DRAPEAU FORGOTTEN IN EXPO 67 NOSTALGIA
Nostalgia runs wild through the streets of Montreal these days, much of it wrapped in aspects of Expo 67, which this year celebrates its 50th anniversary.
The McCord Museum has a show called Fashioning Expo 67; the Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal has In Search of Expo 67; and the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts has Revolution, a show that takes what are essentially American memories and mixes them with British music and makes a vague, not altogether successful attempt at sticking on some Québécois memories of the time.
And who doesn’t have Expo memories?
Even those who weren’t there have in their own way adapted a tale or an anecdote about the approximate era and woven it into a glorious, sun-filled vision of the summer of 1967.
Apart from loving the monorail, my most striking memory of Expo 67 is actually one of great disappointment: Otis Redding made his only appearance in Montreal at the Expo Theatre and I didn’t go. He died in a plane crash in December of that year. His version of Try a Little Tenderness is my cellphone ring.
Hey Friend, Say Friend, that hopeless yet bilingual tune, with its “come on over” lyric was admittedly not the highlight of the event, but like an onslaught of earworms, it continues to enter the ever-decreasing megabytes of storage space in my head and stays for a day or two at a time.
The French version Un Jour, un jour, also written by Stéphane Venne, was made popular in both official languages by Donald Lautrec, among others. It remains unique as anthems go, mentioning neither Expo 67 nor the name Montreal in its lyrics.
Ironically, that song no longer applies to one friend, someone I would have predicted would loom large in the nostalgia, but, alas, is nowhere to be found: Jean Drapeau.
I wasn’t expecting a visitation, but maybe a mention?
Has anyone even imagined what Drapeau would think of all this hullabaloo? A reminder: Drapeau, who died in 1999, served as mayor of Montreal from 1954 to 1957, then again from 1960 to 1986.
That is a heck of a run for any elected official. It would not at all surprise me if His Worship Denis Coderre was in his office right now, looking through his mayor-for-life calendar trying to figure out how long he has to serve to top Drapeau’s record.
Coderre might yet do great things for the city (I won’t mention those large camel-feces-like blocks that dot the mountain), but he will never be introduced live from the stage by the likes of Ed Sullivan as “Gene Drapoo.”
By almost any definition, Drapeau’s life would make for an amazing miniseries. Archnationalist as a young man, he was smack in the middle of so much exciting, dramatic history, from de Gaulle to the October Crisis and the War Measures Act, to the Expos, Place des Arts and the métro.
He was once described as a “combination of Walt Disney and Al Capone.” Amusing as that image is, it misses the patrician side of him. He always seemed to be looking at the world from over the top of his glasses, slightly impatient, seemingly always on the edge of dismissive.
The miniseries does not seem likely to happen. Sure, he got a park and a métro station named for him as a result of his years of efforts to make Montreal “world class.” But his absence in the celebrations surrounding the 50th anniversary of the jewel in his crown might well serve as a warning to other politicians: there is nothing quite like feeling missed, better still, loved — clearly not sentiments present in our collective memory. One last little irony. Parc Jean-Drapeau is best known today as the home of the Osheaga music festival. I don’t believe anyone there has ever played Hey Friend, Say Friend.
I suspect Mayor Drapeau, wherever he may be, is no longer waiting to hear it.