In spite of Neil Young and Joni Mitchell and Rush and Martin Short and Jim Carrey and Kids In the Hall, the cliche is that Canadians are boring. In fact, it’s part of their appeal. Canadians are reliable — steady. Though they share a continent with an unruly, narcissistic superpower, they don’t complain. To the contrary, they are polite and predictable, right down to their “oohs” and “ehs.” 

It’s a dumb cliche — as untrue as it is true. But for all the exceptions and for all of its silliness, Gordon Lightfoot was for many years proof of its validity. We had Bob Dylan — wild, magical, restless and loud. Canada, meanwhile, had Gord — consistent, meticulous, folksy and — if you were feeling ungenerous — boring as fuck.

Gordon Lightfoot is closer to Canadian royalty than he is Pop star. He’s more folk hero than a folk singer. More poet laureate than songwriter. When Neil and Joni and everyone else moved South, he stayed put. When everyone else got louder or weirder, he basically stayed the same. He was handsome, but not too handsome. He worked his songs like most people work their jobs — showing up every day, making sure the basics were done right while searching for minor improvements. In retrospect, his two platinum-selling albums seem like mistakes — blips caused by a continental depression that nudged America slightly closer to their northern neighbors. His greatest hits compilation is entitled “Gord’s Gold,” which seems like an apt summation of both the quality of his music and his standing in the market — rich and successful, but not flashy. Not platinum. And, heaven forbid, never diamond.

In addition to being the title of his most popular song, “If You Could Read My Mind” is the name of a 2019 documentary about Gordon Lightfoot. It follows his turn from Folk singer in the Sixties to singer-songwriter in the Seventies to national treasure in his later years. The film barely references his Bell’s palsy diagnosis in 1972 and breezes past his ruptured aortic aneurysm from 2002. It doesn’t dissect his three marriages or gawk much at his late Seventies inebriation. “If You Could Read My Mind” is basically the story of a company man — a career long Canadian songwriter who steadily worked his way to the top and who, many years later, lives a fulfilling, well deserved semi-retirement.

In fact, the primary conflict in Gord’s documentary — the thing that seemed to have really stuck in his claw — was the light misogyny of “For Lovin Me,” a song he wrote in the mid-60s that was eventually covered by more famous artists who rendered it with decidedly un-Canadian swagger. Other than that, however, Lightfoot’s story reads like a slow and steady ascent with an appreciative view from a not too high peak. It’s a genial film — well made and easy on the eyes. But, it’s also unexciting. The truth is, I probably would not have even watched it — would not have even considered Lightfoot’s biography — had I never heard “Sundown.”

“Sundown” was the hit single from the album of the same name, released the year I was born. It’s one of those songs that could only have reached the top of the charts in 1974, one year after the existential depression of Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” but one year before ABBA topped the charts with “Dancing Queen.” I obviously do not remember the first time I heard “Sundown.” But, also, I don’t remember a time when it was not imprinted on my psyche. Part of its appeal is undoubtedly the ease and repetition of its melody. It never strays far from its chorus, which never strays far from its verses. By the second time you hear it, you can pretty much sing the entire song. It’s concise and linear, but also completely gripping. In it, Lightfoot threatens a woman who seems to be stalking him but whom he also cannot seem to quit. He’s lost his grip on things, unsure whether he’s winning or losing and why, when the pain is gone, he still feels kind of miserable.

“Sundown” was Lightfoot’s first real tell. It was a sign that, beneath the delicate twelve-string guitar and nifty finger-picking, there was darkness lurking. That it wasn’t all maple leafs and Stanley Cups and snow capped mountains. That there was something more interesting beneath the surface. The bass in “Sundown” is sneaky. The lead guitar is loose. It’s a dash more singer than songwriter. And for three minutes and thirty-seven seconds, the singer sounds genuinely scared. And scary.

The track that immediately follows “Sundown” is “Carefree Highway,” which was both more typical of Seventies Lightfoot and the complete opposite of its predecessor. Or rather, an escape from its predecessor. The singer is driving away from his shattered past, from the nightmares and the blues. Gord’s back on the road. But, also, he was never really the same after “Sundown.”

"The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” from 1976 was the last time Lightfoot topped the charts. The zeitgeist — skating on Disco and pogoing around on Punk — raced on, leaving Canada’s favorite son behind. Gord kept making records. Solid records. But — at least according to most critics and the record buying public — kind of boring records. Lightfoot resisted boredom, touring constantly, throwing lavish — even decadent — parties. But as much as there was a commercial price to be paid for his consistency, there was a personal cost to his boredom aversion. His mild indulgences came with a paunch. They cost him some of his hairline. They made him sweat a little. There were more mornings after the nights before. Thirty year old Gordon Lightfoot had a straight jaw and a thicket of wavy hair. He looked like young Bryan Cranston playing a sensitive lumberjack. Forty year old Lightfoot had a greasy perm and a second chin. He looked more like John C. Reilly in the third act of “Boogie Nights.” 

1982 was the end of the line for that version of Gordon Lightfoot. By then, Gord was a mostly functional, heavy drinker whose gut had swelled as his star had faded. He could still hunker down and work out ten or so rock solid songs per year. But, it had been half a decade since he so much as sniffed the charts. And in the same year that “Thriller” was released, it was unclear how or how much Lightfoot mattered any more. In fact, it was fair to wonder if, outside of Canada, he mattered at all.

Whereas Lightfoot’s later-Seventies albums were a little bit Country, a little bit seafaring and a little bit trainfaring, “Shadows,” from 1982, is pure, middle-aged contemplation. There are no mountains or oceans or rails in these shadows. In “Sundown,” there is always still a sliver of light. But, in “Shadows,” it’s all dark. The man on the album’s cover is shrouded in mystery. The photograph is out of focus. His mustache frames a frown but matches the darkness of his suit and tie. The artist and title font is a barely legible shade of brown against a black background. It seems like something you might find in a pile of lost family photos at an antique mall. The portrait is obviously Gordon Lightfoot, but the man pictured looks more like David Crosby. If it reveals anything, it is simply this: the man who made “Shadows” was very clearly not the same guy who sang “Canadian Railroad Trilogy.”

“Shadows” is practically begging for a Will Ferrell spoof. It’s music for generous lovers who call each other “lover” while wearing cable knit sweaters, sitting by the fire and sipping highball glasses of Canadian Club. But for those who either know Lightfoot’s songbook or who are familiar with Seventies Adult Contemporary Rock music, the style is not unfamiliar. Gord’s whiskey and red wine soaked baritone is paired with his twelve string guitar, some windchimes, delicate keys and lite violins. In thirty seven minutes, “Shadows” sails its way through regret, resignation, contemplation and the Bermuda Triangle. It’s a generally depressed album that leans on booze to avoid the depths of its own despair. It’s also a highly middle-aged album, taking stock of its lot in life. It barely charted, competing with the the likes of The Clash’s “Combat Rock,” Duran Duran’s “Rio” and Culture Club’s “Kissing to be Clever.” “Shadows” was the opposite of New Wave. It was the sound of a forty-three year old singing to himself, because he had to, because he was tired and lost.

And yet, it’s still patently lovely and among the least boring albums in Lightfoot’s oeuvre. Even at his lowest — his darkest and loneliest — Lightfoot had not lost his faculties. His fingers still worked fine — he could pick up a pen and bait a hook and make that guitar sound pretty. And whatever he had lost vocally, in terms of range and vibrato, he made up for in depth and weight. Forty-four year old Gord had seen some things. He’d partied with Dylan. He’d sung next to Cash. His looks had faded and his sales had plummeted, but he’d hardened and wizened and maybe even fucked up enough shit to sound interesting. Which is the opposite of boring.

On its surface “Shadows” is full of the same rolling, folksy melodies that Lightfoot could make sound effortless, but which are, in fact, extraordinarily hard to pull off. And tonally, he is much closer to Neil Diamond and Kenny Rogers than he is to Dylan or Cash. But while his 1982 vibes suffers from the patina of Yacht Rock, Margaritaville, AM Gold, etc. Gord was not the cliche or the follower so much as he was the source — the imprinter. Yes — without Gordon Lightfoot there is no Christopher Cross or Dan Fogelberg or John Denver or Jimmy Buffett. But, also, there’s probably no Iron and Wine or Sufjan Stevens. In fact, the album that “Shadows” most resembles is not from the Seventies or Eighties. It’s an album made from from yachts and trains. It’s Beck’s “Sea Change,” from 2002. 

It’s all there. The twelve string acoustic. The string arrangements. The baritone. The regret — oh the regret. Beck’s obsessed-over break-up album is a direct nod to Gordon Lightfoot, in general, and “Shadows” in particular. It took me several turns of “Shadows” to hear it. There’s some misdirection in the Nashville vibes of "14 Karat Gold,” which opens the album. And in “Blackberry Wine,” which is a tipsy and bluesy Lite Rock gem. And “Triangle,” which is a past-tipsy, doomed sea waltz. But, in between and afterwards, when Gord unplugs the guitars and takes stock of things, he sounds almost exactly like the heavy-hearted hipster who made “Sea Change.” Or, rather, the inverse.

“All I’m After” is the source code for “Sea Change.” The finger-picked acoustic guitar. The strings. The singer harmonizing with himself. Gord’s voice is deeper and fuller than Beck’s and his melodies are more delicate and intricate. But, sonically, there is no closer corollary. The protagonists of both albums are tired, sad men performing personal inventories. The biggest difference between the two albums is that, whereas Beck was wrestling with a love gone wrong, Gord is wrestling with himself. “Sea Change” was an aberration for Beck — a deliberate change of course that altered the way we viewed him as an artist. “Shadows” was more of a gradual turn, one that confirmed the perception of a past prime artist in the autumn of his career. If “Sea Change” was Beck’s catharsis, “Shadows” was the drunken dead end before sobriety.

But it was also much more than that. “Shadows” isn’t merely “Sundown” after dusk. “She’s Not the Same” and “In My Fashion” have the same full-throated, bare-chested maturity that made Neil Diamond a superstar. But, whereas Diamond’s melodies were big and broad — stuff you could clap your hands and sing along with — Gord’s were more intricate. Bob Dylan once said, “Every time I hear a song of his (Lightfoot), it's like I wish it would last forever." The observation is more than a generous platitude to a friend and colleague. It’s an apt description of the way in which Gordon Lightfoot’s melodies can be both instantly familiar and timeless. 

“Shadows” was also a suggestion of where Gord could have turned. The Country-Folk vibes of “Heaven Help the Devil” evoke early Dead. And “Baby Step Back” splits the difference between Boz Scaggs’ easy R&B and Little River Band’s lite Adult Contemporary. Throughout “Sundown” we get little flickers of could have beens. But, as it turned out, Lightfoot’s fifteenth studio album was not a means to some new creative revelation. There was no Eighties “Gordassaince.” “Shadows” was ultimately a commercial failure and the beginning of the end of Lightfoot’s run as a prolific songwriter and consistent album maker.

On the other hand, “Shadows” might have saved Gordon Lightfoot. Shortly after the album was released, he got sober. He lost weight. Eventually, he remarried and had two more kids. The man who’d released over a dozen albums between 1966 and 1982, managed just six more during the forty years that followed. In 2002, he lay in a coma for weeks, having very nearly died from a burst aortic aneurysm. But, just as he had with every note of every song he’d ever written, he worked his way back. And less than two years after he’d fallen so terribly ill, Gord put out a new album and made his way back to the road. He quite literally emerged from the shadows.

Today, Gordon Lightfoot is eighty-four years old. He works out almost every day and is probably half the size of the man who made “Shadows.” In 2012, Lightfoot performed at the 100th Grey Cup and, in 2017, he played Canada’s 150th birthday celebration on the very same stage (and for the very same occasion) he’d performed on fifty years earlier. All of those silly cliches about Gordon Lightfoot and Canada? Some of them — and especially the kind ones — are true.

by Matty Wishnow