12-17-2004, 07:04 AM
Not sure who the author is . . .
I'll just come right out and say it: I'm obsessed with The Tragically Hip.
It's not obsession worthy of a restraining order, mind you, but I'm starting to think I probably deserve a good slap to the face.
Ever since Canada's quintessential rock band played Saint John earlier this month, listening to the quintet has become one of my pre-requisites for survival. I couldn't attend the Port City concert because I'm stuck overseas with my Austrian girlfriend (sniff, sniff). So, to compensate for my loss, I've surfed to Tragically Hip web sites with a consistency and fervour that most people reserve for pornography. I'm sure that seems strange to some people.
For instance, maybe you have only heard the band in passing and you don't care for them. That's okay. Differences in opinion are perfectly understandable because musical tastes are highly subjective, and as is so often the case when things are highly subjective, I am right and you are wrong. The Hip rock.
But because I understand that we are not all born enlightened, I will try to explain why.
Any description of The Hip must begin with lead singer Gord Downie, who gives off more energy in a two-hour concert than Point Lepreau does in a day (even on those rare occasions when the nuclear generator works for the entire day.) He jerks his body around during songs as if he's a highly life-like robot and the guy controlling him hasn't quite figured out how to work the remote. He rants about fascism and shark attacks and the evils of his microphone stand. And even though the band has performed their biggest hit, New Orleans is Sinking, approximately 12.4 billion times - if they didn't concert fans would destroy the city as if one of their sporting teams had just won a championship - Gord still performs it as if he's channelling the energy of a heterosexual Freddie Mercury.
You also have to give credit to the other four band members, because they do an excellent job of ignoring him, much as you would if you encountered such a person on a city bus.
Even on an off night, The Hip are immensely entertaining. When they played Saint John in 1995, they were terrible, largely because they were playing for a rowdy crowd that thought the best way to show their appreciation for their favourite band was to throw things at them. "I love you guys," the crowd seemed to be saying. "Here, take my whiskey bottle!"
But even then, Gord left me with one of my favourite concert memories when he delivered what is perhaps the most vivid crowd warning ever issued: "Every item thrown on stage is a stitch out of your mother's cesarian section!"
But maybe the lead singer's apparent psychiatric problems do not appear that impressive to you on the page. So let us instead turn to the music, and what many fans and critics agree is their best song, (i)Nautical Disaster(ei).
As the name of this upbeat little ditty implies, it's about a nautical disaster, though it eventually lightens up a bit and becomes about a bad relationship.
So maybe we should look past the content. I'd suggest we focus on the rockin' beat instead, but it's a mid-tempo song. So maybe we could look at the chorus, except that there isn't one. But if we look at the melody...there isn't really one of those either. In conclusion, great song.
But perhaps I'm pitching the Hip to you the wrong way. If you really want to understand why I like the Tragically Hip, it's better that I tell you how they've affected my life, such as it is. Picture this:
I'm on vacation in New Zealand, talking to this girl from Austria about Canada, and about how we have this great band back home that only Canadians know about. She seems interested, and a few days later we're sharing a tent that the manufacturer's guidelines say is meant for one person, preferably a munchkin or a hobbitt.
As I lay side by side with this beautiful woman who will become the love of my life, I start to sing a few Hip songs, quietly, usually remembering all the words, and, every 10 songs or so, producing a discernable melody.
"How many songs do The Tragically Hip have?" she asks.
"I dunno," I say, convinced that I've annoyed her. "Maybe 150?"
"Good," she says.
So, in conclusion, if you want to know why I'm obsessed with the Tragically Hip, I suggest you share a tiny tent with a woman you adore. That's the image that plays in my mind whenever I hear their music. By the way, if this does happen to you, insist on an encore. Concerts just aren't the same without one.
I'll just come right out and say it: I'm obsessed with The Tragically Hip.
It's not obsession worthy of a restraining order, mind you, but I'm starting to think I probably deserve a good slap to the face.
Ever since Canada's quintessential rock band played Saint John earlier this month, listening to the quintet has become one of my pre-requisites for survival. I couldn't attend the Port City concert because I'm stuck overseas with my Austrian girlfriend (sniff, sniff). So, to compensate for my loss, I've surfed to Tragically Hip web sites with a consistency and fervour that most people reserve for pornography. I'm sure that seems strange to some people.
For instance, maybe you have only heard the band in passing and you don't care for them. That's okay. Differences in opinion are perfectly understandable because musical tastes are highly subjective, and as is so often the case when things are highly subjective, I am right and you are wrong. The Hip rock.
But because I understand that we are not all born enlightened, I will try to explain why.
Any description of The Hip must begin with lead singer Gord Downie, who gives off more energy in a two-hour concert than Point Lepreau does in a day (even on those rare occasions when the nuclear generator works for the entire day.) He jerks his body around during songs as if he's a highly life-like robot and the guy controlling him hasn't quite figured out how to work the remote. He rants about fascism and shark attacks and the evils of his microphone stand. And even though the band has performed their biggest hit, New Orleans is Sinking, approximately 12.4 billion times - if they didn't concert fans would destroy the city as if one of their sporting teams had just won a championship - Gord still performs it as if he's channelling the energy of a heterosexual Freddie Mercury.
You also have to give credit to the other four band members, because they do an excellent job of ignoring him, much as you would if you encountered such a person on a city bus.
Even on an off night, The Hip are immensely entertaining. When they played Saint John in 1995, they were terrible, largely because they were playing for a rowdy crowd that thought the best way to show their appreciation for their favourite band was to throw things at them. "I love you guys," the crowd seemed to be saying. "Here, take my whiskey bottle!"
But even then, Gord left me with one of my favourite concert memories when he delivered what is perhaps the most vivid crowd warning ever issued: "Every item thrown on stage is a stitch out of your mother's cesarian section!"
But maybe the lead singer's apparent psychiatric problems do not appear that impressive to you on the page. So let us instead turn to the music, and what many fans and critics agree is their best song, (i)Nautical Disaster(ei).
As the name of this upbeat little ditty implies, it's about a nautical disaster, though it eventually lightens up a bit and becomes about a bad relationship.
So maybe we should look past the content. I'd suggest we focus on the rockin' beat instead, but it's a mid-tempo song. So maybe we could look at the chorus, except that there isn't one. But if we look at the melody...there isn't really one of those either. In conclusion, great song.
But perhaps I'm pitching the Hip to you the wrong way. If you really want to understand why I like the Tragically Hip, it's better that I tell you how they've affected my life, such as it is. Picture this:
I'm on vacation in New Zealand, talking to this girl from Austria about Canada, and about how we have this great band back home that only Canadians know about. She seems interested, and a few days later we're sharing a tent that the manufacturer's guidelines say is meant for one person, preferably a munchkin or a hobbitt.
As I lay side by side with this beautiful woman who will become the love of my life, I start to sing a few Hip songs, quietly, usually remembering all the words, and, every 10 songs or so, producing a discernable melody.
"How many songs do The Tragically Hip have?" she asks.
"I dunno," I say, convinced that I've annoyed her. "Maybe 150?"
"Good," she says.
So, in conclusion, if you want to know why I'm obsessed with the Tragically Hip, I suggest you share a tiny tent with a woman you adore. That's the image that plays in my mind whenever I hear their music. By the way, if this does happen to you, insist on an encore. Concerts just aren't the same without one.
