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In Review: ‘Fragments: Time Out of Mind Sessions (1996-1997) – The Bootleg Series Vol. 17’ by Bob Dylan

Following the recent publication of this review I wrote for Exclaim! Magazine, here is the original version of my journalistic, but rather personal take on the significance of Fragments – Time Out Of Mind Sessions (1996-1997): The Bootleg Series Vol. 17 by Bob Dylan.

“You ever feel just like your brain’s been bolted to the wall?” Bob Dylan half-screams on the first version of “Can’t Wait,” captured in January 1997. “All the screws are tightening and you’re cut off from it all/I don’t know.”

It’s a scorching outtake, with Dylan biting into his cinematic verses, many of which he’d eventually alter, as the band blends a perfect amalgam of heft and space for a menacing “Ballad of a Thin Man” bounce. It starts innocently and evenly before the full spectrum of sound kicks in and Dylan launches into the vocal like a tiger, but then he doubts himself.

“I don’t know.” Really?

It’s such a specifically certain circumstance to be unsure about, but then, counting a couple of live variations, there are five unique versions of “Can’t Wait” on Fragments, the seventeenth volume of Dylan’s generous Bootleg Series, capturing the sessions for 1997’s Time Out of Mind, which a generation of fans regard as Dylan’s greatest album.

As such, this indispensable and revelatory treatment is as loving and comprehensive as can be, giving us a sense of how Dylan and his various collaborators nailed down these spooky, funny, hard songs pondering loneliness, independence, and the end of one’s days. Beyond the stellar players, Dylan’s accomplices notably include producer Daniel Lanois and engineer Mark Howard, a Canadian tandem who helped Dylan give these wondrous songs their ambience and indelible character.

Structurally, on the five-disc Fragments (or, among other versions, a 10 LP set), the original album has been both remixed and reimagined; there’s a lo-fi live disc; one containing relevant, previously released tunes; and there are two discs of completely unreleased (and astonishing) process-oriented material that capture the evolution of Time Out of Mind’s songs with fascinating, jettisoned lyrics and arrangements that anyone else would’ve been thrilled with. In terms of stuff that was attempted but left behind for later (or for good), the few things here are each startling.

Dylan began these sessions covering “The Water is Wide,” ostensibly just to get him warm and in the mood to reveal new songs, but I don’t know.

Not only does this traditional song conjure the kind of endless travel that Time Out of Mind would, with lyrics like “Love is gentle, love is kind/The sweetest flower when first it’s new/But love grows old and waxes cold/And fades away like morning dew,” it sets the resigned, fatalistic table that Dylan’s notebooks of lyrics, likely rested on.

“Dreamin’ of You” is an early exploration for Dylan, as he pondered re-teaming with Lanois for the first time since their triumphant 1989 album, Oh Mercy. It contains a hodgepodge of lyrics Dylan would eventually include on songs like “Standing in the Doorway” or else scrapped, but it’s a powerfully loose document of how much magic Dylan has at his command.

“Red River Shore” is a lost original from these sessions, and unlike a previously released version that is arranged as a poignant ballad (and can be heard on the final Fragments disc, comprised of material we first heard on Tell Tale Signs: The Bootleg Series Vol. 8), version one here is locked in a groove, with Dylan delivering more of a downcast, almost Bruce Springsteen-via-Woody Guthrie reading of the remarkable song. In a second attempt, it lands as a lovely epic full of ache and longing, with Dylan embracing its beautiful melody and structure. Though he seemingly never attempted it again for a subsequent album, it vaguely forecasts the kinds of epic songs steeped in repetition that would appear on Modern Times and Tempest.

“Mississippi” is simply one of Dylan’s most perfect songs, and aside from a live version, appears four times here, almost perfectly intact from his end of things; the lyrics and vocals are solid and ostensibly as they appear on 2001’s “Love and Theft.” Clashes with Lanois over the merits of “Mississippi” meant it wouldn’t make Time Out of Mind, but at least two of the arrangements here are so beautiful, I’d be happy hearing a million more.

Though nominally different, “Marchin’ to the City” is the foundational forebear to “‘Til I Fell in Love With You” with a few of the same lyrics but also many distinctive ones. As a gestational treasure, this is a cool curio because, as he did with most of the songs on Time Out of Mind, Dylan messed with the arrangement and feel of “‘Til I Fell in Love with You” a lot.

Such experimentation is evident on the disc of live performances included in this set that are generally so raw, if you close your eyes, you’d think you were actually in the bleachers, sitting beside a taper. There’s an arrangement of “Can’t Wait” from a Nashville show in 1999 that rips so hard, you’d wanna rush the stage (props to Dylan’s longest serving collaborator, bassist Tony Garnier, who came up with a remarkable, memorable part), while the improved fidelity of “‘Til I Fell in Love with You,” recorded in Buenos Aires in 1998, is a surprising and welcome blast. What a great bunch of bands Dylan had in this era.

In terms of Time Out of Mind, the new mixes are revelatory, getting us closer to Dylan’s voice than the original album enabled us to. Much of the processing and distortion that Lanois and Howard fashioned for the songs has been tempered or removed and Dylan’s singing suddenly sounds unburied, soaring higher here (though according to Howard, it was Dylan himself who revelled in the kind of Sun Records/Bullet mic murk that the engineer helped him achieve at the time).

Instrumentation is also levelled differently, faders removing, adding, or adapting the familiar foundational feel and flourishes fans have grown accustomed to. Or at least, it seems that way; much like a great Dylan song, some of these remixes may make you feel like you’re hearing strange things or make you question what you heard in the first place.

For instance, take “Make You Feel My Love.” Now an American standard and one of Dylan’s most impactful ballads (made most famous by Adele), “Make You Feel My Love” is more or less a new song here, with a much cleaner vocal, subtle drums that were never present on Time Out of Mind, and the final bridge is missing the original bass part completely, leaving just the piano, a faint organ, and Dylan’s voice to put the emotional lyrics across, unfettered. A simple decision that poignantly changes the tenor of the song, making its gallant promises, all the more direct. Genius stuff.

There are more than a few such surprises laying in wait on the remixed album proper, where canon arrangements are tweaked just so, and yet the effect is often profound. Time Out of Mind is so eerily matter-of-fact in its substance, it has truly haunted its fans. Dylan sings of persevering and roaming Earth’s painful corners, which are occupied by so many ghosts—departed friends, lost lovers, any sense of humanity itself gone down the drain—putting the record on has long conjured a few different kinds of afterlife, adding to the air it enters.

In their respective and remarkable liner notes for Fragments, Douglas Brinkley and Steven Hyden each delve into the history and making of the record, which went on to win the Grammy for Album of the Year and, depending on your perspective of his standing, assuredly launched the sixth or sixtieth Bob Dylan Renaissance. Whichever one it was, it’s the one he’s still basking and flourishing in (Hyden alludes to the Jokermen podcast to suggest that for some other generation, 2020’s Rough and Rowdy Ways is also Dylan’s greatest album).

Dylan himself had cited the passing of his friend and hero, Grateful Dead figurehead Jerry Garcia, as one impetus for him to delve into lyrics about mortality, dread, and the loss of close connection. But another tragic figure looms large in the legend of Time Out of Mind’s cross-generational resonance: Kurt Cobain.

A whole lot of us embraced the Nirvana-led boom of underground music and culture as pre- and teenagers, at least partly because it led to us revel in edginess and find beauty in things that had conventionally been categorized as dark, rough, and of marginal significance (or even more harshly, ugly).

We learned to laugh right in the face of smug, domineering confidence and embrace those who exhibited sensitive curiosity, a generosity of spirit, and even insecure modesty.

You don’t know? That’s ok. I don’t know either.   

How many strange, distinctively untrained voices rung out with emotive power and soon replaced superficial understandings of what impactful singing could be?  What was at the cultural heart of the 1990s if it wasn’t a re-evaluation of all of the bullshit we’d been given in music and film and television, and an elevation of everything that truly questioned and challenged the status quo, and what gatekeepers deemed worthwhile or not?

Indeed, before Cobain got through those gates and looked over his shoulder to motion us forward, Bob Dylan was already through them, often on his own, in a corner, accepted and lauded, but too uncompromising, idiosyncratic, and enigmatically honest for the mainstream to truly exploit. And yet, beyond Nirvana and its ilk gaining credit for obliterating the vapid pretense and phoniness of hair metal and pop stars, their ascendance at least coincided with established Rock Hall-calibre artists (i.e. Neil Young, Tom Waits, Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, Madonna, U2, R.E.M.) realizing that their grittier, more experimental impulses could not only be explored, they may well be rewarded.

Is it a coincidence that the very first edition of Dylan’s hugely influential, humanizing, warts-and-all Bootleg Series was released on March 26, 1991—“the year punk broke,” and changed…well, everything?

I don’t think it’s an accident that in the weird hangover after the likes of Ice-T and the Jesus Lizard and Quentin Tarantino and Seinfeld and Bill Clinton and the Coen Brothers (whose manic live-action cartoon, The Big Lebowski, arguably re-popularized Dylan’s 1970 tune, “The Man in Me”) rose and fell in influence and prominence—each with their own kind of pleasant profanity, disaffection, and questioning cynicism—in the late 1990s, Dylan truly began to be a unifying figure.

On March 25, 2001, almost exactly 10 years to the day after the Bootleg Series first began, Dylan accepted an Oscar for “Things Have Changed” from Curtis Hanson’s Wonder Boys, by saying, “I want to thank the members of the Academy who were bold enough to give me this award for this song, which obviously is a song that doesn’t pussyfoot around, nor turn a blind eye to human nature.”

He could’ve been talking about any one of his own songs, and also some of the best ones to break through and bother perplexed media executives in the previous decade. “I used to care, but things have changed” felt like Dylan speaking on behalf of the Lollapalooza generation in his rearview, and it got our attention.    

 Once they got past the clichés about Dylan, 1990s punk, post-hardcore, underground noise, free jazz, blues, and indie-rock fans and musicians, and rebellious filmmakers, comedians, and writers dug into his work, because almost everything that was questioning, sophisticated, outspoken, hopeful, challenging, romantic, angry, and freeing about those subcultures, was conveyed in not just his lyricism and music—it was all right there, in the powerful roar of his voice at this time.

Cobain was labeled a screamer but that always seemed like a dismissal of his emotional power and musicality; goddamn, could that guy locate and hold a note. Cobain and Dylan, both children of Lead Belly, mastering tuneful rage and anguish like nobody else could, for sure (as Dylan sings on “Not Dark Yet,” “Behind every beautiful thing there’s been some kind of pain,” and this makes me think of Bob, but also Kurt).  

On Time Out of Mind, you hear Dylan digging so deep into his being to put across his poetry—it’s unearthly, that power, the one his voice pulls from, and it’s a wide-ranging, gorgeous instrument that most mortals could never generate. And in 1997, many more music fans than usual were seeking such voices out and appreciatively grappling with their genuine force.

“He makes the simplest ideas sound so complex and cool,” my first girlfriend told me in her dorm room, after I loaned her Time Out of Mind and she processed its lyrics. She found Dylan to be accessible, and yet somehow also heavy and provocative. This has always stuck with me.

The Cambridge Dictionary defines a fragment as “a small piece or a part, especially when broken from something whole.” In a heady time for outsider art, one of its leading proponents re-established himself at the perfect time, armed with an adventurous artistic spirit that for him at least, meant a song was never really done or definable.

“I don’t know.” Well, who does, then? Maybe Bob Dylan, but who is he to say?

With Fragments, you hear Dylan so sure of himself, but surrendering to moments; his vocal attack, melodies, and lyrics are strong and often firmly established but the arrangements—the song’s structures—can never get too comfortable because, like many conventional cultural notions, he views them as indispensably of a time and place. There is freedom in that, and Dylan found some of it in crafting Time Out of Mind, indisputably one of, if not the greatest album he has made yet. (Columbia Records)

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Still Processing: The 2016 ‘Man Machine Poem’ Tour

The Tragically Hip, FirstOntario Centre, Hamilton, ON, August 16, 2016 (Vish Khanna)

I was prompted to recall these experiences recently, and so I dug up what I wrote about them at the time for a small site. all the links are gone, so here they are for any of you who might find them interesting. in every case, I’d leave a show, get in my car, punch these words into my telephone, and hit send, so the editor had them and whatever photos I took, asap. so, it’s raw but real, at least to me.

A new normal
The Tragically Hip, Budweiser Gardens, London, ON August 8, 2016

“My brain’s not working so good,” Gord Downie said, coming back on-stage after an intermission. The crowd booed, aiming their hostility squarely at the cancer that will never leave him and has left all of us, his fans, shattered.

“Jen’s dad’s name is Greg. I think I called him Doug. He died a little while ago. It’s because of her, that I got these pants,” Downie said, directing us to another shiny new hue that he’d changed into backstage, skinny legs and all.

“Maybe none of this seems important. But it is to me.” And then the crowd roared in appreciation of the little things in life. Greg. Doug. Jen. Shimmering pants. Gord.

The band, the Hip, were loose and occasionally happily lost in each other and the songs they have made together for 30 years. They played them in album suites, with no regard for in-stone sequences or chronology. They just shook loose the ones that made sense today, from Up to Here, Man Machine Poem, In Between Evolution, Phantom Power, Day For Night, Fully Completely, and Road Apples.

None of it seemed formal; the five men and the songs bumped into each other, a bit unexpectedly, and caught up in that warm, clumsy way relations do, after a lot of time has passed by. Or when something has changed.

On your way to see the Hip on this tour, you think about your friend who let you and your other friends know that he got some heartbreakingly bad news. And you think about what it’s gonna be like, when you’re finally in a room together with him and you and the bad news.

And when you see him, he’s the same as ever but he’s labouring, at least a little. He needs to search a bit longer to find the words he wants to say to you but then he does and they’re always perfectly put. He has a way with words, like few other shiny panted men, before him or since.

He has memories of this town, London, that you don’t. He met his wife here and they went and had four kids together. It’s a very special place for him. For whatever reason, you remember that Johnny Cash proposed to June, on-stage in London. She said “Yes.” Maybe something’s up with this town.

When the band first came here decades ago, almost no one (three people once, 14 people another) left their homes to welcome them. But the Hip didn’t scare easy. Every time they came back here, they’d make more and more friends until they needed to arrange get togethers of thousands of people in a ferociously loud arena.

It was so loud tonight. Everyone cheered at any lyrics that doubted death. To the max. How could it ever be louder than that?

And before you know it, everything feels normal. You and this guy and his friends have shared a lifetime together. You know the same combination of codes and they still work. Everything unlocks. He smiles. You smile.

But you’re in a big tub of a rink, while he’s in an ornate theatre, reaching you directly in the rafters/balconies, way up top, or you there, right in in front of him, way down low. You are always in view. Rivers of beer begin to flow and shoes are subsequently soaked, all because of his weirdo librettos.

There’s that sound. It’s not common and never was. It’s Kingston, Ontario, after it chased itself around the world. It’s the sound you hear together and one day, you’ll miss it more than anything.

But not tonight in London. Tonight, everything is normal. And new.

Dave, Steve, me, Michelle, Air Canada Centre, Toronto, ON, August 12, 2016

Long-term membership
The Tragically Hip, Air Canada Centre, Toronto, ON August 12, 2016

Life is full of bumps. Speed. Fist. Goose.

“Courage! It couldn’t come at a worse! Time!”
“Get Ry Cooder to sing my eulogy!”
“Don’t save a thing for later”
“For a good life, we might just have to weaken”
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you”
“A love of something fated (Death)”
“Sometimes the faster it gets, the less you need to know”
“And disappointing you’s getting me down!”

Those ones get under your arena-warmed skin but then they surface too. They raise hairs. Did somebody shiver? Somebody else?

Paul Langlois, Gord Downie, Air Canada Centre, Toronto, ON, August 12, 2016

The Hip in the Big Smoke. Brings a little something more out of them than maybe some of the other towns do. Something on. The city has that streetcar spark, man. The band’s tapped in. On fire tonight, really and truly. “Blow at High Dough” sounds like an AC/DC scuzz-rocker. Everybody’s moving.

Gord Downie taught me how to dance. My dad would catch me in my room, music fully up, me hurking and jerking in a fit, lost in myself and the music. Fully, completely gone. If that was my boy, I might’ve called the doctor. My dad just shook his head and closed the door. The music was just so loud. My young neck and shoulders seemed so strong.

Gord still dances and gestures like nobody else. Gold suits. Silver suits. Purple suits. An array of feathers in his top hats. He sashays and struts and stirs everyone up. Toothy grins like a shark nose deep in some thick chum. Kicks his hankies up off the floor with his heels together, as though life’s a magic trick. Fred Astaire getting electroshocked in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

I don’t want to cry. On occasion, the crowd will roar louder than a jet engine. They love so much it hurts. Let’s keep it together.

“In a World Possessed by the Human Mind” is new, from Man Machine Poem, but it’s gonna be a timeless and great thing. Picks the room up like a charismatic stranger no one noticed at the party yet. It’s a snazzy glove slipped on as part of an otherwise stellar outfit–the Hip’s crazy catalogue of songs that are so oddly infectious.

It’s so atypical, this band’s success with the tunes they put forth. Men locked in the trunks of cars. Other men, cast aside at sea, left to die by survivors who have to live with that shit forever. So fucking dark. Some of their best pop songs don’t have choruses. They’re just incredible stories. Invisible, technicolor four-minute films. Dunno how they do it.

The words are meticulously chosen and then strung together in singular, memorable ways. There’s a commitment to excellence here that’s unusually high. Nobody will ever talk about it enough.

This one is emotional. The performance is manic and crazed and on point. The looks and smiles for the audience linger longer than usual. Gord can hit any note you dare him to. Try him. There’s genuine joy in the air for something that was built over time, by everyone, all together. That rare oneness in an ice barn. The Hip pull us all in from the fray and we are the same.

Not everyone out there gets it but that’s ok. Everyone here does.

Media Pass, Hamilton, ON

…The Terror of Knowing…
The Tragically Hip, FirstOntario Centre, Hamilton, ON August 16, 2016

The Tragically Hip are having a tremendous amount of fun. It’s clear on their smiling faces.

They’re changing their shows for every city by playing these different album suites, and even if you hear from the same record in Toronto and Hamilton, you won’t necessarily hear the same songs. It means that each night is a loose (oopsie!) celebration rather than a tight recital and it keeps them and us on our toes. Tonight, what’d we get? Fully Completely, Man Machine Poem, World Container, Day For Night, Phantom Power, Trouble at the Henhouse, and Road Apples, I think.

The first pit photo I took in Hamilton, ON that day

Gord Downie wants to talk.

Most shows, he thanks people verbally while the band is jamming out a song and then, when they go dark and leave, he quietly bows, blows some kisses, salutes the expanse, tips his hat, and then he just stares longingly, absorbing a million of us by himself, on stage. It’s very still and very poignant.

Not in Hamilton though. In Hamilton, he had a bit!

“You made us feel like a hundred bucks. Thank you Hamilton! Thanks to all the gentlemen. Your faces. Your beards. Thanks to all the ladies. Yeah! You helped us become a real band through all the years. There was a  patch where we had to do something to the boys; they were just trying to take over, jumping on our stage, and stuff like that. We had to get the girls in, to take over. And I know you don’t mind. You guys alright? Alright. On behalf of the boys, all of us, thank you so much for all the years. And I’m not joking around. We did a gig here to zero people. That’s our record. This is it. That was the best, or, y’know. It was incredible. Sinclair put down his bass guitar and he kept playing and that way, he went to see the manager to make sure we got paid because if we stopped playing, he didn’t have to pay us. Even though we’re playing to zero, nobody. I think it was 325 bucks so thank you. So. Much.”

Gord’s a singer and he writes songs. He’s a poet who’s had his work published in ink on tangible, bound paper. Gord is “theatrical.” Gord is an actor. A world class thespian who can convey feelings with his face and his body. Of late, the “Him? Here? Now? No!” section of “Grace, Too” is getting to everyone. It’s method. The character can’t believe it. Gord can’t believe it. Tears seem to flow. It’s beyond comprehension for everyone watching everyone else who lives in that song.

At our wedding, we had a band that played some of our favourite jams and, of late, I’ve been regretting the fact that I didn’t ask them to learn how to play “In View” so I could sing its sweet, romantic, sunny words to my new wife in front of many of our friends and many of my parents’ friends whom I couldn’t even identify then, let alone now. This is an actual thought that has rattled around my stupid brain recently. I, for some reason, genuinely wish I was heroic enough nine years ago to sing my wife a romantic song somebody else wrote, in public. Delusions of candour.

Johnny Fay plays the Phantom Power suite vaguely like Tommy Ramone on the first two Ramones records; no fills, no frills. It’s not a frenetic display though. He seems like a future hall of famer, playing through the pain. Guitarist Paul Langlois looks very bemused whenever the cue to sing a harmony vocal arrives because his lead singer, Gord, is often somewhere else, on a wander, away from his microphone and his microphone stand. Downie often shrugs at lead guitarist Rob Baker during some songs. “Next time,” his shoulders are saying. “Next time it’ll be where it was supposed to be. I’ll put it there myself.”

A photo I took with my telephone

There’s a lot of tall grass that gets mowed down in “Poets,” just after Gord peeks through it every now again to see what the poets are doing, for himself. The band play my favourite song that they’ve made so far, “Escape is at Hand for the Travelling Man.” It’s kind of a slight thing but everything about this music speaks to me. It’s a great story about fleeting bonds. It’s very sparse. It’s quite strange and room-y. It’s a space oddity.

Elvis Presley died 39 years ago today but all I can think about is David Bowie and Freddie Mercury and Gord Downie. That last guy is having a ball in front of me. He’s dancing and teasing us a lot tonight. Vamping. During “Courage (for Hugh MacLennan),” he talks like Bowie and Queen about that feeling. Y’know the one? Under pressure?

On another song, “Locked in the Trunk of a Car,” which isn’t played tonight, he quotes the collab again: “Let me out!” And I think about all the notes Gord can hit with his voice. All the power he has at his command when he wants to scream a feel and I think, “Oh. He’s kind of like Freddie Mercury. And David Bowie. Some of this rock he’s a part of is pushing the bounds of the human imagination. And it’s on the radio a fair bit here.”

All these shiny coloured suits are kinda Bowie too. Not some kinda Elvis thing.

Gord Downie, Hamilton, ON, August 16, 2016 (Vish Khanna)

Someone tells me Gord has an unreleased solo album in the can. Just outta nowhere, that’s a thing I’m told. Ok. That’s good news if it’s the truth. Let’s see. More to come!

Three burly white dudes threaten to steal my Another Roadside Attraction tour t-shirt that I bought in 1993, when I was 15. They’re laughing about it but each of them paws at it. And me. “Man, we’re gonna take your shirt! Haw haw haw!” They just appear on the steps; they don’t have tickets to this section. Mouthbreathing scofflaws!

They seem like soused, idiot coyotes. I’m genuinely unsettled for five songs. Melodramatic. “Shit, maybe I should take off the shirt before I leave so they can’t spot me outside.” Fight or flight, lizard brain.

When the show’s over, I’m emotional, as I always seem to be on the Man Machine Poem Tour. Gord is saying goodbye, telling us he’s not anti-phone or anything but look, maybe we should home in on the little things, and I think he means that our actual memories are being sacrificed by false, degraded mementos that we gather but never engage with, which is like short changing your life by living it through a piece of fucking shit phone that has a finite and meaningless existence compared to yours.

I think that’s what he’s saying. But I’m racing up the steps, too euphoric and too panicked. And too alone.

It’s the terror of knowing what this world is about.  

“Let me out,” I whisper to the metal bar that works the door.

And then I’m outside. With people, on the streets.

The Tragically Hip, Canadian Tire Centre, Ottawa, ON August 18, 2016 (Vish Khanna)

The Wishes Pile Up
The Tragically Hip, Canadian Tire Centre, Ottawa, ON August 18, 2016

Having attended millions of concerts, I’ve seen things on the Man Machine Poem Tour that I’ve never seen before.

For instance, I have never, ever witnessed a band sell more merchandise on a tour. The line-ups are colossal. I have waited in them myself. The various shirt styles and various sizes are gobbled up quickly. The web store was selling some of the same wares but recently said “I quit!” It’s intense, all that fabric coming in and going out so fast.

In Ottawa, beside the outdoor merch tent, there is a trailer. Inside the trailer, men and women are making the t-shirts for the merch tent, right on site. It’s like a very small factory. It’s possible that your specific shirt might come out of there, as fresh as a Krispy Kreme doughnut, straight off the line, glaze still hardening. Let it cool.

The people miles ahead of you at the front of the line might do odd things. Normal odd things like forget the PIN number for that credit card and that debit card and that other credit card and I thought we cancelled that card, honey? Or they might deign to try on multiple sizes of the same shirt. On and off and on and off and on until, finally, they’re off.

The merch table on this tour is also a change room with human mirrors. The band, the Hip, cannot make enough of the stuff. And the stuff has to fit just right, no matter how long it takes.

Until tonight, I’ve come up empty-handed, looking for the commemorative white tour poster that refuses to remain in stock. I stood in line once for 30 minutes before a show. Nothing. Tonight, it was 40. I got there two hours early, all for a white poster. It was my white whale, that white poster. But I landed it today. She is finally mine.

One of of our greatest literary minds Larry Davided me.

Joseph Boyden and I have been catching up for a few minutes near the box office, amidst thousands of people waiting to obtain their tickets from will call or else get inside to their seats inside of the actual arena. He’s been to a few shows too. We’re talking about them. We’re aficionados. We know certain things and we know certain people.

“Will you be at the after party tonight?” he says.

“Uh, no?”



“…Ok, well see you around man.”

He’s invited, I am not, and it’s amazing. Joe said the awkward thing to me that I would normally say to someone else.

I have to tell you, I didn’t like it.

The Tragically Hip, Canadian Tire Centre, Ottawa, ON August 18, 2016 (Vish Khanna)

The man sitting right beside me at the show is my old friend, the musician, Jim Bryson. Jim is a high quality songwriter and multi-instrumentalist who bears the rare distinction of actually being in the Tragically Hip, playing keyboards, among other things, on their 2009 tour behind We Are the Same. He says being on stage with the Hip was like “standing in front of a jet engine.”

“I spent a certain amount of time around these super beautiful people,” Bryson says, collecting himself during a brief intermission. “To watch it like this is super emotional. In crisis, I get very still, where I have almost a reverse reaction. It’s like I’m searching for emotion.”

On cue, the Hip launch into “Summer’s Killing Us,” singer Gord Downie all in, ripping the head off of the song, as though it wronged him.

During “Gus: The Polar Bear From Central Park,” a dark, infectious thing that I love, Downie ambles around the stage like all of the monkeys and all of the men who make up the chart of evolutionary progress.

They’ve already run through songs from Up to Here and Man Machine Poem. We’re at In Between Evolution, a stellar, underrated record, and we’ll eventually hear selections from Day for Night, Trouble at the Henhouse, Fully Completely, and Phantom Power.

“How you guys doing?” Gord asks before “It Can’t Be Nashville Every Night.” The crowd roars happily.

“What’s your secret?” he counters.

Gord’s in an interesting zone tonight. More unpredictable in his phrasing. He questions his own notes on “Greasy Jungle.” Starts it again. He’ll do something similar for “Wheat Kings” later, searching for the song in real time.

After the “Him? Here? Now? No!” section of “Grace, Too” basically went viral this past week because of its emotional heft at recent shows, he totally omits it tonight. He runs off-stage to change outfits instead. I’m kind of floored. It’s an iconic part of an iconic song. Difficult to neglect it like it’s no thing.

Did he forget?

He’s been so superhuman on this tour, I’ve lost sight of the fact that he’s mortal. That he’s present but working hard to stay in the moment that every song commands. It’s an insensitive realization given the tour’s context, that he’s ill. And yet he mostly seems just fine every night.

Did I forget? His perseverance makes me forget.

The Tragically Hip, Canadian Tire Centre, Ottawa, ON August 18, 2016 (Vish Khanna)

“Flamenco.” One of the Hip’s greatest songs. Indisputably smart and lovely.

“Maybe a prostitute could teach you how to take a compliment.”

What a line! He draws it out for 15 long, purposeful seconds. It’s a hazy, film noir kiss-off. In its honour, the big screens go b&w to capture the band, Gord singing it like a young Sinatra after more than a few, while air-smoking cigarettes like Bogie.

“It’s great to be here,” he says before the final song, “Poets.” “In the nation’s capital.” Gord pauses. “I think.”

Pauses again.

“First Nations. That’s the nation’s capital.”

Jim Bryson wept during four straight songs. At some point towards the end, Gord Downie said thanks and “Carry on people!” and Jim was gone.

It all hit him so hard. He’s gaining his composure for a phone interview he agreed to do with one of our national newspapers, right after the show. It goes well, Jim says. He’s ok.

I’m ok too. Something about these Hip shows has been spiritually rejuvenating. They’re obvious and elusive, the reasons. I’ve seen things I’ve never seen. I’ve felt things I’ve never felt. Any pettiness within me is shrinking fast. I’m going to leave this tour valuing others more and recognizing the fact that, to them, I’m valuable.

We matter. I matter.

“Oh,” Jim says, “Are you going to the after party tonight?”

Signage in Kingston, ON, August 20, 2016 (Vish Khanna)

The End and The Beginning
The Tragically Hip, K-Rock Centre, Kingston, ON August 20, 2016

This can’t be the end.

You probably saw what happened on TV. The whole thing, right?

As the show ends and the encores loom, a man breaks down in tears. He sits in his seat on the arena floor for the first time all night, cradling his head and vibrating in agony. A cameraman runs over and points his machine at him forever. The man finally collects himself, as the Hip come back out onstage to play longer than they ever have on the Man Machine Poem Tour. It is their hardest show.

The Tragically Hip, K-Rock Centre, Kingston, ON August 20, 2016 (Vish Khanna)

Kingston is sunny and breezy and beautiful on this day. On my drive in, a postcard came to life; I see a float plane take off over a boat in the lake.

This is where this band started in 1984. This is their turf.

The streets of downtown Kingston are almost all closed to cars and there are people walking everywhere. All of the pubs, restaurants, and coffee shops are bursting at the seams. I am with Richard and Dave, two of my oldest friends. From childhood. And my dear colleague Sean Michaels, the author and music writer, joins us. We walk the streets, laughing hard at every hilarious joke Sean makes, as the Tragically Hip’s music blasts out of every place with power.

Sean Michaels, me, Kingston, ON, August 20, 2016

Inside, our seats are so close to the stage. First row in the stands. Most of the ones around us stay empty until just before the show starts when the Hip’s friends and family emerge. My friend spots a familiar and, to me, meaningful face. I approach him.

“Excuse me Mr. Aykroyd?”


“‘My name’s Vish–“

“Hello Vish!”

“I just wanted to say I’m a tremendous fan.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Yeah. Spies Like Us changed my life.”

“Oh, well, my wife here [actress/SLU co-star, Donna Dixon] killed three of my friends!”

“Ha, right. Look, I don’t mean to bother you but would you mi–“

“No,no, none of that. I’m not even supposed to be here! If I draw any attention to myself they’ll kick me out of here!”

“…Uh, ok. Understood. Well, have a nice nigh–“

“They’re gonna kick me out of here!”

In any case, Spies Like Us is hilarious. Dan Aykroyd also helped start Saturday Night Live. Curiously, I don’t mention that show. Just Spies Like Us.

It’s almost showtime. I feel nauseous. The gravity of this show, which might be the band’s last, is hitting me. I need to sit down but I don’t. I stand, dazed, talking to my friends.

It’s all being broadcast live on CBC TV.  There are cameras everywhere. This is the smallest arena I’ve seen the band in on this tour but it’s also, the loudest one.

Canada’s Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau, is at the band’s hometown show. But the crowd circulates a sign that reads, “Thank You Prime Minister Downie.”

The band play a new song called “Tired as Fuck” on television. Maybe for television. Every accentuated “fuck” is surely causing someone, somewhere some stress.

When it’s done, played pretty much perfectly, Gord Downie suggests we’re in good hands with Trudeau, who he says will help our country resolve its crimes against First Nations people. Reparations. It’s a point he raises again and again. With the whole world watching, it’s a bold challenge to the PM and to us, to make sure it’s done, even if it takes 100 years. He’s right.

The singer wails and howls during many songs, feeling it all, deep within.

Gord has always trusted us to understand. His lyrics and intentions and roaring vocals aren’t easy things. They don’t pussyfoot around. They’re heady and majestic and some of the words live in the far reaches of the dictionary and history books and alternative news sources. But he trusts that we’ll get it.

The Tragically Hip, K-Rock Centre, Kingston, ON August 20, 2016 (Vish Khanna)

A Canadian flag is crowd surfing its way around the arena and I’m reminded of what this band stands for to some people. An elusive, fluid cultural identity requires an enigmatic ambassador. We chose ours and it’s from Kingston, Ontario.

That so many citizens have anointed the Hip–the weird, darkly optimistic, loud, loud, loud Hip–as Canada’s band must say something about us. To grossly generalize, we must be pretty demanding and that’s good. Keeps the quality of our art high maybe. Everyone feels engaged with how complex our world really is when we listen to the band.

Over breakfast in Ottawa that morning, my dear, childhood friend, Steven, suggests that bassist Gord Sinclair is the Hip’s secret weapon, which is a truth I hadn’t considered before. I know he’s integral but a secret? I pay closer attention. Steven is right. Sinclair holds the whole thing together. He’s the unassuming bandleader. It only took me 30 years to notice.

The performance has its highs and frightening moments but it’s the best show ever. It’s got some of the band’s greatest songs and some of their gutsiest, most topsy-turvy, and beautifully executed renditions of their work. Certainly features material I haven’t seen over five Ontario shows I’ve attended. It covers the breadth of their status, as radio darlings and cult favourites.

“Grace, Too.” So devastating. Tears and tears and tears. Who can restrain themselves? The spirit of it all in the room is impossible to capture in some ways. It feels like a new feeling.

There is no mention of this being the last show. But something has closed. There’s some resolution to a 32 year-old chapter.

But. What?

No one knows. I feel like something else can come of all of this. It’s not over. It’s not fan greediness or neediness. I just think working people will work until they can’t work anymore. This band works. Hard. Together.

I feel lucky to be here and the arena’s surreal.

This can’t be the end. It’s not. It’s just not.

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In Review: Bob Dylan’s Rough and Rowdy Ways

Bob Dylan
Rough and Rowdy Ways
(Columbia Records)

“I am the enemy of the unlived, meaningless life”
– Bob Dylan, “False Prophet”

Of late, the generosity of spirit that has long inhabited Bob Dylan’s music has been manifesting itself via sessions devoted to other people’s words and ideas or in more namedrops per song than you hear this side of hip-hop. It feels almost kindly, after more than a fair share of stern glares and southpaw stances.

Marking his first album of original songs since 2012, Rough and Rowdy Ways finds Bob Dylan and his band working at full power–blunt yet enigmatic lyrics swimming at the surface of positively stirring and hypnotic soundscapes. As he has been wont to do for so long now, Dylan again teaches us history lessons, as though he is looking back at us over his shoulder from the future.

In 2012, Dylan released Tempest, and it’s difficult to recall any record of his that carried more outward-facing rage. The ferocity in his voice and in his words there was and is almost overwhelming; “Pay In Blood” still sends chills up my spine, as I cower from my speakers whenever it plays. Even ostensibly gentler things like “Soon After Midnight” and “Long and Wasted Years” are laced with vengeful threats; “Scarlet Town” and “Tin Angel” are haunting narratives too, Dylan delivering every word from a gritty tongue dripping with poison. Phew!

Well, then what?

Dylan took his band around the world a lot; his alternate universe of a Bootleg Series continued to pump out black gold; and then in 2015, Shadows in the Night; in 2016 Fallen Angels; and in 2017, a triple LP called Triplicate.

When you speak with other fans about this three-year album arc, it’s known as “the Sinatra stuff”—Dylan spending three (no, five) records singing songs that Frank Sinatra sang or might have sang in a certain way and making them his own. These “old songs” are truly, perhaps even sadly, timeless—tales of crisscrossed hearts and minds, of human nature at its most romantic, righteous, and charming. Foul at times, too.

After roaring through much of Tempest with menace (there are more than a few lyrical flourishes on that 2012 album that anticipated America’s post-Obama calamity but man, I am leaving that alone for now), Dylan spent three new records crooning like only he can.

His is one of the most original voices we’ve ever heard. The songs he chooses to sing activate his muscles, physically and emotionally, and based on their sentiment and structure, he gives them all a custom job. Coupled with his band’s unsettling, cool new musical amalgam (it might be “rock” or “blues” but I think it’s essentially “jazz,” in that way that jazz tends to absorb every sound that is very good and then wrings it out into something we can’t quite place but, as mentioned, is generally very good), some of these “standards” sounded altogether new once Dylan reinterpreted them to the max.

I mention all of this because, to my ear, it can’t help but inform Rough and Rowdy Ways.

Here, Dylan’s voice is impassioned, hard, tuneful, and just a rich, emotive instrument–the way he phrases “Nobody ever told me/It’s just something I knew” on “I’ve Made Up My Mind To Give Myself to You,” which, unusually of late, features tasteful, male backing vocals, or “I ain’t no false prophet/I just know what I know” on the edgier rocker, “False Prophet” tells us a lot about his state of mind.

Tough, certain, fragile, vulnerable—such confident lines feel like tricky revelations discovered after an honest self-assessment.

If it seems like there’s a lot of this reflection going on, it might be because “I Contain Multitudes” leads the record off, as a seemingly autobiographical tone-setter. Musically, it feels sombre and rubbery, gentle strings and pedal steel supporting Dylan’s close-to-the-mic vocal, in which he alludes to things like “All the Young Dudes,” and says that he’s “just like Anne Frank, like Indiana Jones / and those British bad boys, the Rolling Stones.”

It’s maybe a little jarring to hear this flurry of names representing very dissimilar people, cuddling together, but it also serves to prove the song’s central point, while paying tribute to some who may well be a part of Dylan’s creative make-up.

On the horror-noir “My Own Version of You,” Dylan becomes Dr. Frankenstein: “I’ll take the Scarface Pacino, and the Godfather Brando / mix it up in a tank / and get a robot commando.” This musical highlight features more name checks (i.e. Leon Russell, Liberace, Freud, Karl or possibly Groucho Marx) and is playfully macabre, as though Dylan is stroking his old Vincent Price moustache the whole time, while quoting Shakespeare and Jagger/Richards.

A Nick Cave fan, Dylan sort of channels him on “Black Rider,” with sparse music complementing a dark song about a mysterious figure that’s a nemesis and earns all sorts of foreboding bile. “Black rider, black rider / Hold it right there / The size of your cock will get you nowhere.” It’s almost a vocational feud, full of medieval imagery and, in spite of its forlorn delivery, is really wild.

There’s another kind of kingdom on “Goodbye Jimmy Reed,” a loose homage to the blues guitarist and “old time religion,” which, in its “Love and Theft”-style barn-burning blues, complete with some increasingly rare-on-a-record harmonica from Dylan, feels custom made for the live show.

“Mother of Muses” is aesthetically a cross between a contemporary ballad and Dylan’s latest “Sinatra records,” where the music is rich and substantive but knows its role, as a foundation in service of Dylan’s powerful narrative voice. He sings especially clearly, with humility and something of a pleading tone—for a soldier’s absolution (the Civil War is invoked, for the extremely formative American thing that it was) but perhaps even for further inspiration (it’s right in the name of the song, really).

A particularly telling passage here, in the grand scheme of this record, finds Dylan citing historical figures like various military heroes by name, and then Elvis Presley and Martin Luther King, all of whose efforts he summarizes by stating that they “did what they did / and they went on their way / Man, I could tell their stories all day.” There’s mortality, memory, and essential work rolled into these words, which provide a window into Dylan’s philosophical sense of self and how towering figures in history are so easily made to lay down.

Man, Charlie Sexton is something else. Dylan’s longtime guitarist has a lot of space to play with on Rough and Rowdy Ways, which feels like it has less of Dylan’s keys on it than records he’s made since 2001’s “Love and Theft” and tours that immediately followed its 9/11 release (he seemed to semi-permanently switch to piano and keys when he began paying tribute to Warren Zevon’s music at shows in 2002, after the singer announced he was terminally ill and before he died in 2003).

This is germane because “Crossing the Rubicon” is anchored by an insistent guitar riff and off-kilter stomping, which is a sort of surreal arrangement choice for Dylan’s rather meditative song, based on a metaphor and lore about Julius Caesar, whose name is mentioned more than once on this record. “Oh lord,” Dylan says at one point, deliberately off-mic, like it’s a faux secret–something he actually wants us to hear.

“Key West (Philosopher Pirate)” has an almost ambient vibe, a sturdy guitar riff that comes and goes, while accordion floats by, like the E Street Band is taking it a bit easy in a three or four AM daze. Dylan sings of Key West, like it’s some kind of miraculous mirage that he eyes with equal parts desire and suspicion.

At one point, he tenderly describes himself standing there, booing. It’s purgatory or maybe it’s hell, where you can catch “bleeding heart disease,” and “stay to the left and then you lean to the right” and when you’re 12 years-old, you’re made to “marry a prostitute.”

On “Key West,” something is happening, but you don’t know what it is. Could all be about the falseness of Florida—a promised land for older ways of thinking, sung about with all the even ease of someone inviting you to your first cult meeting.

The first inkling we got about this new album was the standalone release of the single, “Murder Most Foul,” a near 17-minute song detailing the way in which baby boomers lost and somewhat partially recovered their innocence after John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas; how nobody ever believed any explanations about how and why it happened; how the rawest possible footage of the incident was released, and has been running on a loop in our blown up psyches ever since (“Ugliest thing you ever have seen,” Dylan says plainly, like a guy on his stoop, just shooting the breeze, telling us about an unreal horror that has become nothing more than an acceptable anecdote).

“Murder Most Foul” features a litany of cultural figures, products, and incidents, all of which seem to frame the before and after of an American president getting brained in a car and his fellow citizens having to process that. Dylan might say he doesn’t really know why he might be citing the Eagles and Oscar Peterson and Fleetwood Mac and Houdini and Lady Macbeth in this song, all the while taking us back to the Kennedy assassination and its technicolour sequence of events and cast of characters. They’re connected somehow in “Murder Most Foul,” and reflect a good chunk of America. His particular America, before and since he’s been “Bob Dylan,” is neatly accounted for and summed up. The song contains multitudes. 

“I am the enemy of the unlived, meaningless life,” Dylan sings, lashing out on “False Prophet,” which is another kind of point he makes throughout the album; Dylan cites so many historical figures, locations, and axioms here, it’s like he’s shining a flashlight into the darkness of the past to show us something we should probably have a look at.

“Hello Mary Lou / Hello Miss Pearl,” he sings, just shouting out some old proto-rockabilly songs (by Ricky Nelson and the Ronnie Hayward Trio, respectively), for what? So we go searching for them ourselves maybe; a Dylan song can be a pretty great scavenger hunt.

For us, Dylan is a vibrant and vibrating artistic force; for some others, Dylan is and has long been a relic from the past. Imagine being a relic from the past who lives in and makes things in the now. How does it feel? Well here, Dylan seems to identify the most with those figures and stories that have been relegated to history by time and the dictates of fashion and short attention spans.

History, lives lived—they have a lot more to teach us about the present than we might want to admit without detachment and irony protecting us from the feelings. Rough and Rowdy Ways is overflowing with feelings. The sentiments and the language are either plain as day or else shadowy and weird but, in its reflection of his own lives and times, it’s all truly beguiling, forward thinking, and some of the best work in Bob Dylan’s catalogue. He is taking stock of himself; it’s telling how much of him is still speaking to the world about us. – VISH KHANNA


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Ep. #27: Greil Marcus