The Voice of Gord

For seven winters now, I've had the honour and the privilege of hosting The Way We Feel, a continuing tribute to the life, the work, the art and the voice of Gordon Lightfoot.

I've written about it a number of times in this space, trying to capture what it's meant to join voices with musicians and performers from across the country, in an effort to echo the voice of Gord.

We've never seen ourselves as parrots or puppets, but as practitioners of a living tradition. And in practicing, we've come to hear the voice of Gord more closely, and in different ways. It's not the voice of a radio hit anymore, or the voice that wafts from the familiar grooves of an old vinyl record. It's the voice of a landscape, a geographic and emotional space that only seems to get wider and more mysterious the more we explore it.

We started singing because it was about time. In 2002, when Aengus Finnan and Jory Nash booked the first show, no one had made the effort to do a Lightfoot tribute show yet. I suppose people had thought since the voice of Gord had been there for all our lives, surely he'd be singing forever. But when Mr. Lightfoot got sick and his own voice was literally silenced by an abdominal hemorrhage, the silence would not stand. People began to sing along. By the time he was back out of bed and on tour again where he belongs, many voices had joined his own in a Canadian chorus.

The chorus has been building into a grand crescendo. Last fall, I helped put together a project to celebrate Gordon Lightfoot's 70th birthday online at Canoe.ca/lightfoot. When we gave fans the opportunity to share their wishes, they came in by the hundreds, not just from fans, but from peers as well. Everyone from Anne Murray to Tom Cochrane to Dan Hill to Kris Kristofferson had been touched by hearing the voice of Gord.

Over the years Mr. Lightfoot has quietly, modestly, graciously acknowledged the accolades and the adulation. A few times, he's slipped in the back door of Hugh's Room to listen to The Way We Feel for a bit, to shake hands and thank the many musicians who have clamoured to sing his praises. Once - I think it was year 3 - he even hopped on stage to say a few words, to the delight of all.

But he's never taken the stage to sing before. Until last night, when, amid deafening applause, Gordon Lightfoot hopped up on stage in sneakers and blue jeans, a borrowed guitar in his hands. His face was golden in the light, his skin nearly translucent.

Hugh's Room hushed as he approached the mic. With a CBC Radio truck parked right outside on the street, the whole country was on the line. Everyone was listening, intent, as his fingers graced the strings with a brave and tender version of the aptly-chosen "Song For A Winter's Night.'

From a thin and restless wanderer, unweary from his travels and unbent from his travails came an unmistakable, irreplaceable sound...

It was the voice of Gord!

LIGHTFOOTSTEPS

Almost 3 years ago, when Gordon Lightfoot was really ill, Aengus Finnan commissioned me to write a spoken-word piece for "The Way We Feel: A concert celebrating the songs for Gordon Lightfoot."

This is what I wrote and performed at the concert that year. I haven't done it since. But it's that Massey Hall show time of year and I thought I'd dust it off for the occasion. Here's to you, Mr. Lightfoot.

LIGHTFOOTSTEPS

You're a son of a birch
You're a chip off the old church
C'mon, lift up your drink
To the boys at the rink, if they're still there at all
You should pay 'em a call
You should know that they miss you
Times you've been gone.

Like a bird on the wing:
Always after a new song to sing
C'mon, give us a song
Til the train comes along, if it still comes this way
You know what they say, eh
You should know how a train sounds
It sounds just like you.

Like the tunes that you wrote
All those ones that we all know note for note
C'mon, play us a tune
Like the cry of a loon, if the loons still do cry
You should know how they cry
You know the wherefore and the why
The loons cry for love

You're a lover yourself
It's right there in those records of yours on my shelf
C'mon, tell us of love
Like we're all dreaming of, if we all still do dream
You must know it's a scheme
You must know how the scheme works
You've played it both ways

You've left, you've been left
Just like all of us, we know you've been bereft
C'mon, what do you say
Let's head out to the old carefree highway, if it still runs that way
You can drive to the bay
You should know where that bay is
It's where you're alone

Like the sun going down
Like a lonesome boy stuck on the edge of this town
C'mon, who couldn't guess
At times you were a mess, if it still means a thing
You might still feel the sting
You should know that's alright
It's how stories are made

Like the ones that you tell
The big boat on the big lake lost in the swell
C'mon, you told it so well
How they tolled the old bell, if bells still do ring
You'll still hear them and sing
You should know what that means
To give voice to this land

To the trees, to the snow, to the sand
Sit down old stranger, play that guitar in your hand
C'mon, play like you do
Tell us it's true, if you're still here to play
You're a hero today
You should know that's okay
You should hear
what the ones who have walked in
Lightfootsteps
Are now here to say.

They're here thanking the Lord
For the words and the songs, and the life of you, Gord.
C'mon, a toast has been poured
Lift a glass to that sweet chord, if it's still ringing true
You should know what to do
You should play it for you
And by the way....
Did I mention we've missed you?
Times you been gone...
January 08, 2003.

Queer as Folkies

I love those moments when life hands you circumstances that are so ludicrous, they may as well have been authored by Monty Python.

A couple of weeks back, Aengus Finnan and I left my hometown of Parry Sound at about 12.30 at night for Toronto in a rented car. In a bizarre twist of fate, we had to drive north of town about 5 miles to gas up because everything in town was closed.

5 miles north of Parry Sound is an Esso with a Tim Horton's and a Wendy's. It's right across Highway 69 from Murray Pt. Road, where I grew up. I'd been to that Esso about a million times as a kid, when there was a Voyageur restaurant there with the only video game between Parry Sound and Sudbury. It was sort of neat to be back there, randomly, with a buddy from another life.

So there's me, with a giant puffball of curly hair and a black turtleneck. There's Aengus with his ponytail and corduroy jacket. We're both wearing dress shoes with neatly pressed trousers. There is a pair of white roses with baby's breath sprays on the dashboard of the car, beautiful tokens of thanks from the benefit we've just played. There are also little plates of squares and strawberries and cheese that some kind ladies have made up for us to munch on our late-night ride home.

We're headed to the OCFF conference in Guelph the next day. As Aengus starts to pay for the gas, I holler "don't you dare! It's my turn!" He turns around and says "no way, you're paying for our room tomorrow night, I've got it!" We do this kind of thing a lot.

Except normally, when we do it, we're not in the sticks north of Parry Sound, at a gas station where every one of the half-dozen other vehicles is a pickup truck full of hunters. I'm not kidding. The truck and trailer next to us was actually carrying an ATV and several large storage bins presumably full of deer meat. Men with orange hats were filling up with diesel everywhere, just staring at us and grinning.

And as we generously waved our credit cards at one another and nibbled our strawberries and laughed our damn fool heads off, it belatedly occurred to me that this is not how the men of Parry Sound usually behave.

Queer as folkies. If they don't get it, it's their problem.

Wrapping it all up

Well, I wrapped up my fifth live recording in a year and a half yesterday. Grey November Day has now joined The Wine and the Song, Mighty Grace, and Carpenter's Gothic in post-production, and together they will be released as a four album set, Sky Above and Earth Below- the follow-up to last year's Evergreen. In the process I will have met my goal: to put as many of my songs as possible onto CDs in live settings so that both my catalogue and my credibility are established. Hooray..

As for last night: to be honest, I really thought that my first set was a little sketchy, and I felt like I was down 3-0 after the first period of a critical game. But that being said, I always feel poor about my performances on a recording night. I get nervous in ways I never do for an ordinary gig. In reflection, I may have to drop a couple of songs, but that always happens. On the other hand, an extremely warm audience responded with great enthusiasm to some of the tunes, so what the hell do I know, anyway?

I came out of the first set feeling peeved at myself, but determined not to lose the whole game. Thankfully, I had a great bunch of musicians to help me put it over the top: Sarah Ternoway on bass, Gregg Lawless on lead guitar, Scott Vernon on drums and Aengus Finnan even joined us on backup vocals for one tune. With their talent and energy and my dogged insistence on pulling the damned thing off in the end, we managed to really fire it up for the second set.

We closed with a barn-burner version of one of my goofiest tunes, "The Old Man's Workshop," complete with mixed-up lyrics, audience interaction, train-wreck ending and all the great emotion that makes live performances so much fun.

I was reminded a couple of times that I should do more goofy stuff. I was reminded about 30 times that people really listen to lyrics. And I was reminded continually, all night long, that music matters immensely to people, and that it's best heard in small rooms with a crowd that cares and musicians who can make it feel real. I reminded myself that it had all been worth it, and that this manic year and a half of effort and ego and fire and frustration had payed off in the end, on the last night, in a good place, with great people.

Just remind me not to do any more of these. Studio, here I come...

Dastardly snake...

I said live recordings make me insane. And it's only getting worse. Humans were expelled from Paradise, so the story goes, because of a dastardly snake. Something similar seems to have happened with my Lunenburg recording session, as a faulty snake (the heavy cable running from the stage to the sound board) is being blamed for the disappearance of my guitar track from the files I just got back from that event. It may be that the whole first set has to be scrapped. ARRRGGGGH.

But that's only the bad news. There's good news too: for one thing, I'm in the process of nailing down a place and time for my next (and LAST) live recording. November, nearby. That's all I will say for the moment. Oh, and the working title: Grey November Day.

More good news: I completed a song for my boyhood hero, Terry Fox. Why don't you give it a listen and tell me what you think? It's called Run Terry Run, and you should be able to right click on the title and download it (Choose "Save Target As" and put it on your desktop). Then you can play it at leisure.

For even more multi-media fun, try doing the same with the Run Terry Run video! Keep in mind these were both recorded on a hand-held video camera; this ain't Abby Road Studio quality material. But let me know if you like it, eh?

The best news of all though isn't mine. It's to do with my buddy Aengus Finnan, who has been the biggest supporter of my work for more than a decade. I'm going to brag on his behalf here in return. Aengus's brilliant song "Lightfoot" is the only song on the new Gordon Lightfoot tribute album "Beautiful" that wasn't penned by Gord. Instead, it's the best kind of tribute there is: an ode to all that Lightfoot and his music mean to this country.

It's a real feather in Aengus' cap that he joins the likes of Blue Rodeo, Cowboy Junkies, Tragically Hip, Bruce Cockburn and many others on this timely CD. But better yet, he performed his tune at the press release for the CD the other day. And in the middle of introducing the song, he got a surprise handshake from the Man himself! In many ways it seemed like the torch was being passed, and it couldn't go to a more deserving guy. Way to go buddy.

Brewing the Wine and the Song

The first thing I need to point out about Lunenburg is that it's one of my favourite places in the world. I've been going there since the summer of 1991, and it just gets better every time. The fact that UNESCO has named it a World Heritage Site has only added to its prestige, without destroying its charm. And the Folk Harbour Festival, while a little on the traditional site musically speaking, has always been a wonderful event for me. And so it was again.

To begin with, my accomodations were unbelievable: I literally slept on the floor of the dance hall on the upper floor of the awe-inspiring Opera House. The vibe of the building is so grand, and beautiful, that I felt like I was being filled with music as I stared up at the elaborate plaster ceiling 20 feet above me, listening to the "sounders" (the fog horns of navigational buoys) echo across Lunenburg Harbour.

But that's something you can only do once you've gone to bed... which never happened before 3 AM. Despite earnestly believing that a night's sleep is a great thing, I couldn't argue with the fact that late-night jam sessions with gifted and glowing musicians, in the company of some of the world's most welcoming citizens, are even better. So sleep was pretty rare that weekend, to say the least.

On the other hand, I didn't have to commute to work in the morning. In fact on my first day James Shaw, the producer whose studio occupies the second floor of the Opera House, actually brought me a Tim Horton's coffee while I was still prone. All I had to do was get up, carry the coffee 20 feet to my amp, and start rocking. Which I did for about three hours, in the world's greatest practice hall. And the best part was, I got to do that again for 2 more days!

Plus I walked around town putting up posters in local shops, and bent an ear to some of the great festival acts (Galitcha, J.P. Cormier, Rick Fines, Scott Parsons, the unbelievable Celtae... and too many others to name) and just generally enjoyed being in one of the world's most wonderful places.

And I had a pretty proud moment, too, long before I got on stage with the guys on the Monday night to record the new album. Aengus played my song, "When the Whistle Blows," to start his set on the main stage on the Saturday night. And while I know he plays it a lot, it was really something special to hear he and Trevor do it for 900 people, and to announce me as the writer to all of them. I truly felt as proud of that as I had felt about graduating from university.

Of course, getting some attention from the locals, from the festival musicians, and from the crowd -plus a review in the Halifax Daily News, as I found out while I was there- meant that all the marbles were on the line when it came time to do the record... but more on that later.

Farewell to Nova scotia

It's been twenty-four days since I last wrote in this diary. During that time I've driven to Nova Scotia and recorded an album. Need I say more?

Well, yes, I guess. But what a task! I've had one of those trips that almost has to be recounted in real-time for the full effect to sink in. Which means by the time I've uploaded this update, it may be 48 days since the last entry...Beginning with the essentials, Trevor Mills and I had a great drive East, sharing time at the wheel of Carla, the delightful and much-storied chariot of our old buddy Aengus Finnan.

We had some family and friend time in Fredericton and along the Fundy Shore of Nova Scotia. Highlights included cruising onto the Greenwood Airforce base with nary a raised eyebrow for a whirl on the waterslide; lowlights included pulling the mouse-shit infested insulation out of the ceiling of a cabin in the remote North Mountain woods.

And then Aengus showed up. The three of us did an animated, if decidedly odd performance at Fundy Folk, where I recorded Evergreen just a year ago. And then it was off to Lunenburg for a date with destiny, or perhaps density. The fog was dense, anyway. More about that momentarily.