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This newsletter is an extension of the 2022 Summer Album Guide, and will evolve to include writing about the community, the city and the world in areas other than hot vinyl and vital music. But for now consider it a gesture to continue the art of the album review, forever disappearing from our print newspapers. - Dave Bidini
Gord Downie and Bob Rock
The Raven and the Red-Tailed Hawk
Gord was good on the telephone. He was relaxed, unhooked, across the distance, pacing and talking from his home, his chin buried into the receiver. Once, he told me that he’d been working on a new haul of material-- some solo work, some not-- but that he’d listened to the songs in their order of creation and decided, a few hours before we spoke, to shelve everything and start again. “Sometimes, you’ve just got to leave it all behind,” he said, trying to convince himself more than me. I asked if maybe waiting awhile before doing something so severe might be a better idea next time, but he laughed nervously and said what I remember to be “I’m all out of better ideas, Dave,” although time may have fudged my exact memory of the quote. Still, Gord was a man forever in thought-- the depth of these thoughts sometimes arrested him when it came to acting on them-- but I think part of what he was saying was that, when leaving an impression, make sure what’s left is worth leaving. Very little of what he, or the Hip, did came without great deliberation or careful thought. Making it appear casual and free was part of its strength.
We’re now in the posthumous stage when a lot of Gord’s other recordings are being released, although he’s not alone in the plundering. There’s another haul of old Prince recordings coming and the latest Tom Petty live effort has dozens of unreleased songs, mostly cover versions and between-song banter that fattens the release. The guardians of Gord’s work have an unenviable job: how do you gift the unheard work of a beloved genius while living with the question of whether it was ever the artist’s intention to release it? And who’s to know whether someone so methodical in their artistic life would have made the same choices, if they would have made them at all? Another voice asks for everything to be poured out while another suggests you bury everything. Does fate break the tie? Should what was not meant to be heard, get heard?
The Bob Rock recordings are a fall treat-- the Hip, self-proclaimed winter fighters, were a great fall release/November tour band that comforted and inspired music lovers when the dark nights came-- but how much they lend to the artist’s oeuvre is worth the debate. There’s also the worry that if Gord had been truly married to the music, we would have heard it by now. The songs here-- generated by Bob Rock, with lyrics and singing by Gord-- are recorded with sheen and polish using friends of Bob’s; mostly session musicians, according to Apple music. The work is sturdy and mature enough but the relative composure makes you long for the Hip’s rock and roll acne and disregard for fancy bridges in favour of meditative chord-loops that, in the end, guide them to familiar destinations. Last weekend, the Rheostatics were talking about certain recordings of our own that “must never be heard”-- these are largely sophomoric van tapes that, somewhere between Moose Jaw and Red Deer, we found utterly hilarious-- but every musicians have them. Our creative world is largely divided between music we’re dying for everyone to hear, and the rest. You need “the rest” to get to the good stuff, but once you’ve released all the good stuff-- in Gord’s case, more good stuff than most musicians-- does the world need any more of “the rest”? And when it’s all “the rest,” how does it affect how we perceive the good stuff?
In Gord’s case, it won’t matter. But those who knew him wonder about choices being made on his behalf. For a few years in the mid-90s, I thought it was my job to try and talk Gord into doing different things. He sang with the Rheos on CBC sessions and at Gas Station Studio rehearsals. Once, we performed at the Big Bop on the night Lady Diana died and we ended up drinking and jamming at the studio before wandering soft-headed and goofy-faced into the Liberty Village— before it was Liberty Village-- dawn. When Gord arrived home, his wife, Laura, was still awake, upset that he’d stayed out so late. He sat down on the bed, crossed his arms and said, “So, um... Lady Di died.” Laura shot back: “I. Don’t. Care!” We played together a few more times, but it pained Gord to try and find a way into how we operated. He questioned everything he was doing with us-- singing, strumming guitar-- despite playing with a band whose strength was accepting everyone for being themselves and doing whatever they felt was right. Soon after, Gord moved to his Country of Miracles unit, the genesis of which came after meeting Dale Morningstar at the Gas Station. There, he had control, and in the end, he did what he wanted to do, rather than what he thought we expected of him (even though we expected nothing). He had a strong sense of self-determination matched by almost crippling self-doubt. It’s just a hunch, but, knowing this, I don’t think we’d be listening to him playing in a pick-up band with Bob Rock. Then again, without people to urge and cajole and love and convince him, we might not have ever heard him at all.
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Bring it on. I want to hear things from Gord Downie that I wouldn't expect. Fans will decide whether or not they want to engage; there are many fans—I've met them!—who had never even listened to a Downie solo record before he died. Up next: the Dinner is Ruined record he made?
The Bob Rock release is a travesty. Gord, overproduced with added session player overkill... All thrown together after his passing. Very sad
'Greed lessens what has gathered' please stop milking every penny out of GD's good name. Release the live recordings, fans would love that.