Until last Tuesday, July 21, 1998, if the words “The Tragically Hip” were mentioned to me, it would conjure up images of people dressed from head to toe in The Gap and J. Crew, sipping Frappachinos, sitting in hairdressing salons, waiting to spend $100 to have the newest “GQ buzzcut” or “Rachel” hairdo affixed to their lumpy skulls.

The band “The Tragically Hip,” on the other hand, I knew absolutely nothing about, and so I felt it my duty to do a little research on them to properly brief myself before their show. I hit the internet and was surprised to discover over a dozen Tragically Hip Web sites listed. It seemed odd to me that a band I never knew existed until a week ago was this popular, but then again, I understand that the Lindy Hop was a wildly popular dance in the 1930s, yet I’d only learned of it last month.

After reading/wading through all of the fan sites, I emerged with only one scrap of knowledge present in all the band bios: The Tragically Hip were apparently “Canada’s finest rock group ever.” Now you may be thinking, “Canada’s finest rock group” is akin to saying you own “the world’s largest ball of twine” or so-and-so is the “world’s oldest, working porn star,” but when you think about the great, great acts that have come out of Canada over the years (i.e., Rush, No Means No, Lover Boy), you realize that this is indeed a bold statement. I was intrigued and intent on finding out if this statement was true, so I set out for the show with an open mind and an empty liver.

Tuesday night began The Tragically Hip’s first of five sold-out performances at the Wetlands, which again surprised me. Once I got inside, however, the sell-out engagements seemed less impressive as I remembered the tiny size of the venue. The Wetlands is a smallish speak-easy, big enough to hold a modest sized Bar/Bat Mitzvah party, but in terms of seeing a band, all of about 200 people can squeeze in close enough to actually see the stage.

Not wanting to go up front until the show started, I positioned myself near the bar and chatted with some girls hoisting a few pre-show beers. They had driven all the way down from Toronto to see the first three shows and were working on tickets for the other two nights. Since they were such enormous fans, I asked them to bestow some Tragically Hip knowledge upon the ignorant masses, namely me. They told me that the band wasn’t too well known in the US, but in Canada, they were huge. There, they had a Grateful Dead-like following that traveled cross country and even intercontinental, if need be, to see them play. The girls then told me that as much as 90% of the audience that night was from Canada. I didn’t believe it at first, but several more encounters proved this out.

I asked a guy bumming a smoke off me where he was from, as well as a group of sorority-looking girls nearby. Sure enough, they were all from Canada. I then began to really study the crowd and soon realized that I was swimming in a virtual sea of Canadians. To the naked eye, they all looked like regular Americans, but something was a little...“off.” It was the little things. The combo lumberjack/mall-rat style of dressing, the way they kept their money in fanny packs and chain wallets, their ability to drink our swillish American beer like it was Kool-Aid. Something about these people had me on edge, but I’m not sure why.

Before I could finish my mildly xenophobic train of thought, though, The Tragically Hip walked on-stage and the bar cleared out quicker than a wedding reception does when the liquor runs out. The crowd scurried up front and jammed themselves around the small stage. As the first song began, everyone in da house was staring up attentively at the band and mouthing along to the words, making them look like baby birds awaiting more regurgitated worm meal from their mother’s beak.

When the song (a Midnight Oil-ish tune except without the fiery delivery or crazy, bald frontman) ended, dozens within the crowd turned to each other to confirm the song’s title and then excitedly jotted it down in their note-pads (to provide the all important set lists for their friends and Web sites, I suspect). For the life of me, though, I could not see what all the fuss was about. I felt like I had stumbled upon some bizarre religious ritual of underground mole people, except it was all in Latin. I was interested, yet strangely bored silly at the same time. Never before had I seen a concert where the crowd was so transfixed, so enthusiastic over such little show.

The rest of their concert failed to win me over too. I was informed that this group was practically a religion to their fans, (sorta like a cross between The Allman Brothers Band and the Moonies) but to me, The Tragically Hip were just tragically, God-awfully bland. They were Dave Matthews Band bland. Parkay on Wonder Bread toast bland. A John Grisham movie marathon bland. Musically, they combined the whiny, self-righteous lyrics of Live with the wanky, self-indulgent noodling of Phish and somehow managed to make it sound a whole lot worse than you’d think.

Summing up, I was not a fan before and I am no closer to being one now. Their fans are very nice people (for Canadians), but bottom line, The Tragically Hip didn’t move my head, my heart or my booty one way or the other.

July 1998