Toronto in the early nineties wasn’t exactly the glitzy "Hollywood North" you see today. It was grittier. Smoggy. The music scene was caught in this weird limbo between the death of hair metal and the explosion of grunge. Right in the middle of that friction, a group of guys who looked like they just rolled out of a dive bar released an album called Shakespeare My Butt. That band was Lowest of the Low, and honestly, they might be the most important Canadian band that half the world has never heard of.
They didn't have the polish of their contemporaries. They had lyrics about social housing, bad breakups in Kensington Market, and the crushing weight of being a twenty-something with no money. People connected with it instantly.
The name itself, Lowest of the Low, felt like a mission statement. It wasn't about being depressed; it was about being grounded. It was about being at the bottom of the social ladder and realizing the view from there was actually pretty honest. While the rest of the world was looking at Seattle, Toronto was looking at Ron Hawkins and his bandmates as they built a cult following that has lasted over thirty years.
Why Shakespeare My Butt Changed Everything
When you talk about Lowest of the Low, you have to talk about that first record. Released in 1991, Shakespeare My Butt became one of the best-selling independent albums in Canadian history. It eventually went gold, which, for an indie band in the pre-internet era, was basically like winning the lottery while being struck by lightning.
There’s a specific magic to songs like "Salesmen, Cheats and Liars." It's fast. It’s wordy. Hawkins writes like a novelist who’s had three too many espressos and needs to tell you everything about the world’s injustices before the bar closes. The track "Rosy and Grey" became an anthem. You can still go into a pub in Ontario today, put that song on the jukebox, and watch forty-year-olds and twenty-year-olds alike scream the lyrics about the "city’s heartbeat."
It’s fascinating because the album almost didn’t happen. The band was broke. They recorded it for about $2,000. That’s nothing. Most bands spend more than that on catering during a modern studio session. But that low-budget, high-energy vibe is exactly why it worked. It sounded like the streets it was describing. You could hear the cheap beer and the cold Toronto winters in the guitar tone.
The Anatomy of a Lowest of the Low Song
What makes their music stick? It’s the contrast. You have these incredibly catchy, almost pop-rock melodies played with a punk-rock snarl. Underneath it all, the lyrics are dense. Hawkins references everything from Spanish Civil War history to local Toronto geography.
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- He mentions "Bathurst Street."
- He talks about the "Subway line."
- He name-drops political figures and obscure poets.
This specificity is what gave Lowest of the Low their staying power. Usually, songwriters are told to make lyrics "universal" so everyone can relate. Hawkins did the opposite. He made them so specific to a time and place that they became universal through their sheer authenticity. If you’ve ever felt stuck in a dead-end job or wondered if the city you live in actually cares about you, you understand this band.
The Breakups, The Comebacks, and the Persistence of the Low
Life in a band is rarely a straight line. For Lowest of the Low, it’s been more of a jagged heart rate monitor. They broke up in 1994, right when they were arguably at their peak. It was the classic story: internal friction, the pressure of following up a masterpiece, and a general sense of burnout.
Fans were devastated.
But you can’t keep a good songwriter down. Hawkins went on to form The Do Good Assassins and released solo material, but the gravity of Lowest of the Low kept pulling everyone back together. They reunited in 2000, then again later, and eventually realized that the chemistry they had was something rare.
It’s rare to see a band survive multiple decades of "on-again, off-again" status without becoming a parody of themselves. Most bands do a reunion tour just for the paycheck and play the hits like robots. But when Lowest of the Low released Agitpop in 2019, it didn't sound like a nostalgia act. It sounded angry. It sounded relevant. They were still singing about the same things—power dynamics, social justice, the struggle of the working class—but with the perspective of men who had seen a few more decades of the world’s nonsense.
Managing Expectations as an Indie Legend
Being the Lowest of the Low means navigating a weird space in the music industry. They aren’t "stadium big," but they are "legendary big." This comes with its own set of problems. Fans want you to play Shakespeare My Butt in its entirety every single night.
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Hawkins has been pretty vocal about this. He loves the old stuff, but he’s a writer who is constantly moving forward. Balancing that history with the desire to create new art is a tightrope walk. Yet, they manage it. They’ve built a community that feels more like a family than a fanbase. If you go to a show at the Danforth Music Hall or Lee's Palace, you’ll see the same faces you would have seen in 1992, just with a bit more gray hair and maybe a better pair of shoes.
The Cultural Impact Nobody Talks About
We often talk about the "CanRock" explosion of the 90s—bands like Sloan, The Tragically Hip, and Our Lady Peace. While those bands found massive commercial success, Lowest of the Low provided the intellectual and political backbone for the indie side of that movement.
They proved that you didn't need a major label to make an impact. They showed that you could write smart, literate lyrics without being pretentious. You could be a "punk" band and still have melodies that people could whistle.
Their influence is hidden in the DNA of dozens of younger Canadian bands. When you hear a group like The Flatliners or even certain tracks by Pup, you’re hearing the echo of Ron Hawkins’ songwriting style. It’s that blend of folk-storytelling and electric-guitar-loudness.
Why the Name Still Holds Up
Honestly, calling yourself "Lowest of the Low" is a bold move. It’s a shield. If you claim the bottom floor, nobody can knock you down. But it’s also an invitation. It tells the listener, "Hey, we’re down here too. We see what’s going on. Let’s make some noise about it."
In a world where social media makes everyone try to look like they’re living their "highest" life, the honesty of the Low is refreshing. They don't pretend to be rock stars. They are musicians. There’s a massive difference.
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How to Get Into Lowest of the Low Today
If you’re new to the band, don’t just jump into the deep end without a life jacket. You need to start where everyone else did.
- Listen to "Rosy and Grey" first. It’s the entry point. It captures the longing and the atmosphere of the band perfectly.
- Move to "City Full of Cowards." This shows their faster, more aggressive side. It’s a great example of Hawkins’ ability to cram a hundred syllables into a three-minute pop song.
- Check out the 2017 album "Do Not Pass Go." It’s a live record that proves they still have the energy of a band half their age. Sometimes the live versions of these songs are better than the studio ones because the crowd participation is so intense.
The band isn't just a relic of the past. They are still touring. They are still writing. They are a living breathing example of what happens when you prioritize integrity over a quick buck.
What We Can Learn From Their Longevity
The music industry is designed to chew people up and spit them out. Most bands last three years. To last thirty, you need more than just good tunes. You need a connection to your audience that isn't based on a "brand."
Lowest of the Low never felt like a brand. They felt like your smart-aleck friends who happened to be really good at guitar. They taught a generation of Canadian kids that their own streets were worth writing about. You didn't have to write about New York or London to be cool. You could write about the corner of Bloor and Bathurst and make it sound like the center of the universe.
Actionable Steps for the Aspiring Music Fan
If you want to truly appreciate the legacy of Lowest of the Low, you have to look beyond the Spotify numbers.
- Explore the Toronto Indie Scene: Look into the bands that played alongside them. Groups like Bourbon Tabernacle Choir or Rheostatics. This was a golden era of Canadian music that wasn't trying to sound like American radio.
- Read the Lyrics: Buy the physical media if you can, or find the lyric sheets online. Ron Hawkins is a lyricist first. His wordplay and internal rhymes are worth studying if you're a writer of any kind.
- Support Independent Venues: The Low started in small, sweaty clubs. Those venues are disappearing. If you want the next Lowest of the Low to exist, you have to go see local bands in your own city.
- Check Out Ron Hawkins' Solo Work: If you find the band's sound a bit too loud, his solo records like Spit Sputter and Crackle offer a more intimate look at his songwriting.
The story of the Lowest of the Low is ultimately a story about staying power. It's about being okay with who you are and where you're from. They didn't change their sound to fit the trends, and because of that, their music hasn't aged a day. Whether it's 1991 or 2026, a song about feeling out of place in your own skin is always going to find an audience.
Stop looking for the next big thing for a second and look at the foundation. Sometimes the most interesting stuff is happening at the bottom.