OTTAWA - The Tragically Hip opened their show with The Lonely End of the Rink in front of 9,000 people at Scotiabank Place last night, though it seemed anything but on Gord Downie's stage.

The eccentric frontman, lithe and lean in black from head to toe, proved he is as entertaining as ever.

The band's faithful fans -- is there anything but when it comes to Canada's Hip? -- loved Downie whether he was playing the clueless mime or "my mic stand is a recliner and I'm just going to sit here leaning on it."

He was odd from the get-go, but in a good way, jumping around like some sort of hopped-up sprite, animating a white handkerchief as though he were engaging in some sort of performance art instead of clowning around in the middle of a rock show.

The Hip (including guitarists Bobby Baker and Paul Langlois, bassist Gord Sinclair and drummer Johnny Fay) touring on their latest album World Container, were as tight as ever, though I did detect their single In View seemed slightly out of tune initially.

And Downie messed up the words in the first part of good old Bobcaygeon, but got quickly back on track, and as he explained it, "whatever."

Downie dedicated a typically nice-and-easy rendition of Wheat Kings to "the Senators in this town -- the real Senators, the ones who get something done" to raucous cheers.

Many there last night, I suspect, are less accustomedto seeing The Hip inside on a February night. And it does take a little getting used to, especially when they are so conducive to rock festival fun.

Kingston's favourite sons' stage was spare, four panels onto which were projected profoundly Canuck images of snowy trees and workmen.

Blue-hued floodlights set the mood for slow-rocking, sweet and subdued tunes from their early catalogue like Long Time Running.

Things fired up for beloved Hip hits like New Orleans Is Sinking and At The Hundredth Meridian, and the crowd, ever patient with their old friends, hung on as the group peppered the set with unfamiliar selections from World Container.

Downie can make a crowd buy in no matter what he's doing though, and that includes random, high-pitched shrieking, hurling himself into a some sort of awkward half salchow or casually belting out "War is hard work" in the middle of what is just a really cool song.

In the end, at two hours, it was what any typical Hip show is, inside or out, summer or winter, new tunes or old: Satisfying, stirring, oddly patriotic and comfortably familiar.