As
I’m sure you’ve heard by now, Gordon Edgar Downie, poet, lyricist and front-man
for The Tragically Hip, has died. How much can I add? What can I say that might
even be relevant?
His
sense of Canadian wasn’t nationalistic, but openly inclusive, passionate,
critical and uniquely lyric. There was a generosity and attentiveness to him
that was quite remarkable. He worked to make us better, more aware and closer
to each other.
Christine
and I watched that final show on the CBC last year and were transfixed, in awe
of what the Hip had accomplished over their tenure, and amazed at how CBC was
aware enough to capture such an important cultural moment, both live and
commercial-free.
The
summer after the publication of his poetry collection, Coke Machine Glow (2001), he came through Ottawa to finally launch the
book at an event hosted by the ottawa international writers festival. He opened
his reading to an audience of some three hundred plus to a poem of mine, from
my collection bagne: or Criteria for
Heaven (Broken Jaw Press, 2001). I was floored.
Apparently
at the Ottawa Book Awards ceremony the other night, Sean Wilson mentioned the
look on my face as this happened. I can’t even imagine, or recall. I know
throughout the reading, Gord read poems by four other poets: David O’Meara,
Karen Solie, Al Purdy and Elizabeth Bishop. I hope I’m remembering that
correctly. The on-stage interview was conducted by Ken Babstock.
I
was already aware of a recommendation he’d made, via the Chapters.ca website (a
post long disappeared). He’d been asked to recommend other first poetry titles
by Canadian titles, and mentioned my first collection alongside first
collections by Paul Vermeersch and, I think, Babstock and Solie as well (the
list is hazy now in my recollections).
Prior
to the event, as Sean and I stood in the National Archives, we spotted Neil
Wilson and Gord Downie walking toward us from the entranceway, Gord holding up
a copy of my book as they approached. How, I asked myself, was this happening?
After
the reading, we walked with Gord into the Byward Market for drinks, and some of
us took turns wearing his jean jacket; like teenagers. He seemed amused by us.
The
following night, he’d left tickets for a number of us for the Blues Festival show
the Hip were doing. I took my daughter Kate, and we ended up in the V.I.P.
section, where she was able to meet opening performer Sarah Harmer. Kate and I walked
home on air, stopping for pizza on Bank Street around midnight (the first we’d
walked more than half a block without my preteen child complaining I needed a
car).
It
was a baffling generosity by a man who clearly had an enormous amount of time,
attention and energy for everyone around him. He made things better wherever he
went, and as much as he could, including, even in the months following his
diagnosis, giving an incredible amount of attention to helping others.
The
likes of him will not be soon this way again. Godspeed, Mr. Downie. You will be
missed.
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