More than once here, I have found myself referring obliquely
to the ‘Can-Con’ regulations. For the uninformed, this is a set of laws that
govern what radio and television stations in Canada are allowed to play. More
specifically, they dictate that around 30% of Canadian prime-time broadcasting
must be devoted specifically to Canadian artists. The definition of ‘Canadian’
can be complicated, and the regulations are usually under siege from
multi-national companies and American trade regulators. Still, they persist.
The Canadian music industry knows how important these
regulations are – prior to their advent in the mid-1970s, the only way to get
played on radio or TV here was to become famous elsewhere. The industry was so
grateful, they named their annual awards after the technocrat who designed the
regulations – Pierre Juneux – and thus the Juno awards took flight.
It took a while to get going, but by the early 1980s, a
small but healthy Canadian music business had formed. Not only were standard
pop bands gaining national recognition, some pretty weird stuff somehow came
out of the woodwork. My personal favourite from that era was Max Webster. They
started in Sarnia, an industrial town in southern Ontario, not far from
Detroit, in 1974. Heavily influenced by art rock bands like Yes and Genesis,
they wrote complex music, filled with odd shifts, lurching rhythms, and unusual
melodies and lyrics. Rush were big fans, and both bands shared the talents of
lyricist Pye Dubois. These days, they are best remembered for their front man,
Kim Mitchell. In any era Mitchell would be remarkable. Tall and and almost skeletal, he
favoured outlandish costumes and bizarre makeup. Although he later became a blue-collar
rocker, a la John Mellencamp, in the 70s he looked like he was from
Mars. Still he had a great ear for melody, and along with fellow singer Terry
Watkinson, the band created some memorable music.
The song Let Go The Line comes from their high water mark,
the album Million Vacations. It is rather ironic that the album came out in
1979. It could not be further removed from the punk aesthetic that was
gathering steam at the time. Even the surreal cartoon cover reeks of 70s
artistic pretensions. As out of step as it probably was, the music is timeless,
Let Go The Line particularly so.
Wistfulness is something hard to convey in music, even more
so in a rock song. Let Go The Line is all about that kind of semi-sad ennui.
The band put a lot of thought into this arrangement. It takes almost 45 seconds
for the vocals to start, an eternity these days. There is a wonderful melodic
guitar solo, the sort 70s bands like Boston did so well, the kind that have all
but disappeared from modern pop. It is echoed by one of those synthesizer lines
that are very much of the age. Sadly, it has become very unfashionable to use
those sounds – you know what I mean, vaguely spacey airy tones, a cross between
shimmering violins and a female voice. Somehow they have become cheesy. It’s
too bad – there is nothing else that conveys mystery better, and Let Go The
Line is a very enigmatic song. Long before the singing starts you know that this song lives in a different place.
Life has been likened to a poker deal
Or a poor brief candle or a karmic wheel
All I know is that tonight I might let go the line…
Watkinson’s lyrics could easily be read as a suicide note,
but there is nothing nihilistic about the melody, or the way he sings these
words I am not sure what he really meant – perhaps he is a drowning swimmer,
letting go of the rescue line. I was a kid when I heard this song the first time,
(albeit a while after it came out), and having spent a lot of time on the
water, I heard it differently. When you pull away from the wharf, ‘let go the
lines’ (or more likely, ‘cast off’) would be a command to release the ropes
keeping you tied to the dock. It would be an exciting act: the nautical
equivalent of ‘start your engines’. It might also be frightening – the ocean
here is fierce, and very dangerous. No one takes a sea voyage lightly. Casting
off might also be an act of regret: on any voyage the crew is divided into two
camps, one being those who are sailing towards, the other being those who are
sailing away.
I like to believe that Watkinson found himself in-between
all those states. And he created the perfect metaphor to express that wistful
stage, somewhere perched between sadness and hope, the goal on the horizon, and
the port left behind. If we ever
get around to doing our Canadian cover album (along with our kids album, our
Oysterband tribute, our instrumental album, etc.) I think that I am going to
have a go at this one myself. It’s too good a song to be lost.