Last Sunday was bad for me, but I have only myself to blame. I tuned in to the Juno Awards' 40th anniversary program - the best televised broadcast in the history of the ceremony - to find most of my friends performing on the program. They were part of a contemporary musical tribute to Canada's second generation of rock 'n' roll pioneers, and while I should have felt great for my friends, I felt sad and envious. Later in the show, producers ran a short film featuring a number of bands who'd contributed to the evolution of the socalled Toronto Sound. Every band the Rheostatics had ever played with - our first local show was in February 1980, at The Edge - were represented. Feeling sorry for myself, I left the room and went to bed. But before turning out the light, I posted my feelings on Facebook and, within moments, someone tweeted: "dave bidini is on a rant and it isn't pretty #spoiledandoverlooked." I knew what I'd done, but it didn't make me feel less like an ungrateful jerk. I turned out the lights, but sleep came hard.
I don't mean to speak the same poem, but when we first started touring in 1987, Canadian music about Canada was anathema to the music industry. Artists were asked to Americanize place names to better serve opportunities abroad, and the Junos themselves imported international acts to give their show some heft. Reacting against this, we wrote songs about hockey players and the Prairies, and dressed in Mountie serge on our first tour. Twenty years later, we were still railing against what we saw were the injustices of the indigenous music industry. And then we broke up. In the time after our demise, things changed, and confident Canadian music became heralded and embraced. My friend Shauna said: "It seemed like, in the '70s, the most popular music in Canada was the best music. Then things changed for the worst. But now, that's coming back again. The most celebrated bands are the best bands again." This was never more evident than on the recent awards broadcast, where strange and great groups -our contemporaries -were paraded across the screen in a gesture that acknowledged change. And there I was at home, watching from my chair and feeling left out.
It's a mug's game to lament about what could have been, especially from someone who has been lucky enough to support their family while making art. But it's the nature of all artists to want more, whether you've made a difference or created anything close to a defining work. After Saul Bellow won the Nobel Prize for literature, his agent regretted having to tell the writer of his citation. The day of his prize, friends called to congratulate the agent, but, after thanking them he said that, "Saul will just be upset that he can't win it again." Echoing that feeling, Paul Quarrington once half-jokingly -and halfnot -told Wayson Choy that "every time another writer wins an award, something dies inside." Still, I could only draw a small measure of solace knowing that other people -greater and more long-standing artists than myself -felt the same as me.
I was lucky, then, that baseball's Opening Day came the following week. It took my mind off feeling sorry for myself, but more than that, it provided a certain wisdom about my circumstances. This wisdom came from someone I probably should have turned to in the first place: the retired pitcher, Bill Lee. Lee, the former Expo and Red Sox, is famous for many things, not the least being his reputation as a free-spirit in the traditional surroundings of '70s and '80s pro sport. He once admitted to sprinkling pot on his morning pancakes and was nicknamed "The Spaceman," accordingly. Unlike a lot of players, he read voraciously and could discuss international politics with any reporter who'd listen. Lee moved to Canada shortly after his career ended -building a home in Nova Scotia -and, one evening, on Brent Bambury's Brave New Waves, he appeared with songwriter Loudon Wainwright III, where they argued about culture and art long into the night.
Before his defining game as a pitcher -Game Seven of the 1975 World Series, where he was due to face the Cincinnati Red's ace, Don Gullet -reporters asked the Reds' manager, Sparky Anderson, about his team's chances. Sparky said, "No matter what happens, my pitcher is going to the Hall of Fame." After hearing this, Lee stated, "No matter what happens, I'm going to the Eliot Lounge." The Eliot Lounge is a New England watering hole. Lee lost the game, the Red Sox lost the Series -they wouldn't win a championship until 2004 -and, years later, Gullet blew out his arm. He never made it to the Hall of Fame.
Lee remains a huge presence in the game. He mills bats for current Red Sox players and is the voice of sanity and intelligence on issues of life and sport, success and failure. His words reminded me that going to the Hall of Fame -or not going -is merely a small part of life. Ambition is fine, but one day, one show, one gig or one game doesn't define a lifetime. The Arcade Fire -who swept the awards and were afforded a well-deserved spot playing on the telecast -might not end up going to the Hall of Fame. And I might not be going there, either. But there's a place for all of us at the Eliot Lounge. It never closes and is open forever. Me and Bill Lee.
