062717 Bob Dylan, Kingston, ON

On June 27th, 2017 I was forced to make a musical decision: whether to drive a couple of hours to Kingston to see Bob Dylan at the K-rock Centre or just stay home and take in another day of the local jazz fest just down the road (well, canal) from home.  Though I don’t recall who was slated to play the jazz festival that night it was probably someone at least okay – the jazz fest rarely slouches – plus it was free, or more accurately already paid for, as I had of course purchased my usual full-festival pass.

But c’mon now, we’re talking about Bob Dylan; you know where I was going to end up.  Plus Kingston had the distinct drawing power of being home to my old friend and ever-pleasing host Jojo, whom I stayed with.

And while the Dylan show was fantastic, and chock-a-block with swinging jazz numbers that I’ve never heard (nor imagined) Dylan digging into (Autumn Leaves, That Old Black Magic, Stormy Weather; he did a Sinatra tune and a Tony Bennett tune…it was so great) alongside several of his standard epic gems of greatness (Highway 61 Revisited, Desolation Row, Tangled Up in Blue, among others), the real memory-jewel from this night occurred before the concert even begun.

We were on the small street-front patio at Jojo’s brother’s excellent restaurant (Olivea’s) in downtown Kingston lingering over pints following a wonderful dinner.  I was sitting across from m’lady with my back to the door when she looked over my head and stage whispered, “Bobby Baker just walked behind you!”

As I mentioned, Olivea’s is a great spot, so great in fact that it draws in Kingstonians from all walks of life; indeed, the restaurant is a common dinner-option for members of Kingston’s (and Canada’s) favourite sons, The Tragically Hip.  Particularly guitarist Bobby Baker, who dines there regularly.  So while I wasn’t surprised with m’lady’s quiet exclamation, I wasn’t about to not turn around and look.  

And when I did turn around and look I saw not only Bobby Baker, but he was with two of his bandmates, bassist Gord Sinclair and singer (and national hero/legend/poet/icon), the terminally ill Gord Downie.

At the moment Gord Downie had less than four months left to walk this Earth, having spent the previous two years responding to his cancer diagnosis by courageously mounting a farewell tour with his band and creating a book, a film, and an album about the horrible fate of Chanie Wenjack specifically to raise awareness about Canada’s residential school system travesty, all of which helped vault him to near god-like status up here in his native land.

And also at the moment, Gord Downie had just walked behind me and stopped when he reached the sidewalk, just eight or nine feet away.  I’m pretty sure he heard m’lady mention Bobby Baker’s name, which caused him to turn in our direction.  After all the attention he had been getting, I think he was somewhat amused that he’d overheard his bandmate’s name and not his own (it was natural that m’lady noticed tall, lanky, always-in-rockstar-look Bobby Baker and missed the jean-jacketed, wool-capped Gord Downie – not to mention everyman Gord Sinclair).  Regardless, when my head swivelled and my focus tunnel-visioned directly onto Gord Downie, a bemused smile crept across his face as he locked eyes with me.

I was frozen, my mouth slightly agape, and Downie could see it.  We were in a staring contest and he was going to win.  With a twinkle to his eye, Gord spread his smile as wide as he could and started leaning down.  In front of him was a waist-high fencepost that helped to demarcate the patio from the sidewalk, and I’ll be darned if Gord didn’t bend down and set his elbows on that pillar and cup his chin in his two hands, smiling at me like the cat that ate the hat.  I went cold inside – sort of, except it felt good – and my innards started to jiggle…Gord Downie (1964-2017) just kept gazing into my eyes with that amused grin on his face and after a moment-and-a-half I couldn’t handle it anymore and I looked away.  I had blinked and he had won, though I handed him the victory gladly.

Strangely, my inner excuse for turning away was to hiss at m’lady, “it’s Gord Downie too! (with apologies to Mr. Sinclair).”  Her wide eyes already told me that, yeah, she noticed.  When I looked back in Gord’s direction the moment was over and had had turned his attention back to his two cohorts.

When I’ve told people this story I’ve often been asked why I didn’t say anything, or go up and shake his hand; it was surely my last chance to ever talk to the man.  But the thing is, there’s an unwritten rule in Kingston that nobody ever bugs the guys in The Hip when they are seen around town, which is often.  I’ve been behind Bobby Baker in beer-line at the hockey rink before and nobody said a peep.  Heck, Jojo curls against a couple of the band members in his curling league.  At home they are treated just like regular folk.  Which they are of course.

And in true Kingston-fashion, 60% of Canada’s most famous and highly respected rock band stood on the sidewalk utterly unmolested as crowds of Dylan fans walked by, and just like three normal dudes they soon strolled off towards the concert themselves, headed into the very same venue where they had played their final concert together less than a year earlier, a national event that had been broadcast live across the country and became the second-most watched television program in Canadian history (next to the 2010 Olympic gold medal game against the US of course – an event I was also fortunate enough to have witnessed live).

And somewhere in that building I hope that Gord (and Gord and Bobby) enjoyed the Dylan concert just as much as I did.