In November of 2017 I penned a goodbye to the Tragically Hip’s frontman Gord Downie. At the time I explained a bit of backstory about the band and my relationship with them, which applies here, as well,
“The Tragically Hip wrote most of their enduring anthems before the five members of the group were out of their twenties, and by the time I bought my first Hip album (1996’s Trouble at the Henhouse) they were a decade in to their recording history and had already come to represent the country, in a sense. […] They also flirted with mainstream American exposure, having experienced minor Billboard success with the 1993 release of ‘Courage (for Hugh MacLennan)’ and an appearance on Saturday Night Live in 1995. A few years after Henhouse, they played 1999’s Woodstock reboot.
In my life the band has always been ‘big,’ but I can’t remember a time when their accomplishments didn’t feel somewhat diminished. It’s like there’s always been a cloud looming over them, comparing their accomplishments to some ideal larger sense of success, fueled by their ongoing inability to become every bit as popular internationally as they were domestically. I remember growing up with that perverted idea ingrained in me, that in some ways to be successful in Canada you had to be successful outside Canada. Yet despite these opaque boundaries surrounding what it means to be Canadian (or a success in Canada), the band represented the country well.”
I’m writing this several days removed from watching the multi-part documentary series directed by Gord’s brother, Mike, called No Dress Rehearsal (which borrows a line from the song “Ahead By a Century” from the band’s aforementioned album, Trouble at the Henhouse). Despite thoughts and feelings from that viewing still being so fresh, this song and this album were pivotal for me in ways I find hard to put words to; it has a lot to do with identity and self-acceptance, I suppose.
The album, and in particular its first two singles, planted seeds that would later help nudge me away from a position of nationalistic self-rejection. As a Canadian child born to American parents, I grew up feeling a sense of diminished identity, partially due to my own bloodline, partially due to a value imparted and embraced by the culture itself that Canada is somehow less than, even when it’s not. I say this recognizing it could just be a “me thing,” though numerous times over it was focused on and pointed out in No Dress Rehearsal. Throughout the documentary various voices commented on how the Canadian press and media would detract from any mention of the Tragically Hip’s success by noting their failure to attract or achieve the same level of fanaticism stateside, as if to signal a broader level of failure because of it. Trouble at the Henhouse started a change within me relating to that concept of insufficiency. With time, it helped inspire a belief that the nation’s cultural output wasn’t lesser than simply because it wasn’t American. And if I were to believe that, it might also hold true that maybe there was nothing less than about myself, either.
“…We’re forced to bed
But we’re free to dream
All us humans extras
All us herded beings
And after a glimpse
Over the top
The rest of the world
Becomes a gift shop…”
My continued admiration for the music of the Tragically Hip comes in large part from a lifetime’s worth of exposure to their songs and the totality of lived experience along the way. This certainly holds true when considering “Gift Shop.” I have vague memories from different times that I’ve heard it, moments captured like a faded Polaroid in my mind. But there’s something else going on with it that I now hear which is bigger than the song, itself.
Within a year of its release, Trouble at the Henhouse sold more than 650,000 copies in Canada. To compare its popularity (when accounting for population), that’s akin to 1997’s album sales in the States from acts like Biggie, Metallica, or Hanson. The Hip were big. And I feel that big-ness in “Gift Shop.” But I also feel and hear a sense of small. Maybe it’s a sense of healthy deflation or a right-sizing of the ego. Within the song I hear a call for corrective measure while a sonic pendulum does indeed swing, reminding me to embrace my own unimportance amid a sound so large. Therein lies a critical connection. To me this song celebrates a healthy side of the importance conversation. We are not small because of the results of our efforts, or how they might compare to those of others, or because of where we were or weren’t born, but because we are all small when recognizing how truly mammoth the universe is that exists outside our limited reach. Once we understand that, holding onto any measure of self-importance becomes no different than grasping a hold of a trinket or nicknack one might pick up from a roadside gift shop. A healthy soul has little use for such artifacts.
About a third of the country watched the band’s final concert. I watched that night, too. It was an evening of sorrow and celebration I shared with a friend, and certainly one I won’t soon forget. “Gift Shop” was the penultimate song the band played together. I can’t help but hear all of this now. And I can’t help but feel all of this now. And with any luck, that feeling will remain with me when I hear “Gift Shop” for many years to come.
This article is part of Best of the Best – an ongoing series reflecting on and ranking my favorite music and movies.
Leave a Reply