Exit from the chorus
The announcement, late last evening, was short. Almost devoid of detail. Gordon Lightfoot had died.
I spent my five years of high school life, in Orillia. Although he had not yet reached stardom, his name was known. Like the names of his uncle and his cousin, and a girlfriend from his days in church choir. Small town life. The town went so far as to put his name on the billboard that marks the entrance. It was a singular honor. His name remained, for years. In fact, just mentioning that I had used to live there would elicit mention of his music. Some small efforts, aimed at the radio market, along with longer ballads that were only played by DJs that knew just how good the songs were and are. The Canadian railroad Trilogy, and the story about a sinking of a freighter come to mind. As does a song called If You Could Read My mind. See how that works.
I was not surprised to hear that he had died. Age, and poor health combined to assure that any immortality would come from his music. Songs that people will sing, going forward. Or perform, if they have the pipes. And I imagine that his name will remain, on a billboard at the various city entrances. That city grew, just like his fame. Because of it, some might add. I know that I never saw him perform live, because by the time I might have gone to a concert he had moved on to larger venues. And I was more of a listener than a watcher.
