MUSICIANS AND DRUGS. WOW, THERE'S A SHOCKER!

Kelly Egan Says It's Time To Move On From The Steven Page Story --
Er, After You've Read His Column

In all the media coverage of Steven Page's drug arrest -- honest to
Pete, you'd have thought Jesus had been caught shoplifting -- there
is a rather unseemly sense of gloating.

We live in nasty times, people -- and yes, timely reminder -- I am
looking in the mirror: Newspapers never saw a brush fire about a
celebrity that we couldn't douse with gasoline.

Sex, drugs, Syracuse and rock 'n' roll. The story pretty much hit for
the cycle.

In particular, I thought the Citizen's presentation of his mug shot
on the front page Friday -- blurry, way over-enlarged, tabloid messy
- -- was particularly lurid. No, I shall never have a corner office.

It is rather doubtful Mr. Page is a hardened drug user. No real
addict would be so stupid. You have cocaine on the kitchen table at 2
a.m. in the United States, where they imprison jaywalkers, and there
is a knock on the door. So you just let a cop stroll in and have a look-see?

I suppose it's jarring because the band appears innocent and
cartoonish. Their name is silly, some of their material is campy and
they just seem so damn wholesome.

Many baby boomers grew up with their stuff, lo these 20 years, which
might explain the rush to defend, or mock. Hero worship does not
become us. We adore weakness in our idols.

Mr. Page, meanwhile, built a profile outside the band. He let it be
known that he drove a hybrid car, had a strong eco-streak and palled
around with Jack Layton. So, he sides with the angels.

What Mr. Page may have done temporarily -- guilty or not -- is spoil
the Barenaked Ladies' long-standing appeal to young audiences, right
on the heels of the band's first full-length children's album.

Snacktime! is just out, with such titles as Pollywog in a Bog and The
Humungous Tree. Sounds cute, unlike, say, snorting cocaine.

I know a little of these Ladies. In November 2005, my son was lucky
enough to be chosen to sing with the band on the stage of the
National Arts Centre. Probably the best gig ever for the junior choir
at Elmdale Public School. The children wore white tops and dark
pants. I can still remember the crisp new shirt I picked up at the
Gap. The choir sang I Saw Three Ships, We Wish You A Merry Christmas
and Oh Hanukkah.

The stage was decorated with a large Christmas tree in white lights
and a massive fireplace, upon which the band's stockings were hung with care.

During rehearsal, Mr. Page, who has three children, seemed more
detached than the others, but this is merely a superficial
observation and certainly not a criticism. Ed Robertson was more
directly engaged with the roughly two dozen children, shaking many
little hands. Backstage, Jim Creeggan, the tall, redheaded bass
player, was an absolute sweetheart.

The rehearsal concluded with a short photo session featuring the kids
and the musicians. Parents snapped away. There was, given the week's
news, a curious remark made by Mr. Robertson as the cameras clicked away.

"Gosh-darn paparazzi," he said, to a chuckling gaggle of Mas and Pas.
"And momma-razzi!"

So cute. And doesn't Mr. Page know it, today?

But, to the point. The man is a talented musician, a father, a figure
unafraid to use his fame to engage in a public discourse beyond
music, which is admirable. Now, he may have made a terrible mistake.
Who hasn't?

Musicians and drugs. Wow, there's a shocker! I'm sure the other band
members and all their fans have never sampled any contraband of any
description. Oh, no, no, no.

In the blogosphere, people are dissecting his girlfriend, pondering
Mr. Page's broken marriage and calculating damage to the band. The
BNL website is absolutely rocking with messages, mostly positive. It
won't be long before a support group is holding weekly meetings.

So he's not a cartoon character after all. None of them are. I mean,
James Taylor, who invented nice, was once hooked on heroin. Does that
make him a scoundrel?

Steven Page will, no doubt, find a way to publicly de-creep himself.
And, one day, sing again with the choir of innocents. In the
meantime, my God, chill, you legion of editors -- strip not the man naked.