While the occupation that Gord Downie lists on his passport is "musician", he could just as easily have cited "songwriter", "poet", "video director", or even, existentially speaking, "restless spirit". "I enjoy the process of writing to a fault," he admits. "I love doing the work. I love solving the puzzle."

When songwriting is in your blood, it's impossible to stop the flow. For Battle of the Nudes, his second solo album and the first on MapleMusic Recordings, Downie channels a waterfall of ideas into a 37-minute sonic cauldron that swirls with roughage and delicacy. As Downie puts it on "Pillform #2", an indictment of how books may have lost their impact in the age of video-spoonfed information, "Bigger dream, bigger screens, bigger feelings are planned." In short, Battle of the Nudes is a revealing portrait of the artist @ work.

The album title's duplicitous nature fits in with The Tragically Hip frontman's multifaceted oeuvre. "I saw the title in a newspaper I was reading while on tour in Cleveland last year," he recounts. "I was looking at the gallery and museum section, and one of the upcoming exhibits was called 'Battle of the Nudes'. It didn't say much else, so I can only presume that it was an exploration of the nude in painting. The constant layers of the title stayed with me, and the idea of transparency, of fighting with no clothes on - literally, figuratively, and spiritually - very much held an appeal. So much about 'The Battle' is in perception."

Nudes unfolds from a whisper to a roar and back again, chronicling the post-punk ping-pong match between growing up and growing apart (the wistful opening track "Into the Night"), identity both real and imagined (the cinematic blast of "Figment"), the art of disengaging and reconnecting (the fuzzed-out cowpunk of "11th Fret", the haunting "More Me Less You"), and the outright denial of indisputable culpability (the deceptively bouncy singalong lead single, "Pascal's Submarine").

Nudes had a long gestation period, albeit in short, fruitful bursts stretched over a year. Five days of intense recording at The Gas Station on Toronto Island in May 2001 was followed much later by five more fertile days at The Bathouse in Bath, Ontario in May 2002. In the interim, more than half of the songs were road-tested during the nine shows that Downie and his band of merry men and one woman performed in support of his first solo album, Coke Machine Glow, in the summer of 2001. All of his tour mates appear on Nudes and plan to tour with Downie again this summer. The lineup consists of Dale Morningstar (guitar, pump organ, and other various kitchen-sink music-making items), Dave Clark (drums, percussion, tuba, et al), and Dr. Pee (keyboards) from The Dinner Is Ruined; Josh Finlayson (bass, acoustic and electric guitars, background vocals) of The Skydiggers; and Julie Doiron (bass and background vocals), ex-Eric's Trip and Wooden Stars and a solo artist in her own right.

The band feels privileged to be able to work with Downie. "As a lyricist, Gord stands alone," acknowledges Finlayson. "He's pretty unique in what he's doing and how he's doing it. I find that a lot of his stuff is subtle that way. I'll hear something once, and then it'll grow on me - that's a sign of a really great songwriter." Not only that, chimes in Clark, but "Gord's really got a lot of love that he puts into his work. He has a lot of honesty and soul, and he genuinely cares about the people he plays with. I respect that." Echoes Morningstar, "His songs are so melodic, but there's a definite bite to them. And as a collaborator, Gord gives everyone the green light. He encourages you to go further out there, to bring out what's inside you."

Such collaborative freedom is well in evidence on "Steeplechase" (a "simple song about complex creatures," according to Downie), especially in the cacophonous middle section that sounds like a cross between the ascendant denouement of The Beatles' "A Day in the Life" and the relentless din of The Velvet Underground's "The Black Angel's Death Song". "Steeplechase" is borne out of a direct segue from "Who by Rote", a rhythmic tone poem that abruptly transforms into an exploration of scraping feedback.

And then there's the two versions of "Pillform" that close the record, the purest examples of Downie flying in the face of convention. "One version has a beauty to its lightness ["#2"], the other one is really heavy ["#1"]," catalogs Morningstar. "But it works." On "Pillform #2", Downie can be heard laughing his way through the phrase "through these last 10,000 years"; rather than punching in a cleaner reading of the line, Downie elected to leave it as is. "I'm really glad he chose to keep that," agrees Morningstar. "It has such an honesty to it, you know?" Explains Downie, "For every song there's an anti-song. And one day you wake up and say, 'Hmm, I'm not in school anymore. I don't have to check with anyone that it's ok to do it this way.'"

Downie is looking forward to taking Nudesout on the road for an extended jaunt this summer. "Performance is the truest expression of what we do," he says. "It's the quickest path to the heart of a song." His bandmates concur. "It's all about intention," points out Clark. "If it's coming from the heart, you're going to make something good. I like that we're able to take the perimeters of songs, stretch them, and just improvise on them every night." Observes Finlayson, "You don't often make connections with people musically the way we have, and that's something we take advantage of onstage." Adds Morningstar, "Gord wants to have fun and explore areas he may not have been to yet. Who knows what'll come out from under that hat, or toque, next?"

Battle of the Nudes is the next evolutionary step for the restless creative force that is Gord Downie. "I'm interested in doing anything that teaches me something," he concludes. "As a result, I've found that I'm writing more than ever. In fact, the day after I mastered this record, I was already back to writing with The Hip. Ultimately, what I want to do is more. I want to get better." Get Nude along with Gord and see how it unveils the intricate layers of a singular artist - literally, figuratively, and spiritually. He's not a dabbler or a hobbyist: he's hardcore to the core.

Mike Mettler
AKA "The Anagramming Cartographer"

Produced by:
Gord Downie and Dale Morningstar with Dave Clark & Josh Finlayson

Recorded & Mixed by:
Dale Morningstar at The Gas Station, Toronto
Except Into The Night recorded and mixed by Ken J. Friesen with DM and GD
Christmastime In Toronto recorded and mixed by KJF, 11th Fret recorded by KJF
Steeplechase mixed by KJF with DM and GD
Pillform #2 recorded by KJF at The Bathouse, Bath, assisted by Aaron Holmberg

Mastered by Joao Carvalho at Umbrella Sound Mastering, Toronto

Musicians:
Dave Clark - drums/bg vocals/congas/tongue drum/tambourines/B3 pedals
Julie Doiron - bg vocals/bass/ electric gtr/piano/bells
Gord Downie - vocals/acoustic & electric gtr/piano/bg vocals/chestscratcher shovel
Josh Finlayson - bass/acoustic and electric gtr/bg vocals

The Woodchoppin’ Horns
Bryden Baird, Trumpet | Jay Baird, Baritone Sax | Jeff Burke, Bassoon
Scott Cameron, Alto Sax | Dave Clark, Tuba | Alfons Fear, Trumpet | Brodie West, Alto Sax

Horn Arrangements:
Figment, DC, DM and The Woodchoppin’ Horns
Pascal’s Submarine,
DC and the WH’s, Steeplechase, the WH’s
Bagpipe sample in Pillform #1, Henry Muth of Guh

Cover Painting by Jon Claytor | Photography Cover & Traycard By Richard Beland
Art Direction and Design by Megan Oldfield for Coolaide

This song is a dream. I see a daughter in the night, or, hear her — it’s all
fast shadows and footsteps. I’m losing her, or she’s losing me.

And then we find each other.

I saw you running with your friends
I called your name too loud - 'come back'
so many times it might have been embarrassing
if you hadn't come walking back

Here's where I shook you by the shoulders
shoved you up against a truck - 'what's up'
it was a picture of someone getting older
and of someone growing up

someone growing up

it was like you were in disguise
you were so nonchalant - 'come on'
as though your well half-lidded eyes said,
'what the hell do you want?'

Well I must've said something
for you to feel I was alright - 'alright'
We had a great conversation
that went on well into the night

went on well into the night

A poem set to music. Everyone in the same room all at once (by that, I mean live off the floor, like much of the record). Cinnamon gurls all grown up. Dale’s playing here moves me.

you know my name is figment

i'm not who you think i am

all of my heroes are women

and all of em are cinnamon (my cinnamon women)

the sanding sound of grudge on collective
has left a pile of puzzle dust

and me, cake-drunk in the middle, crying;
'what could never happen to us
is happening to us'

but as long as we're talking in driftnets

and there's a rotation afoot

all the things we can come up with

will still be surprisingly put -

as long as the road

lacks perspective

as long as we swim swim swim

as long as we hold hands in the swiftness

of all three dimensions

as long as we're talking in driftnets
and there's a rotation afoot

all the things we can come up with

will still be surprisingly put

still be surprisingly put

still be surprisingly put

Fiendishly starved for Christmasy things, I wrote this song in the city. The best part of it is Chekhov's:
"always the wind and the persistent snow gets into your eyes and your mouth and every fold of your coat." I love Julie's voice here.

Oh oh yea
So this is your number well I just called to say 'hello'
I was blurting, you were blurting, we were talking in morse code
We just got cut off or disconnected, I dunno
but it's Christmastime, Christmastime in Toronto

We got this power to generalize when everything explodes
the certainty of our unknown, your childrens' unknown
you're gonna let us in though you’re technically closed
must be Christmastime, Christmastime in Toronto

Let's have a toast!
To charity, wickedness, dope
A toast!
To the day after tomorrow

Oh oh yea the day after tomorrow

You'd like to buy the drink a bar, take us all to the show
you're so full of cash tonight, you could buy the Pope
you might as well try and get milk from your elbow
though it's Christmastime, Christmastime in Toronto

With your dark epiphanies, your true lines and smoke
your glistening rails and streetcars all aglow
"always the wind and the persistent snow
gets into your eyes and your mouth and every fold of your coat" (Chekhov)
Everyone hates you but they don't know what I know
besides, it's Christmastime, Christmastime in Toronto

Let's have a toast!
To charity, fixedness, hope
A toast!
To the day after tomorrow

Oh oh yea the day after tomorrow

This is from a short poem which is from a verbatim conversation with a short person. (I just figured it out — Randy Newman’s "Short People" is about kids.) I expanded the conversation into a story of the secret: the girl who lives in a world of her own and the man who threatens it.

The cellphone half of the story I wrote on the ferry heading home from The Gas Station recording studio on Toronto Island one day. I got on my bike and recited what I had written to Dale’s answering machine as I headed east along Queen’s Quay. Dale did a cool job on this one.

I have a secret.
Tell me.
No.
Please tell me.
No. Put it out of your mind.
Please? If I put it out of my mind, then will you tell me?

She was always like that, even as a kid, secret and apologetic,
quiet like a deer moving between the sunshine and uncertainty

He yells at her up until she goes pale then resumes his job as a painter,
painting all the fire hydrants yellow within a certain framework

And she wouldn't always feel so good, all the time, but over the the course
of the day she'd forget, the dancer in her run amok, she'd forget
and from the forest edge, he'd come

Returning home's not to be construed as anything resembling a tender mood
stay in my orbit though it's lacking certain latitude

But then it goes late; the been, are, going of another day is bobbled and
caught and she says nice things to go to sleep like Charles Comfort and
Mimico Creek

The nocturnal shh of the saboteur whispering, 'there's nothing counterfeit
about the summer'- it took big waves of discipline to learn they pump the
birdsong in

She was always like that and like now, watching the swallows gobble
tonight's complement of blood-suckers, thank Christ, she's trying to be
silent when catching a bug in mid-flight might be easier

I have a secret.
Tell me.
No.
Please tell me.
No. Put it out of your mind
Please? If I put it out of my mind, then will you tell me?

I placed the now familiar photograph of a Russian mother, Nadezhda Tylik, screaming at deputy prime minister Klebanov on my bulletin board.... the look on her face, the cool detachment of the nurse who injects her with a sedative (which turns out to be heart medication that puts the lady out), the blank expression of a man (Klebanov) whose government has placed state secrets over human life and knows there is nothing he can say.... the song wrote itself.

PS.... Pascal said (I think in his Pensees) (I’m paraphrasing, fairly well), "all man’s misery stems from a single cause, his inability to remain quietly in one room" — I suppose I liked the juxtaposition of that quote with the now absurd advice of the pundits that these sailors should remain still and limit their movements in order to conserve oxygen.

There's not a breath of air tonight i got my windows all thrown open wide praying for any little breeze to move the curtains, shake the leaves tonight

stumbled in to sleep's ravine into a dream of Pascal's submarine where if you can remain quiet and still you might escape life's fill of misery

A woman's had all she can stand hysterically screaming, 'I'm waiting for my man' - 'Madam, we're doing all we can but can you give me your man's name again?'

Are they dead or worse, alive?

Is there something that you're trying to hide? Russian accent - Las Vegas cap says, 'can we talk about all that, inside?'

With Klebanov within her grasp there's just one more thing she's dying to ask they stuck a needle in her arm saying, don't do yourself more harm she collapsed

there's not a breath of air tonight we got our windows all thrown open wide praying on any little breeze for the skeletons, for the effigies, tonight

I saw you running with your friends I called your name too loud -

'come back' so many times it might of been embarrassing if you hadn't come walking back

Here's where I shook you by the shoulders shoved you up against a truck - 'what's up' it was a picture of someone getting older and of someone growing up

someone growing up

it was like you were in disguise you were so nonchalant - 'come on' as though your well half-lidded eyes said, 'what the hell do you want?'

Well I must've said something for you to feel i was alright - 'alright' We had a great conversation that went on well into the night

went on into the night

She was always like that, even as a kid, secret and apologetic,
quiet like a deer moving between the sunshine and uncertainty

He yells at her up until she goes pale then resumes his job as a painter,
painting all the fire hydrants yellow within a certain framework

And she wouldn't always feel so good, all the time, but over the the course
of the day she'd forget, the dancer in her run amok, she'd forget
and from the forest edge, he'd come

Returning home's not to be construed as anything resembling a tender mood
stay in my orbit though it's lacking certain latitude

But then it goes late; the been, are, going of another day is bobbled and
caught and she says nice things to go to sleep like Charles Comfort and
Mimico Creek

The nocturnal shh of the saboteur whispering, 'there's nothing counterfeit
about the summer'- it took big waves of discipline to learn they pump the
birdsong in

She was always like that and like now, watching the swallows gobble
tonight's complement of blood-suckers, thank Christ, she's trying to be
silent when catching a bug in mid-flight might be easier

I have a secret.
Tell me.
No.
Please tell me.
No. Put it out of your mind
Please? If I put it out of my mind, then will you tell me?

There's not a breath of air tonight i got my windows all thrown open wide praying for any little breeze to move the curtains, shake the leaves tonight

stumbled in to sleep's ravine into a dream of Pascal's submarine where if you can remain quiet and still you might escape life's fill of misery

A woman's had all she can stand hysterically screaming, 'I'm waiting for my man' - 'Madam, we're doing all we can but can you give me your man's name again?'

Are they dead or worse, alive?

Is there something that you're trying to hide? Russian accent - Las Vegas cap says, 'can we talk about all that, inside?'

With Klebanov within her grasp there's just one more thing she's dying to ask they stuck a needle in her arm saying, don't do yourself more harm she collapsed

there's not a breath of air tonight we got our windows all thrown open wide praying on any little breeze for the skeletons, for the effigies, tonight

So this is fucking off by degrees and I suppose we turned out to be not-quite-Hawaii but I can float back to sleep cause at least you're lying to me like music that dances from glowing apartments as shadows entwine into a creamy darkness like jewelry hung down from rich silhouettes portrays on the sidewalk where wetness reflects all the colours of evening and the onset of lights like the promise of nothing, sweet nothing, tonight.

So this is enacting ecstasy and I suppose we turned out to be bathroom graffiti but I can float back to sleep cause at least you're lying to me like shoveling hope into the infinite us til the world surges in yelling, 'this is a drug bust' might turn up the heat and make us into one person but then the temperature plunges and the predicament worsens til we're a fleck of new snow on the eyelash of a cow and we melt away, melt away,

I'm here because you're here and when you go I'm going too

As neutral as snow covering up violence your mind was
smashing its gear like The Who by rote at good ol Monterey
where some people cheered and some looked away
and your best words the most economical and clear to
the ear are nullified and kept
by mum protectors of a suicide note but the best part of cold
is faraway is close and the distant bark of a lone snow shovel
digging out after the storm is a rhythmic whisper

I'm here because you're here and when you go I'm going too

there's a cruel crumpling sound from over yonder by the steeplechase
it's a sound of coming down like horses slamming on
the brakes it's the sound of a crowd, of an equine crowd
Hin the vacuum of its age

it's a sound coming down of an entirely different race
it's a sound coming down like il palio
sent splayed and sprawling into a cafe in an explosion of table legs and trays
it's a sound coming down like a chuckwagon when it strays
a little too far from the stampede days
and slams into the butterfly chase
that's the sound
coming down

Is he good looking? What am I saying? We're all good looking. can I stay til I make some arrangements? then we can begin our estrangement?

your personal conviction's fierce it's been in your family for years but in your ponytail blown loose I can see what this is doing to you

Listen don't guess please listen, don't just guess there's words i wanna say like, 'follow me, I know the way'

We're close to the rail Never more like a candle In breezes full and fragrant we begin our estrangement

We're not hobbyists or dabblers anymore
there's a kid on the street one up in bed one on the hip and one on the floor
we might be one again but not like before

Through these last fifty years as television's taught us war is folly
and that you should never throw over your real friends
and in the end it might be better to give the trophy back
and tell em how you were cowed and conscripted
into giving milk for a war that you now understand

Through these last ten thousand years as books have taught us,
love is folly and that if you only have one friend then you're famous
and there's work and then there's making work as invisible as
wishing it down into pillform while staging spills with the
drink in your opposite hand

Through these last several moments words have taught me that words
are folly and that when the ancient slams into the transient
there's no way to determine who should get their money back
and after this everything is fitness
bigger dreams, bigger screens, bigger feelings are planned

This is a George and Tammy and Bowie tune.

"At least you’re lying to me" ....ya know, like at least we’re still talking to each other. Good n pathetic. "shovelling hope into the infinite us til the world surges in yelling, this is a drug bust." I like that.

Clarkie had this great idea to make the end shot of "Pascal’s" the first shot of "11th Fret." It’s my favourite moment on the record.

Great Josh acoustic.

So this is fucking off by degrees and I suppose we turned out to be not-quite-Hawaii but I can float back to sleep cause at least you're lying to me like music that dances from glowing apartments as shadows entwine into a creamy darkness like jewelry hung down from rich silhouettes portrays on the sidewalk where wetness reflects all the colours of evening and the onset of lights like the promise of nothing, sweet nothing, tonight.

So this is enacting ecstasy and I suppose we turned out to be bathroom graffiti but I can float back to sleep cause at least you're lying to me like shoveling hope into the infinite us til the world surges in yelling, 'this is a drug bust' might turn up the heat and make us into one person but then the temperature plunges and the predicament worsens til we're a fleck of new snow on the eyelash of a cow and we melt away, melt away,

The poem that stayed so. Getting the sound of the snow shovel was good: Clarkie got the chest-scrubber (see cajun/creole/zydeco) and showed me how to use it: scraping it, in time, on the pavement in front of the studio early evening, unseasonably warm, Dale holding the mic.

I’m here because you’re here and when you go, I’m going too..

I'm here because you're here and when you go I'm going too

As neutral as snow covering up violence your mind
was
smashing its gear like The Who by rote at good ol Monterey
where some people cheered and some looked awa
and your best words the most economical and clear to
the ear are nullified and kept
by mum protectors of a suicide note but the best part of cold
is faraway is close and the distant bark of a lone snow
shovel
digging out after the storm is a rhythmic whispe

I'm here because you're here and when you go I'm
going too

listen, don’t guess

Nice Julie

Nice Dale

Is he good looking? What am I saying? We're all good looking. can I stay til I make some arrangements? then we can begin our estrangement?

your personal conviction's fierce it's been in your family for years but in your ponytail blown loose I can see what this is doing to you

Listen don't guess please listen, don't just guess there's words I wanna say like, 'follow me, I know the way'

We're close to the rail Never more like a candle In breezes full and fragrant we begin our estrangement

It’s a cheer for parents and their relationships. You take a torpedo hit midship and head for the lifeboats... I’m sure I’m exaggerating but isn’t that my job... as a parent.

We're not hobbyists or dabblers anymore
there's a kid on the street one up in bed one on the hip and one on the floor
we might be one again but not like before

"Pillform #2" is a rewrite of "Pillform #1," which was written to not even hardly satisfy a request by Daniel Richler to endorse his bid for a new TV Book Channel. TV, books? Books, TV? Words as folly set to music. Bigger dreams, bigger screens, bigger feelings are planned.

Through these last fifty years as television's taught us war is folly
and that you should never throw over your real friends
and in the end it might be better to give the trophy back
and tell em how you were cowed and conscripted
into giving milk for a war that you now understand

Through these last ten thousand years as books have taught us,
love is folly and that if you only have one friend then you're famous
and there's work and then there's making work as invisible as
wishing it down into pillform while staging spills with the
drink in your opposite hand

Through these last several moments words have taught me that words
are folly and that when the ancient slams into the transient
there's no way to determine who should get their money back
and after this everything is fitness
bigger dreams, bigger screens, bigger feelings are planned