Page 87 - Sharp Summer 2021

with Saskadelphia, a collection eHom
of six never-before-heard songs left off a classic album
BY MAX MERTENS
The Tragically Hip return — and
honour Gord Downie’s legacy —
own terms. When people told them “This record’s not going to be accessible,” [1975’s] Caress of Steel, they were like,“No, this is our record.” If you can do your music on your own terms like that, you don’t change a thing. Gord Downie always said, “We’re a slow-moving freight train; we’re going to do it on our own terms, just don’t get in our way because we’ll drive over you.”
PL: I totally agree with everything Johnny said. We felt lucky back then. I felt really lucky because I joined the band last, and I think I was still the new guy on our last show. We were always kind to each other. So I don’t look back at any of it with any regret whatsoever. I would credit Gord Downie; he couldn’t let anything lie, so if there was some type of issue Gord wanted to talk about it. We all sort of became that way, so we weren’t walking around with a bunch of issues, we took it seriously. There’s a lot of complications in a band. Our biggest achievement is that we’re all still friends. It’s tragic that Gord’s gone, but at the same time, he believed in us, and we believed in him and each other.
This October will mark four years since we lost Gord. What’s one lesson he taught you that you frequently find yourselves returning to?
JF: I was talking to a friend the other day and saying there were two voices that would’ve been really incredible to have had around during this pandemic: Gord Downie and [Rush drummer] Neil Peart would’ve looked at it from a crazy angle. Those two writers are gone now. For me, and I’m hearing it on Saskadel- phia, Gord was a guy who had to believe it, he was very real and he was in the moment. If you were in the room with him and he was talking to you, he had his eyes locked on you
and he was there with you, he wouldn’t look over shoulders. He sang about these things that he had to observe, he had to experience, and then they were in his imagination. He could weave stories together with a kernel of reality and then his imagination.
PL: It’s funny, because I think he would’ve looked at me like his advice-giver, like as kids before the band and everything, and that’s not really the case. He was such an example of putting the work in — it wasn’t an accident, he was reading like crazy, he was interested in everything. “Born in the Water” on Road Apples, who came up with that? Maybe the subject came up once in the van. He just tackled the subjects; it was really quite the example of doing the work and he always did the work.
You’re both fathers. What’s your kids’ relationship with the Hip’s music like? Do they ever turn you on to new music? PL: My girls are 25 and 21, and Johnny’s boys are seven now. My girls don’t bring it up — they wouldn’t bring it up with friends, like, “Hey, my dad’s in the Hip.” It’s a subject to be avoided all the way through high school, university, but people find out. They like it. Better that than — I could insert the name of many bands. At least it’s not embarrassing to them. They both play guitar, but probably despite my efforts to get them to play. When I finally left them alone, they both learned how to play, so they have that kind of friend for life. They’ve turned me on to some music, but you get to be a little older, I’m not really searching for new music. If I hear something that they’re playing — they don’t live here anymore, but when they were — the odd time I’d be like, “Oh, this is cool.” Most of the time, it’s not really my thing, but they’re happy about it and there’s a whole bunch of
band kids, they’ve always been great. It’s neat that Johnny’s got newer children, really looking forward to getting to know them. They’re going to have a bunch of cousins who will be able to tell them about all the great times they had in and around our shows.
JF: My kids are not familiar with the Hip at all. They know that I’m a drummer, they were two years old when we played our last gig, they remember coming to sound checks and things like that. They know that the singer passed away, our friend is gone. Sometimes a song will come on the radio and I’ll say “Guess who’s playing the drums!” and my son will say “Stewart Copeland?” because I would always say he’s the greatest drummer on earth. It’s not a shame, it’s just part of life. I didn’t have kids during these periods of making records and going on the road, and how difficult it must have been, because I don’t think I could leave. These guys were on the road for a lot of important things; you’re in a band, you miss anniversaries, birthdays, funerals, weddings — you miss it all. You put yourself out on a rock. Talk about isolation — I could see the things that were happening in their lives, first footsteps, first words. We used to have to pull over to the side of the road on a Sunday — there might be two phone booths in West Mifflin, Pennsylvania, and we’d make the bus driv- er pull over and we’d all make phone calls to girlfriends and wives. I think Paul had a pager at one point, but that was our way of communicating. We are one big happy family, and when their kids came to gigs, it was always that extra-special day. If it was a summer day and we were playing a gig and the families were all there, the people that work with us would make it like an event for them, and that just made us an even bigger, better family.
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