The Tragically Hip dazzles Artpark again

Sure, I could throw out a million little adroit adjectives to describe what the atmosphere was like inside the Artpark Mainstage Theatre on Tuesday night, but I don’t think all that fancy schmancy regress would begin to do justice to the experience. What occurred was transcendent. What occurred was sublime. What occurred goes beyond the thinking man’s tendency to rationalize all the world’s idiosyncrasies. What occurred was a concert from Kingston, Ont.’s own The Tragically Hip.

Sporting a jet-black suit reminiscent of Ringo Starr’s “Abbey Road” attire, bombastic front man Gordon Downie graced the stage determined to make everyone in attendance feel just a little bit better than when they came in and it certainly didn’t take long to make that happen.

Whether it was the melancholic yearning of “The Depression Suite” or the raucous vivacity of “Family Band,” the group as a collective unit seemed to be having a blast on stage and sounded tighter than their last few tours combined. At this point in their career, they’re just five guys whose abundant respect for each other fuels a creative fire to the point that nothing is too far out of reach.

Led by Downie’s refreshing, borderline-epileptic persona, the band proceeded to tear into gem after endlessly emotive gem and had the appreciative crowd in the palm of their hand for the remainder of the evening.

Bobby Baker and Paul Langlois are consummate professionals when in command of their axes, but even they managed to shed a smile here and there to acknowledge the awesomeness of the event. To say that their playing on this night was nothing short of flawless would imply that we expected any different, so I’ll just say that the more they played, the less I started to worry about what abominable condition the parking lot would be in after the show. I simply didn’t care.

Other first set highlights included a stirring rendition of “Gift Shop” and a rare appearance of “Throwing Off Glass,” but it wasn’t until the second set began that the immensity of the show was solidified.

To keep things new, the band decided to kick off every second set of this tour with a three-song acoustic breakdown to further add to the intimacy level. For this particular show, they chose “Thompson Girl,” “Fiddler’s Green,” and “Ahead by a Century as the tunes receiving the unplugged treatment and, judging from the crowd’s elation, you would’ve thought that they had just won the lottery.

Actually, they did in a sense, because “Fiddler’s Green” still strikes an emotional chord with Downie and seldom finds its way into a set. The fact that they broke it out speaks volumes about the integrity and unpredictability they’ve come to espouse through the years and the audience let them know it every step of the way.

If you’re wondering why I haven’t mentioned the thunderous rhythm section of Gord Sinclair and Johnny Fay, don’t worry. Since it’s so easy to get lost in Downie’s priceless theatrical stylings, I wanted to give them their due in a way that often goes underappreciated. The ability of Fay to pulverize the skins into submission gets taken for granted as something that will always be there and the fact that he’s a virtuous drummer often gets lost in the mix.

As for Sinclair, he’s always struck me as a reserved guy who lets the fluidity of his playing speak for itself and I’d say he’s found the perfect niche to conquer.

If you had told me on Monday that “Gift Shop,” “Bobcaygeon,” “Fiddler’s Green,” Nautical Disaster” and “Grace, Too” would all make appearances, I probably would’ve laughed in your face. Walking out of the theatre Tuesday night, I felt like I had just seen something that I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

That’s how it is with a Hip show. It feels less like a concert and more like an exclusive gathering for 2,400 of their closest friends that everyone else missed the boat for.

With three shows to go, one can only imagine the room for expansion, because if the opener was any indication, this four-night stand will indeed become the stuff legends are made of.

Day 1 - Why Flying Sucks

The flight itself is usually at the forefront of everyone's contempt, but my journey actually began at the security checkpoint. Never in a million years did I think I would raise a white flag, but apparently Aveeno Sensitive Skin Shave Lotion is evidence of Jihadist tendencies, because the cheerful bunch at the scanner decided that the public's right to feel safe on an airplane supersedes my desire to have a healthy, natural-looking complexion. The nerve!

So I'm sitting in coach and I can already feel the bumps starting to emerge from my jugular, but musing over it doesn't help and won't make the skin any smoother.

Luckily, I had two crossword puzzles at my disposal, so I was pretty content for the thirty minutes it took to solve them both. You never know how skilled you are until you have nothing to do except contemplate the various synonyms for colloquial.

I became so desperate for excitement that I started to envy John Lithgow (or William Shatner for all you Serling purists) in "Twilight Zone: The Movie," because at least he had that grotesque creature out on the wing to occupy his mind. All I had was a notebook, a magazine and a half-empty can of Welch's Cran-Apple to satisfy my creative yearnings.

I picked up a copy of this week's New York magazine and found solace in an article chronicling the history of self-loathing Jewish comedy, so maybe the constant griping of Larry David has rubbed off on me.

I think that's enough for now, because I have a feeling that the ultimate fighter to my right will kill me if I don't turn the light off soon.

I'll leave you with the following observations and tidbits:

When Minneapolis refers to itself as "the land of a thousand lakes," they're not joking.

If you happen to be flying Delta in a few weeks and find a decomposed lung lying around, it probably belongs to the guy sitting behind me who couldn't seem to shake an obnoxious coughing spit that lasted forever.

And finally, do terrorists have sensitive skin?