Earlier this year, I was invited to travel to Los Angeles to talk about Canadian music as an export commodity. I was to speak alongside folks discussing music from Sweden and South Korea. This seemed like a fun idea at the time.
As a long-time music journalist and a jury foreperson for the Polaris Prize, I take Canadian music pretty damn seriously. Thirty years ago, I remember staying up late to see the Tragically Hip on Saturday Night Live—introduced by Dan Aykroyd in a shirt emblazoned with “CANADA.” I wasn’t even that much of a fan, but there was something in me that wanted to root for a Canadian band attempting to make it in the United States of America.
In population and pop culture power, Canada is dwarfed by our neighbours to the south, but we’ve been able to punch above our weight for some time. From long-standing legends like Joni Mitchell, Oscar Peterson, Neil Young, and Céline Dion to more recent luminaries like Carly Rae Jepsen, the Weeknd, Tanya Tagaq, and, of course, Drake, it’s not hard to think of iconic musical Canucks. My initial plan was to discuss the successes and shifts, the history and trajectory, of our varied and successful music industry.
But then US president Donald Trump indicated that he wanted to get his hands on the True North Strong and Free. I knew that Trump’s fifty-first-state talk was being taken dead seriously when Canadians started booing the American anthem. As people told me I shouldn’t cross the border, and politicians started acting like hockey coaches entering a third period down by a couple goals, I realized that my lighthearted plans for the presentation needed to change.
Canada has been neglecting our (excellent and varied) music scene for the past decade. A post-pandemic evaluation of the government’s Canada Music Fund revealed that revenues are down: album sales fell by nearly 74 percent between 2015 and 2021. And according to data from the City of Toronto, live music venues are disappearing, with the city shuttering 15 percent of these spaces between 2020 and 2021.
There was an increase in pandemic-related support funding, but also a concern that this funding is nothing but temporary. In addition, the Department of Canadian Heritage, which is responsible for significant amounts of music funding related to production, touring, and more, has plans to cut $64 million in grants and contributions by 2026/27. The Canadian Live Music Association raised the alarm around funding last year, calling for an increase in resources to provide support to music production, touring, festivals, and venues. Long-standing Canadian content regulations mandate contributions from broadcasters that go to initiatives that provide financial support for musicians, but airplay quotas that provide essential visibility for artists have become difficult to police in the internet age amid the rise of streaming platforms like Spotify and Apple Music.
At least the recently announced budget did extend a temporary two-year increase to the Canada Music Fund, offering $48 million over the next three years—there was also an unexpected announcement of funding to fuel a potential run for the Eurovision song contest.
With the US vocalizing threats to Canada’s sovereignty, cheering for Canadian music is less about hoping for our favourite artists to break through in America—it’s direct engagement in resistance. If we are all going to get those elbows up and fight a cultural war, we need to mobilize and strategize and consider what it really means to support music that is made in our own backyards.
Down in LA, I ended up talking about how Canada has maintained its music scenes through those protectionist CanCon rules—government directives such as requiring 35 percent of commercial radio to play Canadian music. For music to be considered CanCon, two of the following criteria must be Canadian: music, artist, performance, or lyrics.
This is why, famously, “[Everything I Do] I Do It for You” by Bryan Adams, even though Adams is Canadian, was not considered a Canadian song, because it only checks one box, according to the so-called “MAPL” rules. To be an MAPL-defined Canadian, you have to be a Canadian citizen, a landed immigrant, have lived in Canada for six months, or own some kind of broadcast outlet, like a radio station. Adams’s Canadian citizenship wasn’t enough; he needed to have performed the music in Canada (it was recorded in the United Kingdom) or have written the lyrics and the music himself or with other Canadians (South African Mutt Lange co-wrote the song).
Andrea Warner is an associate producer for CBC Music and author of We Oughta Know: How Céline, Shania, Alanis, and Sarah Ruled the ’90s and Changed Music. “Cancon has supported/upheld/created a robust Canadian music scene, and, honestly? I love that. It’s essential considering our proximity to America and America’s dominant role in our collective pop culture,” she says. But will a bureaucratic process established back in 1971 be enough to protect the industry given the present climate? She isn’t so sure.
MAPL is hardly a flexible concept, and the antiquated rules make it harder to recognize certain types of music as Canadian. Many Black Canadians find it difficult to break through and find success here due to systemic barriers, such as race- or ethnicity-based discrimination and a perceived low success rate for funding grants that discourages many Black artists from applying in the first place.
As writer Del Cowie explains, hip hop legends like Maestro Fresh Wes, Dream Warriors, and Michie Mee signed their record deals outside of Canada. “There’s a lot of collaboration with people who are not Canadian on some different levels,” he says. Given that the rules were established to support and reflect a pre-existing status quo, for Cowie, this meant that they were “not really conducive to having a lot of Black Canadian music come through the system. It was benefiting what the system was already.”
In anticipation of the Trump tariffs, some of the largest radio stations across Canada—Corus radio stations from across the country—decided to play nothing but Canadian music on March 1, and Canadian Reddit threads featured discussions about how much the tariff should be for Americans should they wish to enjoy Canadian music, with Céline Dion costing a pretty penny. But these types of actions can suggest reinforcement of a particular perspective—just like those MAPL rules.
“A Canadian cultural identity is a colonial one,” explains Warner, “and it feels like we need to say that even more right now. Music is joy and resistance and liberation, and it’s more vital than ever to be nuanced about what it means to be making music in Canada right now.”
Winnipeg-based Alan Greyeyes, festival director for the sākihiwē festival (which means “love another” in Cree), calls himself a “helper” in the industry. In addition, he also used to sit on the board of directors for the Polaris Prize.
When I asked him about the potential threat to Canadian music, he was clear—Canadians need to recognize the importance and uniqueness of traditional Indigenous music and how they would be uniquely threatened if Canada were to be assimilated into the US: “If we in Canada stop supporting traditional Indigenous genres, likely they won’t survive . . . if you stop supporting country music, you stop supporting hip hop, you stop supporting folk and rock, those genres can still thrive overseas. What makes Canada special is our traditional Indigenous genres.”
Greyeyes has a suggestion: “I think what the [Canadian Radio-television and Telecommunications Commission] is currently deciding on is minimums for Canadian content on streaming services that are operating in Canada.” This is important in terms of elevating and platforming Canadian sounds. But there needs to be more. Along with Makusham Musique from Quebec, the Canadian Association of Aboriginal Broadcasters, and the Indigenous Music Office, “we’ve also recommended the introduction of mandatory minimums for Indigenous content on radio stations and streaming services. And that would come with our own Indigenous version of the MAPL designation,” he explains.
Warner notes that protectionism isn’t enough: “I’d love to see it go further by helping ensure artists can make living wages in a streaming economy.” The partially government-supported MUSIQC was launched in February to showcase francophone music on streaming services, but the minute payments per stream are hardly able to provide basic livelihood support, let alone provide the outlay necessary to have the time and resources to support the creation of new music.
Artists often look at North America as one big audience, but the border has been significant to music for decades. With a population more than eight times the size of Canada, the US represents a huge opportunity for artists: that is, if they can afford to tour. In addition to basic travel costs, the tax regime in the US demands 30 percent of gross income for non-resident entertainers (the Canada Revenue Agency asks for only 15 percent—and it can be reduced through expense claims).
What’s more is that there’s no visa reciprocity between Canada and the US—as Dan Seligman, creative director of the Pop Montreal festival, explained to me, “Any US artist is visa exempt or work permit exempt from playing shows in Canada. There’s no work permit needed.” For international artists entering the US, the visa cost rose nearly fourfold in April 2024 to over $1,600 (US) per band member—long before Trump entered office. The excuse was a need for more staff to process applications and for the cost to keep pace with inflation—but these reasons hardly seem to provide adequate rationale for the huge hike. This year’s iteration of the festival responded to concerns beyond the cost of crossing the border, hosting a discussion at their Pop Symposium on navigating the rise of transphobic policies while touring, a key topic given the value of growing an audience throughout North America.
And then there’s the venerable Austin, Texas, music festival South by Southwest, or SXSW: in mid-February of this year, the Canadian government, in the form of the Canadian Independent Music Association, cancelled their support for the long-standing “Canada House” venue, a platform for up-and-coming homegrown acts and a networking space for cross-cultural exchange and promotion. Reasons cited for eliminating what had been, for over ten years, both a showcase and networking opportunity were increased cost and US instability.
Seligman insists that there is a conscious decision amongst cultural programmers to try to program as much Canadian music as possible. “I think there’s just this kind of unspoken, ‘Oh, we have to be more nationalistic now,’” he explains. “You see it in the marketing, whether it’s for beer or a festival.”
Canadian music is not defined by the individual successes of those export commodities I initially thought I’d be talking about; rather, it’s about carving out space in an environment dominated by America. Just as people have been checking labels in supermarkets and urging folks to “Buy Canadian,” it’s also important to “Listen Canadian.”
Want to find out about new Canadian music? Founded back in 1991, Exclaim! is still kicking and covering Canadian music daily, and there are heaps of websites and blogs that are committed to covering homegrown artists from all genres. A universe of music exists beyond the Biebers, Célines, and Drakes. But the fresh vanguard doesn’t emerge from thin air—and the government is often lagging behind. As Cowie explains, “The arts, the heritage, or the culture minister—there could be more stuff done. Not only fund the musicians, but then also try to platform those same musicians that you’re funding a little bit more.”
Sure, Prime Minister Mark Carney made it clear that he’s Down with Webster as he enthusiastically danced to their music (while sporting the band’s merch) in celebration of the Liberal victory in the April election. But is he down with supporting Canadian music? Organizations like the Coalition for the Diversity of Cultural Expressions urged Carney to consider measures to support fair remuneration and copyright protections for musicians as soon as he was declared prime minister. When Carney picked his cabinet, it was not clear how culture would be a priority, save for the Liberal election promise to maintain support for the CBC. But what about providing adequate money for the Canada Music Fund that supports programs like the Foundation to Assist Canadian Talent on Records? Increased funding was provided in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, but the short-term funding provided in the 2025 budget doesn’t even account for inflation. Is there any sense that long-term, stable funding opportunities are possible?
The Online Streaming Act of 2023, which essentially updated previous regulations to include streaming content and require foreign providers to pay 5 percent of annual revenues to CanCon funding bodies and support the Canadian music ecosystem, is at risk. US congressional Republicans penned a letter at the end of July urging the suspension of what they considered the “discriminatory” nature of the act. Trump is also not a fan.
So what is left for a music lover to do? Warner has some ideas: “Listen to new-to-you music as much as you can. Go to shows whenever and wherever you can. Support indie venues who are trying so hard to survive. Request music be played on terrestrial radio. Where feasible, buy music and merch directly from the artists. Join Patreons and Kickstarters and help artists go independent if possible. There’s no one way to be a fan or a music lover.” In other words, open your ears and listen local.
When Trump speaks of “our beautiful, treasured fifty-first state,” it’s easy to react with jingoistic, maple-leaf patriotism. But music can help us resist this call—not by retreating into nationalistic fervour but by pushing toward a more inclusive definition of what this land sounds like. Resisting cultural annexation means being honest about what Canadian culture has excluded in the first place and supporting the livelihoods of people who make the tunes we love. This way it’s easy to see why Canada can’t and won’t ever be subsumed.
