A few last words on Gordon Lightfoot

We’re at roughly the halfway mark of the provincial election, but you’d hardly know it was happening. With wildfires chasing thousands from their homes, and the Edmonton Oilers in a genuine run for the Stanley Cup (on Saturday, anyway; not so much on Monday), things like elections seem like mere trivialities. Promises are being made, I assume. But who cares right now, with fire scorching the Alberta earth and Leon Draisaitl scorching the NHL record book?

So in lieu of an election-related blog, I’d like to provide some last words on the passing of the greatest Canadian singer-songwriter ever.

When Gordon Lightfoot died last week at the age of 84, one of the obits described him as “arguably one of Canada’s greatest singer-songwriters”. Arguably? Really? Who’s better? Leonard Cohen maybe, but who can understand his lyrics? You could argue for Joni Mitchell or Neil Young –I think some might even suggest Stompin’ Tom Conners, or even Raffi – but nobody produced more profoundly memorable, more evocative, more Canadian songs than ol’ Gord.

Lightfoot was that rarest of Canadian stars, one who found international fame and admiration (his New York Times obit generated more than 1,300 comments) while never giving up his citizenship. 

In so many of the effusive hymns of praise I’ve read about Lightfoot in the last week, I noticed a common thread that simply no longer exists.

Over and over again, fans wrote about how they discovered Lightfoot on their family stereo. I can relate. I know most of Lightfoot’s greatest songs from albums my older sister Suzanne (I think it was Sue; I had a lot of siblings) bought during the height of the folk music craze. We had one stereo in the house, so if you wanted to listen to a record, everyone listened to the same record. (This is why I have an enduring love of Broadway cast albums like Carousel, the King and I, My Fair Lady, etc. My dad was a fan, and he would play his albums on Sundays loud enough to be heard on the third floor, and probably next door.) In the era before headphones and Walkmans and iPods and smartphones, music was shared within families. This may sound like a nightmare to younger people accustomed to living in their own aural universe, but it broadened your musical horizons, whether you wanted them broadened or not. 

Lightfoot’s catalogue is unmatched by any Canadian. Early Morning Rain, Did She Mention My Name, Canadian Railroad Trilogy, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, If You Could Read My Mind, Black Day in July. While listening to some Lightfoot last week on CKUA, I was struck by one song, Does Your Mother Know. I hadn’t heard this song probably since 1968, when it appeared on his second album. Hearing it today, it took me back to my childhood home. Where has that song been for so long? 

Would today’s 12-year-old listen to music from an older sibling, or worse, their parents, today? Not a chance. We’re in our silos, with our own music and TV and games. Not only have we lost Gordon Lightfoot, we have long ago lost that sense of community where music was shared in families.

I guess it’s not all bad. I wouldn’t want to be forced to listen to any of today’s crap.