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.