Opening act...Waiting for a Miracle. Well, the good news is it isn't Tears Are Not Enough, which possibility has been my secret dread for upwards of a week.

Ooh, John McDermott. Ooh, Marc Jordan. Ooh, various random people whom I'm reasonably certain I've been singing along to them on the radio for decades so am rillyrilly sorry for not recognising you at the moment, guys. I was impressed.

Our Hero: Kalan gets centre stage left beside Tom "The Reason Why We're Here" Cochrane, and an emotional demisolo (with Emm Gryner, who is not precisely Theresa in terms of harmonising with him) of his own. The camera artfully catches him at several points - including one charming 'Oh, yeah!' grin at a flourish of Cochrane's - in full-bore Lost in the Music mode. In Ron Maclean's intro afterward makes it onto the 'You can tell this is a Big Deal because...' list.

Whereupon we get one of those classic Where's Kalan? moments from CI, as Cochrane leans over to grin and mutter something to him, and Kalan...eventually...glances shyly up at his host - "Did I do it right, Mr. Cochrane?" Tom smiles genially...and pats him on the back (!). Well. As a TWoPer once put it, he really does win everybody over, doesn't he?

Barenaked Ladies. What more can you say? As ever and always, resolutely themselves, and brilliant with it. Personally I would've preferred them in more thoughtful, angst-y Call and Answer-type mode, but hey, an acoustic One Week - during which they fall off the beat at least once - works in a pinch.

Rick Mercer. Who has done such a brilliant job of focussing our national insecurities that the audience here giggles nervously every time he looks at the camera, just in case he whips out a mic and some poutine.

"Margaret Atwood is sharing a dressing room with Tie Domi," he jokes. I dunno. Based on interviews I've seen, it's entirely possible those two are back there swapping bon mots and dirty limericks over a couple cold Labatts.

Oscar Peterson. Jazz legend, and proves it. But not before making a magnificently understated, moving, dignified plea for all children - not just those caught in this tsunami 'occasion'. Heh. OK, Kalan, I'll shut up about NYE now.

Maclean, throwing it to a news report: 'It's hard to believe that earthquake could move so fast and cause so much..but it did.' Well, yeah, Ron. If it hadn't we'd all just be standing around here looking really silly, now wouldn't we?

The Kids in the Hall. Never actually watched their show, and now know why. Unless of course their humour was actually based around them being really obvious and stupid, in which case they're so brilliant at it I'm heading off to put in the nomination for the Order of Canada right now.

Margaret Atwood. The woman whose novels resolutely strip off the pretense from the emotional chaos of the human psyche here merely murmurs something decorus about 'generosity'. While focussing on a point somewhere past Maclean's chin, which I don't care how many operas they make out of your prizewinning books, that's just weird.

June Callwood. We needed this as a rallying point, she says, because there's been so much despair and violence elsewhere in the world. No, I'm not sure even she realises she just called her audience a bunch of insensitive clots who need massive headlines in order to activate their social consciences. So whose brilliant idea was it not to have these people do readings, or something?
Austin Clarke. "Their suffering will go on, after this. And I feel pity for them,' is all he says, very gently. Thank you, sir. Exactly.

Keisha Chante. Smooth as silk, lots of fun...very sixteen, all told. As much a bundle of raw promise in her own way as Kalan in his, except of course she got all the good songs.

Daniel Lanois. Introduced as the man who got Sheila Copps to sing-a-long to Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore, which frankly if they were to run that film I'd donate my entire next week's salary on the spot.

Then again, the object is to inspire re: human potential, not terrify, so instead we get an original song from Lanois himself. I'm going to believe that the lyrical mush that would've embarrassed BMG songwriters ("Thank you for the music in my heart") was written, or maybe just translated, just before showtime...because otherwise I'd make a fool of myself calling 911 and asking if mucking up guitar work that extraordinarily beautiful is a federal offense.

Perditia Felicien. Who turns out to be surprisingly cool, dignified and well-spoken when she's upright. Albeit I do wish these 'heartfelt' appeals had been, I dunno, rehearsed beforehand or something. If the Oscar presenters can make pretense of their 'off-the-cuff' groaners, surely these can't be all that hard.

David Suzuki. Why, yes, this disaster does turn out to be part of a Larger Enviromental Truth re: our Guardianship of This Earth Our Home, why do you ask?

Doc Walker and Jason McCoy. I have no idea, but they sound kind of like cut-rate Bob Segers and so are OK by me. Brothers of famous comedians yell things at their concerts in the suburbs, I have no doubt.

Tom Cochrane, whom before this evening I had no particular reason to suspect could even spell 'telethon', turns out to be the one person so far to simply explain that he did this because he wanted to help. Which is more than June Callwood could manage. Kudos.

Sam Roberts. Mmmmmm...what? Oh, right. Sits in a Montreal dressing room exuding both quiet virility and social conscience, sings a song with lyrics like 'Lost souls can never swim/Only drag you under'...and basically I'd just like to stop right here and relive the moment for a bit, OK? Thanks.

Gordon Pinsent. As ever, the rock upon which grace, dignity and calm were founded...but dear lord, somehow the man's gotten so old. You know how some celebrity-types you use as mental time markers, their robust images comfortably fixed in your brain? Then suddenly they reappear white and withered, and startle you right out of your own mortality comfort zone? Well, I'm having a bad few months of it, here. First Lightfoot, then Pierre Berton, now my other most beloved Gord. If you don't mind I now feel a strong need to go hug Shoemom and my RRSP balance, roughly in that order...

The Trailer Park Boys...whose core demographic I am so emphatically not. My critical faculty is duly registering things like 'cleverly authentic, mildly funny, shot glass nice touch...', and the rest of me is standing off to the side holding its nose and sighing 'Are you finished yet?!'

Eric McCormack, clocking in from backstage at the Critic's Choice Awards in LA. Yes, Eric dear, we know you're Canadian; even after years in a town where I understand you can now have your soul surgically removed if it gets too distracting, you still sound as though you're about to invite us for a post-award nightcap at the corner Timmy's. And hey, y'know, anytime you get back over the border...

A band called Mir (sp?), who are apparently about 3/4 Sri Lankan and in this country were a huge hit at some festival or another. You know how some songs start off real slow and contemplative, then CRASH into a totally exhilarating chorus? Well, Mir sing just like that...except the crash, etc. part. Seriously, I kept waiting and waiting, and suddenly the song's over, and I'm in no position at all to appreciate it because I have such a bad case of chorus interruptus.

MMM veejay lady. Who basically has 'Fifth-place on America's Next Top Model' written all over her. I am however shocking the hell out of myself by kind of liking her outfit. The handkerchief hemline doesn't look nearly as bad over jeans as a straight-skirt does.

Bruce Cockburn. Aka da man of Canadian folk - well, look, after lyrics like "If I had a rocket launcher/Some sonovabitch would pay...", what else would you call him? At any rate sings with the quiet conviction of a man who knows his place in the universe and is supremely content with it.

(Self-indulgent pause: Nobody ever asked me what I consider some of the most romantic pop/rock lyrics ever written, but luckily they just happen to have been written by Cockburn [from Lovers in a Dangerous Time] so I'm gonna quote them anyway:

These fragile bodies of touch and taste
This fragrant skin, this hair like lace
Spirits open to a thrust of grace
Never a breath you can afford to waste...

...It helps to imagine Steven Page of the BNL singing it.

...Ahem [gets firm grip on self]. Meanwhile, back at the benefit for tsunami victims...introducing Shaye. Meh. They have beautiful voices but they also sing in that demi-Celtic we-are-children-of-the-sea style that a)is so characteristic of Maritime music that it's not quite as fascinating as these women think it is and b)I lost interest in round about the Rankin Family primarily because, when singers start thinking it's this fascinating, it basically slips off into mere preciousness.

Mike Myers. Waves a little flag in perfect just-found-this-in-the-car-seat style, says something perfunctory about being proud...and then spends like five minutes yammering on about his undying love for Rush and how he listened to Rush all the time out in the suburbs and his brother even got onto a Rush record yelling some damn thing at a concert. The nice-Canuckleheaded-boy act is never less than cute and all, but..Uh, Mike? Despair, destruction, remember? Things, occasions?

Rush. Who run through Closer to the Heart in decent style...I guess. Time to confess that I've spent my entire life one step behind the Rush legend. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure they're absolutely total Rok Legendz and stuff...but somehow in comparison to the stories I keep being told I always seem to catch them just as they're waking up from a nap, or something.

PM Paul Martin. I don't plan on commenting on the parts of the show that touch directly on the tragedy itself, but I would be severely remiss in my duties if I didn't point out that the Leader of Our Nation has a wicked sunburn at the moment. You would really think the Liberals have enough clout accumulated to have complimentary sunscreen laid on at the hotels, by now.

Wayne Gretzky. Bless the man, he sounds like he's doing an especially moving McDonald's commercial - but because it's Wayne, we all know it's real, and we smile back. It's like the tiny perfect Canadian/celebrity interaction.

Don Cherry, in those pinstripes he's been affecting lately - the broad ones that make me worry that without hockey he's been channeling his rock-'em-sock-'em energies into more, erm, Italian-style sports. "Nice of you to dress up!", he bellows genially at the leather-jacketed Maclean. "Phil-anthropic? What team's he play for?" Please, somebody, tell me he was kidding. That's all I ask from the universe, really; to believe that Don Cherry is kidding.

Jason Priestley. Reads a TelePromptered appeal in the style of a man who is convinced it must mean he's a lot more important than he actually is. Come back, Mike M., all is forgiven.

The Tragically Hip. Did it first, did it best...did and do it now with a raw honesty and joy in the moment that makes me wish erstwhile manager Jake Gold was in the audience with his latest [ahem] prodigy, forcing him to take notes.

Cynthia Dale reads a sweet letter from a Canadian aid worker in Sri Lanka as though she's got her stages confused and thinks this is Stratford. The quality of Cynthia is most definitely strained.

Colin Mochrie and "Of course you know Deb." Well, no...but after Deb good-naturedly waves to the camera - "Hi Mom, hi Dad!" I'm willing to volunteer as her pen-pal, or something.

Lunch at Alan's: Murray McLaughlin, Marc Jordan and the other two I didn't catch. They sing something sweet and soft and infinitely 60's mellow about being grateful the Monarch butterflies come back from Mexico every year, among other things.

I am suddenly all warmly nostalgic for an era I didn't even live through and which, as Shoemom is fond of informing me, didn't really live up to its press releases at the time anyway. ("I can still hear [Granshoe]. 'Oh, isn't that nice, they're all going to San Francisco with flowers in their hair.'")

Introducing WWE star Christian - 'Please, Rick, call me by my legal name: Captain Charisma' - who turns out to possess comic timing the Kids in the Hall can only dream of. "Y'know, Rick," he tells a bemused Mercer, "I'm so happy [to be here] I don't even want to hurt you." Then he hugs him, and gives him a noogie. Is this a great country, or what?

Peter Callaghan, Leah Pinsent - um, shouldn't she be backstage giving Dad his nitro pills, or something? - and Ron James tell us there are people suffering, in case you just tuned in and are getting upset because you really wanted to hear Ashlee Simpson go off-key, like, right now, and could you please do something to help in the meantime.

Eagle and Hawk. "Do you walk the sundance of life?" Er, no...but hey, you just keep singing and I'll give it some serious thought, OK? Really. I mean, a Native rock band, how cool is this? This is such the perfect idea I cannot believe nobody's thought of it before now. They even have the dancing girls in flashy costumes, for cripes' sake. Wonderful.

Tie Domi stands around for awhile looking uncomfortably mild-mannered while an obviously hyper-nostalgic McLean tries to get him to snarl, or charge the camera, or something.

(Self-indulgent pause: What happens if the lockout goes on so long all the goons' anger just...dissipates? Or maybe their concussion-ravaged memories fail? "OK, wait, hold on there, I'm supposed to be exacting brutal revenge on you for...some hit or other...ehhh, the hell with it. Go in peace, brother.")

Anyway, Domi finally obliges by telling "everyone - not just the Leafs fans, the ones in Vancouver, and Edmonton...and...and...even the Ottawa fans, get out there and give!" Please note that even when encouraging response to a literally earth-shattering tragedy, a Leafs player cannot bring himself to appeal to Montreal.

The Trews. OK, so we have Kalan the budding pop/rock star, and Keisha the budding R&B diva, and now...the budding, uh, I dunno, cross between Simple Plan and Metallica. Yep, all set for the new millennium!

Anyhow. Back to Rick Mercer, who is now somehow playing bass drum in the RCMCC band. Oops. Maybe a little heavy on the fast-forward button, there. (Also, you'd think one of Canada's premier military bands could afford a gym with better acoustics. Or is it a Law of School Bands, that they all must sound like they're being filtered through a circa 70's sound system?)

The wonderful Sonja Smits and...Patrick McKenna. Oh, god. How wrong is it that this very sincere man is up here telling me about suffering children and I can't concentrate because I keep waiting for him to bust out into a Harold Green snort?

The Designer Guys! Hee. Shoemom lurves these two. Even if she hasn't quite figured out if they're gay or not. "All I know is they have such good taste!"

At any rate, no, they're not here to do an emergency fix on Don Cherry. Instead they just good-naturedly hassle Jann Arden for awhile...in a fashion that might just clear up some of Shoemom's doubts, let's put it that way. At one point they offer to be Jann's backup singers; she hastily suggests instead that her "band really needs a makeover, why don't you start with that?" Cut to the band, watching them dance, not amused. Cut to [thankfully] Jann, singing. Ahhhhh. Now, there's a voice.

Cue Montage of Just in Case We Missed Anybody. OK, whosever's brilliant idea it was to substitute the freaking Trews for Nickelback...ahem. Besides Chad Kroeger, we have Dave Thomas, former Polka Dot Door diva Tanya Lee Williams, Garou, Fabrizio Fillipo, Mary Walsh, John Roberts - whoa! Bet you'd be embarrassed to watch the New Music footage now, eh, JD? - Polly Shannon, Alex Trebek ("Nobody in South Asia is named Jennings, are they? OK then."), Ian Hanomansing, Mike Holmes and...Hilary Duff? That's what we're missing! A homegrown Dufflet of our very own, just for, er, moments like this. And no, the Moffats don't count. C'mon, CI3, get it in gear.

Tom [Cochrane] 'and Friends'...really...including the frankly enormously unnecessary brunette Shaye frontwoman. Apparently they're working on a strict Annoying Mannerisms = Airtime ratio, here, because by actual count (OK, by actually watching the VCR counter as I fast-forwarded) the only person to show up more often than this girl tonight will be Bubbles the Trailer Park doofus.

Introducing Celine Dion, 'my friend and yours'. Oh, gag me with a spoon. You go hang out with the Spider-Woman, OK, Ron? Deb and I'll be over here scoring some popcorn.

Cue La Belle Diva herself...and I gotta say, after all I've been reading it's a trifle anticlimactic. First of all, that dress is hideous. We need to take the designer out back and shoot him before he puts ruffles on anything, ever again. Second, she kicks off by intoning "All of Las Vegas is supporting us tonight"...and so help me, I cannot keep from wondering if that includes the topless dancers down back of the Strip, and if so, how.

OK, meanwhile. The 'audience with an angel' turns out to be something about her heart being broken. Yeah, well, so was mine, and I don't hear anybody bidding the heavens open for me, here. All I got was, "Hey, you forgot your keys again! I'm not lettin' you back in!" Maybe I need a better agent.

Anyway, so she sings and stuff, accompanied by her cut-rate Cirque de Soleil floor show. And I suppose it's touching. But…but…”An audience with an angel”?! Has anyone noticed yet that this woman resembles nothing so much as a villainess off the old Batman TV series? ("Holy arachnophobia, Caped Crusader! She's going to sing!")

Anyway I'm still glad to have David Usher bring me back down from the clouds. For several reasons, actually, heh heh. How is it that Kalan's a 'pretty boy' and Keanu's Slightly More Mischevious Younger Brother here sells a million CDs without comment? [forces self to just shut up and listen to music] Oh, right...we gotta get Kalan some decent material.

The Air Farce, fresh off the set next door...yes, in costume. This little scene is so unexpectedly earnest and sweet I have the sudden and (I hope) once-in-a-lifetime urge to sweep them all up into a big hug.

Fresh I.E and Crystal, deep in Standard Hip-Hop Pose #2: The People Gotta Come Together. They do a decent job. Hey, I'm a white (Scandinavian, even) girl from Peterborough, that's as insightful as it gets, OK?

The ever-elegant Shirley Douglas. Ah, so that's how Kiefer managed to be the Spawn of Donald and a hottie at the same time...

Sloan. Hee hee hee. Personally, I find any nagging silly-sarcastic-thoughtful voids I might have are usually nicely filled by the BNL...but these guys are always a good time.

Mike Meyers, who (I can't help but imagine) has finally noticed Rush were actually participating in a telethon, and stuff, so is back to try again. OK, seriously, I'm probably being a little hard on Shrek, here. He's a good guy. And he didn't bring Dana Carvey with him.

Blue Rodeo. In the setting that becomes them best: intimate and acoustic. They sing with the quiet, weary smiles of musicians whom years and years in the 'business' has worn down until only the love of the music remains.

Molly Johnson and (erstwhile CI1 pianist) Andrew Craig. Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Seriously, just, mmmmmmmmmmm. Unbelievably cool and loose and funky. One of the few performances of the night - the others being Sam Roberts and Eagle/Hawk - that I just flat didn't want to end. Keisha, honey, if you're in the market for a lifetime inspiration you could do a lot worse than taping this and replaying at, oh, say, twice-yearly intervals, 'kay?

The Bryan. Also, the Anne Murray. The latter seriously needs to share her plastic surgeon's phone # with the former....or [watches in fascinated horror as she turns full-face to the camera] then again, maybe not. Sheeze, Annie, we know you're a Canadian legend, the protective Teflon coating wasn't necessary!

Also, Bryan Adams...well...I hope that's just a transient case of laryngitis, because frankly I'm starting to feel like my childhood nostalgia is withering away before my eyes, here, and listening to his hissing imitation of that once-glorious rasp sure ain't helping any. Sigh.

Ah well. The one constant in all of this, to me, is the sincerity. The uniquely Canadian kind, quiet, unaffected and absolutely heartfelt. Kalan, I think, fits into that tradition with ease...even if he doesn't quite fit the criteria re: looks. Set among all those, er, rugged pioneers the boy resembles nothing so much as a fragile Christmas ornament. But inside? Where the Canuck musical soul lives? Oh, yeah.