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EDMONTON - What can you say about a band whose most interesting feature isn't its music -- but its wild and whacked-out lead singer?
Say it's the Tragically Hip and leave it at that. We've been over this ground before. Last night's launch of a four-night run at the Jubilee Auditorium was about the band's 60th appearance around these parts. It sure feels like it. The Hip is a Canadian institution, like the Bank of Montreal, the Toronto Maple Leafs or the Conservative Party of Canada. Bad example. Anyway, the Hip has built an empire of hit and miss material lifted out of the muck by the band's dependably awesome live shows, which is thanks mainly to Gord Downie's colourful performances. More Michael Stipe-ian as the years wear on -- cementing the idea that the Tragically Hip is the Canadian REM -- the 45-year-old singer was on fire last night. He was John Malkovich in a scary mood. He was a little teapot, short and stout. He was master of the sensual tango. He was Rodin's famous stature The Thinker. He was a bullfighter. He was a frustrated polar bear pacing its cage. Freed from the fetters of his acoustic guitar that didn't even seem to be in the mix (nor was the poor keyboard player), Downie made quite a spectacle of himself. Replace his band with a bullhorn and he'd be a first-rate crazy person in Times Square.
Part of the fun of Hip shows is that you never knew when Downie will start spouting bizarre poetry. We all remember his inspired "killerwhaletank" rant in a live version of New Orleans is Sinking. Sadly, this was not repeated in what turned out to be the opening song of a two-hour ramble of hits (and misses). The killerwhaletank was a one-off. You had to be there. There were a few moments of spontaneous verbal explosion last night. "Courage!" Downie shouted at one point, introducing the same. "Why? How? Where? When?" Not enough time to think about what the hell he was talking about as the crowd rose to its feet not for the first or last time of the evening, shouting heartily along to the words: "Courage, my word, it didn't come, it doesn't matter!"
One question: Why stage a show in a soft-seater when no one's actually going to sit in their seats? This was a rock show through and through, never mind the obligatory "seated on stools" portion of the concert. Could they have done one show at Rexall instead of four at the Jube and made the same money? Maybe they're going for a record.
I was happy to hear some interesting new material, experimental, bold, tuneful. The Depression Suite, a three-part piece that was almost Meat Loafian in its grandeur, was excellent. Coffee Girl was a memorable little diversion. Love is a First featured some of the most delightfully barmy lyrics Downie has ever come up with. And The Lonely End of the Rink is another Hip hockey tune that almost had a ska feel. Ska from the Hip -- now I've heard everything. It's been said that the Hip keeps trying to shed its hoser fan element by releasing ever more artsy and esoteric albums, but they still stick by the Hip, by God, and they all still want Little Bones.
Yes, the new stuff was swell, but the best part of the show was that Downie has added a new prop to his already formidable arsenal of tics, gestures and pantomimes -- a white handkerchief. Oh, the things he did with those handkerchiefs, so much more than wiping his sweaty bald head, sometimes even giving the rag to a lucky fan. His evocative fluttering, puppetry, mask-work and extravagant flourishes was a joy to behold. The man is an artist, a performance artist. Now if there were only some way to channel this magical stage presence into the Hip's songwriting. Then we'd have something truly great, instead of something merely dependable.
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Sun Rating: 4 out of 5