PunBB

Knight Rider... What an excellent post. Thank you so much for that

knightrider Wrote:He taught me to dance and sing and to be myself.

Amen. Thanks for this post. I hadn't teared up today, but this line got me.

Also Chris

knightrider Wrote:Maybe some new Hip material at some point, but no more new memories, only the glorious ones we had.

A lot of nice thoughts in the post its much appreciated, but this one just hit me the hardest.

PhantomPower78 Wrote:

knightrider Wrote:Maybe some new Hip material at some point, but no more new memories, only the glorious ones we had.

A lot of nice thoughts in the post its much appreciated, but this one just hit me the hardest.

I think there's plenty of hip new memories still to be had.

[youtube]ANgksGAdWrk[/youtube]
Charlottetown 2007. Gord signin the microphone he gave me after destroying it during Fire In The Hole.

He asks me at the start... (after seeing me up front the whole show) "Do you know all the words...?"

Yes Gord. Obviously.

"Well it was good to see you out there. You really made me want to sing one more."

Fuck you Gordie, you magnificent bastard.

GREAT story from Rick Mercer!!!!!!!

[youtube]utSEoGFh1tI[/youtube]

ikky99 Wrote:GREAT story from Rick Mercer!!!!!!!

Oh, man. Thank you SO much for posting that.

Nice post Knight Rider -- "no new memories" is what really saddened me over the past few days. As much as The Hip was about the music for me, it was also the experience. Road trips to new towns, discovering some cool places on the way to a Hip show, taking my oldest to a Hip show a few years ago so he could experience it, camp fires and cottages.

There will never be another band that can mean this much over three decades of my life.

sean.bonner Wrote:[youtube]ANgksGAdWrk[/youtube]
Charlottetown 2007. Gord signin the microphone he gave me after destroying it during Fire In The Hole.

He asks me at the start... (after seeing me up front the whole show) "Do you know all the words...?"

Yes Gord. Obviously.

"Well it was good to see you out there. You really made me want to sing one more."

f**k you Gordie, you magnificent bastard.

that's great. thank you for sharing that.

Thanks for the comments guys, I think it helped me a bit to put something down & share it with you all. Sean thanks so much for posting that video. What a great moment for you & that you were able to personally thank him and have it on video is just awesome. Such a humble hero he was and gave us so so much.

That Rick Mercer tribute is great.

The best...I feel honored for having been a fan that truly gets Gord's songwriting.

So many positive memories...not one negative.

A friend of mine made a great point the other day. It's helped.

How lucky are we to have lived at the same time as Gord Downie and the Tragically Hip?

I read a little piece in The Globe and Mail the other day written by Gord's next door neighbour. I thought it was interesting because, although Gord never exuded the airs of a rock star, it humanizes him even further to think about him having to deal with all the mundane elements of life like garbage removal, leaf raking, and snow shoveling. Of course he had to handle all these tasks, like we all do, but to see it in print makes it feel more like We Are The Same. Like Gord, I also have a black mini-van, ownership of which should probably signify the end cool, but it somehow feels better knowing that Gord drove one. I'm thinking of calling mine "The Black Potato II" in honour.

From: <!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/arts/music/remembering-gord-downie-a-source-of-comfort-in-grief-and-a-kind-next-door-neighbour/article36745297/?ref=http://www.theglobeandmail.com">https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/arts/m ... ndmail.com</a><!-- m -->

We moved in next door to Gord Downie and his family in 2011. It was our first house. We were newlyweds. Barbora was pregnant with Roman and I had just started my own business. It was a new and exciting chapter in our lives.

I met Gord on move-in day. He was outside, locked in mortal combat with his Thule rack, trying to secure it to his minivan ("The Black Potato," he called it). He wiped his hands on the handkerchief that was perpetually hanging out of his back pocket and came and shook my hand.

"Hiya. I'm Gord."

"No kidding," I thought.

Our friendship grew in the oddest ways. Around garbage. I'd receive an e-mail: "Hi Brendan – it's Gord from next door [no kidding]. We're headed to the country for the summer. Can you take our garbage to the curb on Thursday? Have a great first summer together. These are magical times."

Another e-mail: "One more time, my Green Bin is tucked inside my Grey Bin. This Thursday could you slide my Blue Bin and Green Bin to the curb with yours?

Thanks for your help with this, Sir. I'm grateful

Summer on!"

It was usually e-mails about garbage. And yard work. And then, slowly, over the years, e-mails about Truffaut, Cockburn, Herzog, Neil Young, Jean-Pierre Melville, Gordon Lightfoot.

We'd congregate in the fall on the driveway, rakes in hand, and commiserate in our utter disdain for raking leaves. And then, in the winter, shovels in hand, and commiserate in our utter disdain for shovelling show.

All the while, we rarely talked about the Hip. He was more interested in my family. In Roman. In movies. In parenting. He exuded love. He needed people to know that they were loved and understood. And he had such a capacity to love and understand.

I doubt he even knew what he meant to me and my "beautiful little family." He was always funny as hell. Poetic. Kind. I've been going through our e-mail correspondence and am touched at the kindness he showed me.

He was always there to offer support, advice. He seemed like he had figured out the secret to living a full, authentic life. All of his advice was in support of adventure – however you can find it.

One day, he was helping his son get his equipment into the Black Potato after his band's first gig. I had Roman on my shoulders. He gave us both a kiss and said, as if it was the last time we'd speak:

"Look after each other, Brendan. Look after each other. Look after each other."

As it turns out, it was the last thing he said to me. He said it three times. I think he really wanted it to sink in.

– Brendan Taylor, Toronto

potsie Wrote:I read a little piece in The Globe and Mail the other day written by Gord's next door neighbour. I thought it was interesting because, although Gord never exuded the airs of a rock star, it humanizes him even further to think about him having to deal with all the mundane elements of life like garbage removal, leaf raking, and snow shoveling. Of course he had to handle all these tasks, like we all do, but to see it in print makes it feel more like We Are The Same. Like Gord, I also have a black mini-van, ownership of which should probably signify the end cool, but it somehow feels better knowing that Gord drove one. I'm thinking of calling mine "The Black Potato II" in honour.

From: <!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/arts/music/remembering-gord-downie-a-source-of-comfort-in-grief-and-a-kind-next-door-neighbour/article36745297/?ref=http://www.theglobeandmail.com">https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/arts/m ... ndmail.com</a><!-- m -->

We moved in next door to Gord Downie and his family in 2011. It was our first house. We were newlyweds. Barbora was pregnant with Roman and I had just started my own business. It was a new and exciting chapter in our lives.

I met Gord on move-in day. He was outside, locked in mortal combat with his Thule rack, trying to secure it to his minivan ("The Black Potato," he called it). He wiped his hands on the handkerchief that was perpetually hanging out of his back pocket and came and shook my hand.

"Hiya. I'm Gord."

"No kidding," I thought.

Our friendship grew in the oddest ways. Around garbage. I'd receive an e-mail: "Hi Brendan – it's Gord from next door [no kidding]. We're headed to the country for the summer. Can you take our garbage to the curb on Thursday? Have a great first summer together. These are magical times."

Another e-mail: "One more time, my Green Bin is tucked inside my Grey Bin. This Thursday could you slide my Blue Bin and Green Bin to the curb with yours?

Thanks for your help with this, Sir. I'm grateful

Summer on!"

It was usually e-mails about garbage. And yard work. And then, slowly, over the years, e-mails about Truffaut, Cockburn, Herzog, Neil Young, Jean-Pierre Melville, Gordon Lightfoot.

We'd congregate in the fall on the driveway, rakes in hand, and commiserate in our utter disdain for raking leaves. And then, in the winter, shovels in hand, and commiserate in our utter disdain for shovelling show.

All the while, we rarely talked about the Hip. He was more interested in my family. In Roman. In movies. In parenting. He exuded love. He needed people to know that they were loved and understood. And he had such a capacity to love and understand.

I doubt he even knew what he meant to me and my "beautiful little family." He was always funny as hell. Poetic. Kind. I've been going through our e-mail correspondence and am touched at the kindness he showed me.

He was always there to offer support, advice. He seemed like he had figured out the secret to living a full, authentic life. All of his advice was in support of adventure – however you can find it.

One day, he was helping his son get his equipment into the Black Potato after his band's first gig. I had Roman on my shoulders. He gave us both a kiss and said, as if it was the last time we'd speak:

"Look after each other, Brendan. Look after each other. Look after each other."

As it turns out, it was the last thing he said to me. He said it three times. I think he really wanted it to sink in.

– Brendan Taylor, Toronto

Yes, great reminder that he dealt with the daily grind like the rest of us. Except the line about him having "such a capacity to love and understand" would have been so much better if the author had said he had a super-capacity to love.