Gordon Lightfoot Forums - View Single Post - tyson-lightfoot-article-toronto star

charlene · 02-21-2005, 12:48 PM

Feb. 21, 2005. 01:00 AM
He'll always be Alberta's child, come what may
Forget the '60s, Ian Tyson is a cowboy

JOE FIORITO

Here's my Ian Tyson problem.

The old cowpoke played in a club in the west end recently. He was plugging a new album. The woman who scrambles my eggs and I were there.

We shared a table with a nice young couple we'd never met before. The club is like that, small, intimate, folky. You sit with people you don't know.

The other couple? He wore a western shirt and had short hair and a pleasant manner. He said he drove a reefer, a refrigerated truck. Although he is from Toronto, he keeps a horse out west, and he goes to roping and riding clinics.

He also knows his country music and he's met Merle Haggard a couple of times. He likes to sing karaoke.

The young woman? She wore city clothes and said she was a pharmacologist, a toxicologist and a researcher.

I couldn't resist asking how they met; it turned out they were brother and sister, which is, in a way, even more interesting. A brother who studies how to throw the Houlihan and a sister who studies the effects of chemical interaction.

Families, go figger.

And then Tyson, who is by now an older cowboy — say, pard, how did that happen so fast? — sidled onto the stage half an hour late.

He looked pretty good in his cowboy hat; take it from me, not everyone does. He wore a pale blue western shirt and, improbably, a shiny pale mauve tie.

His chest is as wide and flat as the prairie. His face is handsome and his manner is soft-spoken, although he gives the impression of a man who is no stranger to the black dog or the blue meanies.

He adjusted his microphone, plugged in his guitar and said he would play until the Advil wore off.

There was some laughter and I am sure he has said this before; it is a good, dark and dependable joke, proof yet again that old age is not for sissies. He has the artificial knees to prove it.

He said he was happy to see such a fine crowd because, for the most part, he tended to be popular where there are no people.

Ha, ha, we said.

Oh, those lonesome prairies.

And then he sang all his good cowboy songs.

Now, when I say I have an Ian Tyson problem, you must not get the wrong impression. His voice is a perfect thing. I do not mean that, exactly; I mean he uses it perfectly and there is none other like it.

He sings within himself.

And that's the thing you should note about old guys — they jettison the tricks and find the cleaner line; they say what must be said without adornment.

There are some good examples in the other arts. Go read those final poems of Earle Birney, or take a look at the paper cut-outs of Matisse — there is nothing present in them but the necessary.

Tyson is better at music than lyrics for my money; to listen to him play is to appreciate the value of a simple melody.

A side note:

Gordon Lightfoot was in the crowd and there was some hushed and whispered hope that the two men might sing together. They did not.

Lightfoot, who left after the first set, got a standing ovation on the way out; as these things go, it was either the easiest one he's ever earned, or else it was the hardest.

He stopped and gave a little bow.

And was that Randy Bachman with him, or was it just some big beefy guy, a minder?

Okay. Finally.

At the end of the last set — or maybe during the encore — Tyson said he'd play a song for all "the lurking folkies" in the crowd — a song, he said, "for those people still stuck in the '60s."

I am not the only one who detected a hint of something nasty in the way he said it.

And then he sang "Summer Wages."

Here's my problem.

"Summer Wages" is one of the perfect songs. It is that rare thing, a Canadian standard. There are not many.

Shut up and sing it.

When he sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," he did not find it necessary to say, "For those people still stuck in 1939." And you do not have to be stuck in the 1800s to appreciate an American cowboy song, of which he sang a-plenty, and of which he's written a few.

Joni Mitchell has expressed a similar gripe. She once said, in response to repeated requests for one of her standards, that no one ever asked Van Gogh to "Paint `Starry Night' again, man." Oh, go stick a sock in it.

You write a perfect song, you have an obligation. Sing the thing or do not, but don't rub our noses in it.

I realize this is my problem, not Tyson's. And yes, he played until the Advil wore off.

02-21-2005, 12:48 PM	#1
charlene Moderator Join Date: May 2000 Posts: 16,001	Feb. 21, 2005. 01:00 AM He'll always be Alberta's child, come what may Forget the '60s, Ian Tyson is a cowboy JOE FIORITO Here's my Ian Tyson problem. The old cowpoke played in a club in the west end recently. He was plugging a new album. The woman who scrambles my eggs and I were there. We shared a table with a nice young couple we'd never met before. The club is like that, small, intimate, folky. You sit with people you don't know. The other couple? He wore a western shirt and had short hair and a pleasant manner. He said he drove a reefer, a refrigerated truck. Although he is from Toronto, he keeps a horse out west, and he goes to roping and riding clinics. He also knows his country music and he's met Merle Haggard a couple of times. He likes to sing karaoke. The young woman? She wore city clothes and said she was a pharmacologist, a toxicologist and a researcher. I couldn't resist asking how they met; it turned out they were brother and sister, which is, in a way, even more interesting. A brother who studies how to throw the Houlihan and a sister who studies the effects of chemical interaction. Families, go figger. And then Tyson, who is by now an older cowboy — say, pard, how did that happen so fast? — sidled onto the stage half an hour late. He looked pretty good in his cowboy hat; take it from me, not everyone does. He wore a pale blue western shirt and, improbably, a shiny pale mauve tie. His chest is as wide and flat as the prairie. His face is handsome and his manner is soft-spoken, although he gives the impression of a man who is no stranger to the black dog or the blue meanies. He adjusted his microphone, plugged in his guitar and said he would play until the Advil wore off. There was some laughter and I am sure he has said this before; it is a good, dark and dependable joke, proof yet again that old age is not for sissies. He has the artificial knees to prove it. He said he was happy to see such a fine crowd because, for the most part, he tended to be popular where there are no people. Ha, ha, we said. Oh, those lonesome prairies. And then he sang all his good cowboy songs. Now, when I say I have an Ian Tyson problem, you must not get the wrong impression. His voice is a perfect thing. I do not mean that, exactly; I mean he uses it perfectly and there is none other like it. He sings within himself. And that's the thing you should note about old guys — they jettison the tricks and find the cleaner line; they say what must be said without adornment. There are some good examples in the other arts. Go read those final poems of Earle Birney, or take a look at the paper cut-outs of Matisse — there is nothing present in them but the necessary. Tyson is better at music than lyrics for my money; to listen to him play is to appreciate the value of a simple melody. A side note: Gordon Lightfoot was in the crowd and there was some hushed and whispered hope that the two men might sing together. They did not. Lightfoot, who left after the first set, got a standing ovation on the way out; as these things go, it was either the easiest one he's ever earned, or else it was the hardest. He stopped and gave a little bow. And was that Randy Bachman with him, or was it just some big beefy guy, a minder? Okay. Finally. At the end of the last set — or maybe during the encore — Tyson said he'd play a song for all "the lurking folkies" in the crowd — a song, he said, "for those people still stuck in the '60s." I am not the only one who detected a hint of something nasty in the way he said it. And then he sang "Summer Wages." Here's my problem. "Summer Wages" is one of the perfect songs. It is that rare thing, a Canadian standard. There are not many. Shut up and sing it. When he sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," he did not find it necessary to say, "For those people still stuck in 1939." And you do not have to be stuck in the 1800s to appreciate an American cowboy song, of which he sang a-plenty, and of which he's written a few. Joni Mitchell has expressed a similar gripe. She once said, in response to repeated requests for one of her standards, that no one ever asked Van Gogh to "Paint `Starry Night' again, man." Oh, go stick a sock in it. You write a perfect song, you have an obligation. Sing the thing or do not, but don't rub our noses in it. I realize this is my problem, not Tyson's. And yes, he played until the Advil wore off.