People smoke outside Massey Hall before Neil Young performs during the Honour the Treaties tour, a series of benefit concerts being held to raise money for legal fight against the expansion of the Athabasca oilsands in northern Alberta and other similar projects, in 2014.Mark Blinch/The Canadian Press
When it comes to the $135-million renovation of Massey Hall, the organizational motto behind the venue's revitalization is: "Improve everything. Change nothing." Consider that music to the ears of concert-goers who adore the 121-year-old building but ask for more comfort and modern amenities. Even though the update of the hall got a start this week, memories of the place will go unchanged. A trio of Globe and Mail writers recall their key moments at Massey.
'Don't let them change this place'
It was May, 2011. I had to come to Massey Hall for Neil Young, but also to see his opening act, Bert Jansch, an influential Scottish guitarist who was a leading figure in the British folk music revival of the 1960s. A hero to Mr. Young, the 67-year-old performer was dying of lung cancer.
Mr. Jansch sang and played alone, showing an acoustic finger-picking style that bridged the pre-war acoustic blues of Big Bill Broonzy and traditional folk to the long-haired acoustic rock excursions of the Claptons, Pages and Youngs.
My high, side-stage seat offered a good view of the room. In the darkness, I was transported back to an era of which I was no part. How much had Massey changed over the past four or five decades? Not much. The clapping, the spare catcalls, the soft banter from a balladeer – there was a connection to the tradition of the room and the spirit of important music.
Mr. Jansch died a few months later.
In 2014, Mr. Young was back. At one point someone shouted out for Mr. Jansch's Needle of Death. It was not on the set list, but Mr. Young switched guitars and played the song (because he loved the man).
He also covered Phil Ochs's Changes and related a short history of the Yorkville folk-club and flower-power scene.
Later, he reacted to what were then rumours of Massey's renovations, saying: "Don't let them change this place." His audience clapped in agreement. Connections, again – something to be said for journeys through the past.
Brad Wheeler is a writer with Globe Arts
All in the family
Working as an usher at Massey Hall in the 1970s was a pretty cool job for a high school kid – even though we had to dress like bellhops from The Grand Budapest Hotel.
I was a second-generation usher. My father had been head usher at the Grand Old Lady of Shuter Street two decades earlier, when one of the memorable shows was Sir Edmund Hillary displaying slides of his Mount Everest conquest. My father tells the story of rushing to the stage with a fire extinguisher when Sir Edmund's projector began to smoke.
By the time I made my debut showing patrons to their seats on the main floor, it was prime Gordon Lightfoot time and an avalanche of eardrum-smashing rock 'n' roll, almost all of it forgettable. Anyone remember Dixie Rumproast, Uriah Heep or Gentle Giant? The hall was also home to the Toronto Symphony, of course, and during my time there, such musical giants as Benny Goodman, Dave Brubeck and Nana Mouskouri visited.
When I started in 1972, ushers were paid $2 a show in cash and $3 if they worked until a show ended.
I left in 1975, but since then, I have never missed the annual or biennial Lightfoot series. It is still exciting to walk through those old red doors off Shuter Street.
My son and I saw Wynton Marsalis and the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra perform there earlier this month. The sound remains wonderful, but the place sure needs new seats and more legroom.
Greg Keenan is a reporter with Report on Business
Blasphemous acts
A performance at Massey Hall, regardless of genre, is more often than not a reverent act much like church-going. Rapt attendees squeeze into tiny seats that make pews seem luxurious, while the musicians will inevitably wax poetic about this hallowed hall of sound. The Massey moments I remember most vividly are when rock stars and their fans forget how stately the place is.
When the brooding indie band The National played in June, 2010, singer Matt Berninger often found himself in the crowd. As he clasped his microphone intensely to his face, eyes half-closed in song, he would gingerly step from empty chair to empty chair, their occupants having stood up to touch their hero – or help untangle his winding mic cord, which still snaked from the stage.
When Canadian modern-rock stalwarts Our Lady Peace played in March of the same year, a particularly rousing song, which referenced "defying gravity," compelled Raine Maida to rise to the occasion. As his bandmates squealed on, Mr. Maida suddenly rushed to stage left and hoisted himself onto the arena-rock-sized speaker stacks. He ended the song in the first few rows of the balcony, and the crowd roared.
The loudest ruckus Massey Hall can make emanates from the audience, and luckily, this is a long-standing tradition that belies the Grand Old Lady's stature. The band finishes, the crowd rises and claps, and everyone on the upper levels will also stomp their feet in unison, creating a thundering patter across the wooden floorboards until the encore arrives. It always feels like the house is coming down.
Cliff Lee is an editor with Globe Toronto