do I stick it in it?

Well, I don’t know what came over me
I’m too dumb for words
Well, I didn’t think I’d like it here at all
But I swear, I swear I’m on the verge

Here we are now who are you?
The long-lost queens of some hoodoo?
Well, we’re the last of the big-time penetrators
Playing dead to fuck the undertaker
The movie’ll come out a little bit later
The Men, The Legend, The Goat, The Saytr

You mean all the boys in the band were “big-time” penetrators? Wow! Too bad they didn’t release this as a single with them strolling down Bourbon Street with their pants bulging with erections. And “fuck the undertaker?” No thanks! Goth chicks might fuck an undertaker, but not me! All kidding aside, I’m pretty sure that Gord is playing the part of a super-macho dude, and the “we” refers to the other super-macho dudes he hangs with.

In the final verse, Gord’s alter ego leaves New Orleans or wherever in a fast car equipped with a hot chick. And after plugging it in, sticking it in, and bonking the undertaker, he’s still horny! This is seven years before Viagra!

Here we are, now don’t ask how
The time to leave was kind of now
Don’t cry, baby, there’s no cause for grief
Deadheading’s never going to kill the chief
It’s an empty road without relief
And I’m a highway romance milking thief!

I don’t think “deadheading” refers to snipping off dead flowers or has anything to do with the lumber trade. I think he’s referring to his allegedly overworked penis and ensuring his lady friend that, “I’m always ready for more.” If she has any sense, she’ll get out at the next truck stop.

“Fiddler’s Green”: The mood shift from “On the Verge” to “Fiddler’s Green” can be measured in light-years. The soft acoustic guitar that opens the song may feel welcome after the intensity of “On the Verge,” but things are going to get pretty rough—emotionally rough—in a minute.

Gord Sinclair brought the acoustic guitar arrangement to the band for consideration. Rob Baker remembered his reaction in the documentary: “I just thought, Wow, that is really . . . it’s like a nice sort of lifting Celtic thing.” Gord Downie liked it as well, but he heard a certain sense of melancholy in the melody. After they recorded the song, Gord sent a letter to his sister Charlyn with a copy of the song attached. Charlyn read the letter in No Dress Rehearsal:

This is the letter I have from Gord where he introduces the song “Fiddler’s Green” to us. “Dear Char and Jamie: This is the song I was telling you about that I wrote for Charles. It’s called ‘Fiddler’s Dream,’ which means ‘sailor’s heaven.’ I like to think of my little man this way.”

Charles Gillespie had died at the age of five from a congenital heart condition. Gord Sinclair’s brother Colin had passed away from the same type of heart failure a few years earlier. Despite the song’s popularity with fans, the Hip would not perform the song live for another fifteen years because it was too much for the two Gords to take. I had to force myself to listen to the song the requisite three times, and it took three days for me to finally listen to it in stops and starts. The line “His tiny knotted heart” crushed me every time.

The song is part elegy and part “lullaby for grieving parents,” as described by Rob Baker. The nautical references connect with Gord’s mention of “sailor’s heaven.”

September seventeen
For a girl I know it’s Mother’s Day
Her son has gone alee
And that’s where he will stay
Wind on the weathervane
Tearing blue eyes sailor-mean
As Falstaff sings a sorrowful refrain
For a boy in Fiddler’s Green

His tiny knotted heart
Well, I guess it never worked too good
The timber tore apart
And the water gorged the wood
You can hear her whispered prayer
For men at masts that always lean
The same wind that moves her hair
Moves a boy through Fiddler’s Green

Oh, nothing’s changed anyway
Oh, nothing’s changed anyway
Oh, any time today

He doesn’t know a soul
There’s nowhere that he’s really been
But he won’t travel long alone
No, not in Fiddler’s Green
Balloons all filled with rain
As children’s eyes turn sleepy-mean
And Falstaff sings a sorrowful refrain
For a boy in Fiddler’s Green

According to Wikipedia, Fiddler’s Green is an afterlife where there is perpetual mirth, a fiddle that never stops playing, and dancers who never tire. I hope that is true for the boy’s sake.

You may wonder why Gord chose Falstaff, the comic character of the Henry V plays and The Merry Wives of Windsor. The answer is in the latter play, in the elegy to Falstaff spoken by Mistress Quickly:

Nay, sure, he’s not in hell! He’s in Arthur’s bosom, if ever man went to Arthur’s bosom. He made a finer end, and went away an it had been any christom child. He parted ev’n just between twelve and one, ev’n at the turning o’ th’ tide; for after I saw him fumble with the sheets and play with flowers and smile upon his finger’s end, I knew there was but one way, for his nose was as sharp as a pen and he talked of green fields.

Befitting an elegy, the song contains a minimum of musical ornamentation: the slow arpeggios on the acoustic guitar, a few counterpoints here and there, and Johnny keeping the beat on the kick drum. Gord’s vocals are respectful, mournful, and beautifully sincere. The positive takeaways are that “Fiddler’s Green” confirmed that the Hip could take their music in many directions and that allowing Gord Downie to write all the lyrics was a brilliant decision.

“The Last of the Unplucked Gems”: It would have been cruel to close the album with “Fiddler’s Green,” so this short and not-so-sweet piece was created in the studio to fill the gap. “. . . the album’s closing track, ‘Last of the Unplucked Gems,’ was created while improvising in the studio. ‘I remember a review in the Globe,’ recalled Downie, ‘that was generally derisive. I don’t know who wrote it—I can think of maybe a half dozen guys there who didn’t like us—but it said ‘Last of the Unplucked Gems’ was a good sign for things to come. I totally agreed with that. The whole record was okay, but that was a new direction. It ushered in a new era of being able to write—I don’t know, diaphanously, or something.’” (Barclay, pp. 74-75). I don’t think I would characterize the music in the song as translucent, but it does have a more reflective, introverted feel. The lyrics consist of a total of eleven lines that might connect to the nihilist in “Cordelia,” or express frustration with those critics who didn’t like them.

Violins and tambourines
This is what we think they mean
It’s hard to say, it’s sad but true
I’m kinda dumb and so are you

When the mystique varies thus
You can send a man to bury us
It’s hard to say, it’s sad but true
I’m kinda dumb and so are you

The last of the unplucked gems
The last of the unplucked gems
The last of the unplucked gems

Deficiencies aside, “The Last of the Unplucked Gems” is a great closing song because the gentleness of the music encourages a reflective mood, allowing the listener time to take in the full experience of Road Apples.

*****

Road Apples marked the beginning of a streak that resulted in six consecutive #1 albums. The connection between the Hip and their fans would prove to be unbreakable, and one of the best explanations of that bond can be found in an article written by Lindsay Pereira, a Canadian immigrant: “How the Hip gave writer Lindsay Pereira the key to understanding not just a culture, but a people.”

What the Hip gave me, eventually, was a key to understanding not just a culture but a people. The band’s songs reflected the hopes and aspirations of city dwellers as well as small towners, recognising a commonality in this shared experience that I began to appreciate as an outsider. The people wearing “In Gord we Trust” T-shirts weren’t just fans; they were identifying themselves as members of a club that had used this music as a soundtrack to their lives.

The songs were like sonic milestones, marking loves, losses and a thousand tiny, incendiary moments. The Hip sang about what it knew, which made its music deeply, intensely personal. Everything the band played celebrated the notion of something eternal tucked away within the perfectly ordinary, which is probably why the Hip’s music resonates with as many people as it continues to.

I’ll continue my exploration of the Hip with a review of Fully Completely in a few weeks.

Next week I will be reviewing an album that is the most poorly-rated effort in the band’s long career, an album that consists of five very long tracks, one of which was edited down to a single that did fairly well. Why am I covering an album that critics labeled a stinker? Because I don’t think it’s a stinker and I love the drummer!