By the time we got to Stratford, in rural Ontario we’d driven 1000 miles since leaving home.
With time to see just one place before Niagara it was clear where we needed to go.
Stratford, is a charming town noted for its Shakespearean theatre. But before the Stratford Shakespearean Festival theatre made its debut in 1953, these British-flavored streets were home to Richard Manuel. His voice captured the heartache of life, and his eyes hinted at the driving despair he so often found himself battling. In Stratford, he fronted a little local band called The Rockin’ Revols. But when the big time came knocking it was Richard who was called to arms.
In town, after dining on Guinness Stew and Shepherd’s Pie at Bentley’s, we were searching out the only two acknowledgments of local boy made good. There’s a bench that sits under a towering elm near the river inscribed with his name. Swans float by and the sound of children’s laughter from a nearby public swimming pool float past. It’s reminiscent of one of his best songs, "In a Station" where Richard wrote "in my dreams I hear children laughing. They all sound the same" and more pointedly "out of all this idle scheming, can’t we have something to feel?".
My daughter posed in front of a fabulous lion-headed fountain along the main pedestrian thoroughfare. I was looking for a plaque the city had put in a few years back. After wandering into a tiny bookstore to inquire, (stocked with Shakespearean literature, to be sure, but not a whisper of The Band), I found myself back at the foot of the fountain. There was the plaque at my feet. For Richard. There wasn’t one for Shakespeare.
With time to see just one place before Niagara it was clear where we needed to go.
Stratford, is a charming town noted for its Shakespearean theatre. But before the Stratford Shakespearean Festival theatre made its debut in 1953, these British-flavored streets were home to Richard Manuel. His voice captured the heartache of life, and his eyes hinted at the driving despair he so often found himself battling. In Stratford, he fronted a little local band called The Rockin’ Revols. But when the big time came knocking it was Richard who was called to arms.
The stories are near legend now - how he rode in Ronnie Hawkins’ ("The Hawk") convertible from Arkansas to Toronto, playing every dump and dive in between. When the Band had learned all they could from The Hawk, they set off on their own as Levon and the Hawks. Levon Helm’s sharp voice harkens back to the Arkansas dirt from which he came, while Rick Danko’s melodic strain reflects the simple country-folk style of his youth. It was Richard who captured the essence of despair often compared to his idol, Ray Charles. By 1965 Bob Dylan needed a band, and the Hawks became "The Band" behind him as they toured the world and were booed for their electric efforts. His 1965 caravan broke Dylan out of folk and into the rock-and-roll free-for-all that had sparked Dylan’s early fascination with Elvis, Buddy Holly and James Dean.
In town, after dining on Guinness Stew and Shepherd’s Pie at Bentley’s, we were searching out the only two acknowledgments of local boy made good. There’s a bench that sits under a towering elm near the river inscribed with his name. Swans float by and the sound of children’s laughter from a nearby public swimming pool float past. It’s reminiscent of one of his best songs, "In a Station" where Richard wrote "in my dreams I hear children laughing. They all sound the same" and more pointedly "out of all this idle scheming, can’t we have something to feel?".
My daughter posed in front of a fabulous lion-headed fountain along the main pedestrian thoroughfare. I was looking for a plaque the city had put in a few years back. After wandering into a tiny bookstore to inquire, (stocked with Shakespearean literature, to be sure, but not a whisper of The Band), I found myself back at the foot of the fountain. There was the plaque at my feet. For Richard. There wasn’t one for Shakespeare.
Of course you can’t stay on top forever, nor can you remain unchanged. Richard suffered as the early 70’s heydey of The Band splintered into a 1980’s regroup. He took his own way out in 1986. When we reached his grave site in the Avon Cemetery in Stratford, there was nothing I could say. His simple gravestone with piano keys etched on it told the story. Time stopped. A lump came to my throat. Gratitude, for the gifts given. Acknowledgment, for the price paid. My spouse simply said "Thanks for the music, Richard." Then we pulled away.
