Canada, Songs, and the Spaces Between

Happy Canada Day to all my friends, collaborators, and kindred spirits across the country!

Canada has quietly shaped more of my life and work than most people realize—or maybe not so quietly. If you’ve talked to me for more than five minutes, chances are I’ve mentioned a road trip through Alberta, a song that came out of being stranded at Pearson (YYZed to those of you in the know), or a moment on stage where the audience was absolutely there (and unexpectedly large due to the influence of friends, and Gerry oh my God how much we miss you!).

And if you and I ever talked about music, you know this too: Yes, I listened to the Cars and Kiss, etc etc, but Rush was the first band that really got under my skin and stayed there. The musicianship, the brains in the lyrics, the way Geddy, Alex, and Neil built something huge without ever playing down to anyone—they taught me that songs could mean something and still hit hard. Neil Peart especially showed me how to blend intellect and emotion without apology. (Oh Neil, how we miss you!) That influence never left.

But that’s not all: Neil Young showed me how vulnerability could roar—how quiet and loud could live in the same voice, often in the same verse. Sloan showed me how to write tight pop hooks with muscle and heart. The Tragically Hip taught me about place, poetry, and the strange beauty of staying rooted even as you tour the whole damn country (and Gord oh my God how we miss you!). 

These artists didn’t just soundtrack my life—they shaped how I think about songwriting. About what it means to say something true and maybe help someone feel a little less alone while you’re at it. Nothing will hit you more directly than a cover of “Bobcaygeon” done by an indigenous band, played over the radio, while driving at night on Highway 2.

But it somehow goes back further than that, and I wish I could explain it better than this: I was a nerdy kid who used to stare at maps a lot. And down in the basement of the house where I grew up there was a big map of North America, prominently showing the United States, but showing this vast mysterious land called Canada. I don’t know why, but it just captured my imagination. I wanted to go there. I wanted to spend time there. And maybe even from this early imprinting, my psychic compass pointed north.

Canada itself has given me rhythms and ideas I didn’t even realize I was soaking up at the time. Working alongside Canadian communities—in city halls and small towns, at conferences and late dinners—I’ve learned a different way of listening. A deeper kind of patience. A commitment to making room for others, not just because it’s right, but because that’s how good things get done.

There’s something deeply musical about that ethos. It’s the same instinct that makes a band gel—everyone playing their part, listening to the others, leaving space when space is needed.

So: thank you, Canada! Cheers and full hearted gratitude to the country that’s shaped so much of how I write, work, and try to show up in the world. Here’s to the melodies that cross borders, the lyrics that stick with us, and the people who keep the whole thing rolling.

Bonne fête du Canada.
Thanks for the music. And the conversations. And the friendship.