The things that make the man are as big as they are small, for what makes the man is always a milieux of convergence in a much bigger plan. It’s doubtful that there is anyone born in the dawn of the 50’s who has experienced the tapestry of popular music in such a wonderful Forrest Gump kind of way as the unlikely savant of the guitar that is Bill Dillon. Lacking the bravado and cockiness associated with most guitar heroes, Dillon possesses the purest and most transparent of filters, gossamer nuances favoured by the likes of Ian Thomas, The Pretenders, Gordon Lightfoot, Dan Lanois, Ronnie Hawkins, Robbie Robertson, Paul Simon, Edie Brickell, Sarah McLachlan ….to name a few.
Born on the mean streets with a fierce angel to guide and protect and an ever present demon to torment him, his childhood begged for the comfort and escape music offered that stilted child. Bestowed with a natural gift and a burning desire, a tenuous connection to Grimsby and Hamilton’s position between there and Toronto meant Dillon was soon to discover the steeping brew and musical hotbed that the steel city has always been known so well to be. Relationships formed, friendships made and that symmetrical symbiotic serendipity began to swirl and take him away.
Chateaus and villas, classic cars and jets to Monaco were not just a dream for this cat, it was his life.
Who would have thought, after all of that, he would be so humble, so kind, so wise and so incredibly real? As a Beatles fan, the diddy that is When I’m 64 must have struck home for Bill this year, the days now glowing orange-red in the long shadows. This is 2 hours of pure Bill Dillon; a life in music and the music in life rolled out on the grass to lie on, on the most beautiful of summer nights.