
Stampede will 'evaluate' which artists it books for free shows amid crowd safety concerns
The Calgary Stampede will be "evaluating" which artists it books for free concerts at the Coca-Cola Stage following concerns around overcrowding.
The stage, which offers free outdoor concerts headlined by up-and-coming local artists and international stars, was subject to questions around its choice of talent when a crowd crush reportedly occurred during a performance by hip-hop superstar Don Toliver on July 8.
During a media availability on Sunday, Calgary Stampede CEO Joel Cowley said the safety of attendees is "at the very, very top of our list" as the organization moves forward.
"Going into 2026, one of our focal points will be continuing to evolve the Coke Stage, because we want our guests there to be comfortable, and feel safe and secure," he said.
Cowley pointed to two shows in particular — those headlined by Toliver and R&B singer Khalid — as drawing the largest crowds.
"We had two very large, high-volume nights this last week, and we know that some of our guests did not feel comfortable, so we will continue to evaluate that," he said.
Kerrie Blizard, the Calgary Stampede's director of public safety, said during a media availability last week following the Toliver concert that she thought it "was a great success" based on attendance and audience feedback.
WATCH: Stampede incidents lead to safety concerns:
Three stabbings and reported crowd crushing in one night at the Calgary Stampede
5 days ago
Duration 2:07
Police say multiple assaults on the midway Tuesday night at the Calgary Stampede are not believed to be random, but no suspects have been arrested. Across the grounds, concertgoers recount feelings of being crushed and trapped in the audience at a concert by American rapper Don Toliver. The CBC's Acton Clarkin reports.
Cowley pointed to preparations put in place ahead of those concerts, including alternate viewing locations being set up with livestreams of the shows — which he acknowledged were poorly attended by concertgoers — and collaborations with the Calgary Police Service, which put out a statement ahead of the Toliver concert to offer safety tips.
"We also have to evaluate which artists we place on that stage," he said.
"We know these high-demand artists, those that draw a younger crowd, tend to be a little less ruly than, say, a classic rock band that goes there, and so all of those things will be evaluated."
Admission to concerts at the Coca-Cola Stage are included with admission to the Calgary Stampede. There are no age restrictions or attendance limits.
Cowley said the organization is looking at adding "additional barriers" to prevent overcrowding toward the front of the stage. He said Stampede staffers will be "travelling to another event" to observe safety measures in place there.
"We pride ourselves on being a music festival," he said, pointing to the over 100 acts that took the stage across the Stampede's three major concert venues: the indoor Big Four Roadhouse, Nashville North party tent and Coca-Cola Stage.
"There are people who come to Calgary during these 10 days with the sole intent of watching [concerts]," Cowley said. "It's a way you can draw a very diverse audience and share our Western hospitality."
Attendance high, but falls short of last year's record
According to the Calgary Stampede, 1,470,288 people visited Stampede Park over the course of this year's event.
The figure falls short of the attendance record set in 2024 — 1,477,953 visitors — but earns the 113th Calgary Stampede the title of second-most-attended.
Stuart O'Connor, president and chair of the Calgary Stampede board, said those numbers reflect the diverse nature of the event.
"No matter where you're coming from, and no matter what you're interested in, there is something for everyone during Stampede," he said.
The most-attended day this year — and second-most-attended day in Stampede history — was Tuesday, July 8, which offered free admission early in the day, as well as being the date of the controversial Toliver concert.
Cowley said the Stampede works to manage its growing crowd sizes in a variety of ways.
"We know which days are gonna be more attractive to attend than others," he said.
"Those free admission days, we know that we're going to get great attendance on those days," he continued. "The great thing about those is that we require those people to come in free early. They typically don't stay all day."
Cowley said the demolition of the Scotiabank Saddledome, which he said happens "hopefully by 2030," will help the Stampede increase attendance and better accommodate larger crowds by adding 11 acres to the park.
Hashtags

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles

CBC
2 minutes ago
- CBC
Pair of rare, multicoloured lobsters new summer stars of Dartmouth ocean centre
Burrowing under seaweed and crawling around a large open-top tank at an ocean centre in Dartmouth, N.S., are two beady-eyed alien-like creatures named Moonmist and Bingo. One of them is half bright red and half black while the other has baby-blue and white "cotton candy" colours. Moonmist and Bingo are lobsters. The extremely rare duo, with colour combinations that are estimated to occur only in one in 50 million and one in 100 million, respectively, were likely headed toward someone's supper plate or lobster roll, until staff at a large Bedford, N.S., fish market identified the unique crustaceans and donated them to the Back to the Sea Centre in Dartmouth, N.S. Magali Gregoire, head of the non-profit centre that offers sea-life education, said the pair have quickly captivated the centre's visitors, who may be used to seeing dull brown-coloured lobsters in grocery stores or fish markets. "It's been really exciting for both us and our visitors. A lot of people have never seen lobsters like this," Gregoire said in an interview Thursday. Visitors have been flocking to see the half-red and half-black lobster, named Bingo, who likes to sit under seaweed on the opposite side of the tank from bright, pale-blue Moonmist — named after the beloved Maritime ice cream flavour. The centre ran a naming contest that generated a few hundred votes and suggestions before Moonmist and Bingo came out on top. "The split coloured-one, that is Bingo. People did try to name the pair after the famous kids TV show `Bingo and Bluey,"' which is a cartoon about a blue and red dog duo. While the name Bingo earned top votes, Moonmist beat out Bluey, Gregoire said. Gregoire was first alerted to the baby blue and white lobster by staff at Fisherman's Market in Bedford, N.S., where the lobster was set to be sold. The fish retailer offered to donate the unique creature that was caught off the coast of Canso, near Cape Breton, to the centre. When Gregoire arrived at the market to pick up the blue lobster, she was offered the second rare lobster as a donation as well. "We don't actually know where the second one comes from, so that one's a little mystery," Gregoire said. Ian MacSween, director of retail operations with Fisherman's Market, said in a statement it was a "pleasure" to donate the two unique lobsters to the Back to the Sea Centre. "We knew they would be kept in good hands and given an opportunity to showcase and educate all of their visitors this summer," MacSween said. Although Bingo is not as rare a specimen as Moonmist, Gregoire says the former seems to be getting more attention from visitors due to a clear straight line that appears to go almost all the way down the lobster's body. It makes it look like Bingo was perfectly half-cooked, with one side of its tail completely red, while the other half is black. Gregoire estimates Bingo is between eight and 10 years-old, and Moonmist, who is slightly larger, is likely between 10 and 13 years-old. She said staff have had some difficulty identifying the lobsters' sexes, but they think Bingo is a male and Moonmist is a female. When the two were first united, Gregoire said it looked like they would be fast friends, but this didn't last. "The first day we brought them in, they were being very nice to each other. But we know lobsters can be territorial. So we have built a little rock wall that separates them," she said. In the mornings when staff return to the centre, Gregoire said they often find the lobsters have rearranged the seaweed and rocks in their tank. "We are finding they're crawling over the wall. But when one crawls over, the other moves away to the other side. Giving space," she said. The pair will spend much of the summer in the centre, giving visitors as much time as possible to see Bingo and Moonmist before they are returned to the ocean. "Just as the name of our centre says, Back to the Sea, all our creatures do get to go back to the sea," she said.


Globe and Mail
an hour ago
- Globe and Mail
My estranged father died in hospital after years of drug use. He was more than a statistic
Jordan Foisy is a stand-up comic and head writer for This Hour has 22 Minutes. I hadn't seen my dad or heard from him in six years. All I knew was that he was addicted to drugs, his whereabouts could be best described as uncertain, and things were bad for him and getting worse. Everything else was glimpses and rumours. On a visit to Sault Ste. Marie, my hometown, my mom pointed out a men's shelter, and said she'd heard that's where he was staying. For years I'd been expecting the call. It would probably be my mom: 'They found him,' she'd tell me, 'He wasn't breathing.' But the call never came. For years, he existed on the periphery of my thoughts, a living ghost, an aching joint that acts up when I watch Interstellar. Sometimes, I would see an unlucky addict on the street, a face gaunt with misery, and I'd do a double take. Was that him? Could be. Might as well be. And then, one day, my mom phoned me. It was later than usual and I felt silly for all the other times I thought it was going to be the call, because immediately I knew. She spoke softly but deliberately. 'Your dad's in the hospital,' she told me, 'They had to do some kind of surgery. He can't move, he can't talk.' She didn't know the rest of the details. The hospital had called his sister, who had then called her. She didn't know what to do. His sister didn't know what to do. No one did. My dad had spent the last years burning every bridge around him, only pausing the bonfires to make sure the structures were covered in enough gasoline. Favours were done that were never returned, money was loaned that was never repaid, friends were cheated, lines were crossed, and the ends of ropes were reached. No one wanted to take this on. The small-town opioid crisis hidden in the big-city shadow The decision came easily. Maybe there is some ingrained determinism in being a son, especially the first born. A sense of duty or responsibility you might not know you possess. Or maybe I'm still just a theatre kid who knows the appropriate story beats for such a juicy role. 'I can go,' I told my mom, 'I can take care of it.' The next morning I got hold of a doctor at the hospital. He laid it out for me. My father had gone to the emergency room complaining about numbness in his arms. Upon examination, they found an abscess growing near his spine, at the base of his skull. The doctor didn't know for sure the cause but it's common with people who do intravenous drugs. Dirty needles. The infection gets in through the injection site, and moves through the blood to where it can do real damage. You're only lucky until you aren't. He needed surgery immediately and was airlifted to Sudbury. The abscess was removed but he was left paralyzed, unconscious and on a ventilator. They wanted to wait 72 hours to see if he recovered enough to make a decision about how to move forward, and if not, someone else would have to make it for him. The doctor was sure someone else would have to. I called my brothers to let them know and got in touch with a social worker at the hospital who filled in some more details. My girlfriend said she'd come along, and we looked for a hotel room. We paused to figure out how many days to book it for. Two? Five? How long is this going to take? What strange questions to ask yourself, what morbid estimations you make in this process: how many days are an appropriate number of days to wait for someone to die? This isn't gardening or changing a tire – there are no YouTube tutorials to help you. We decided on three nights. Seemed like enough time for whatever was going to happen to happen. Sudbury is about a five-hour drive from Toronto, a straight shot up the 400. It's beautiful. The craggy brilliance of the Canadian Shield is a welcome respite from the overstuffed highways, anonymous glass towers and brusque manufacturing centres of the GTA. We arrived at the hospital around dinner time. I was nervous, scared, but not of him dying. The worst outcome I envisioned on the drive up was arriving in his room to find him awake and alert; still paralyzed and mute but with a look in his eyes that said, 'What now?' It seems cruel but I hadn't come to help or save him, I had come to say goodbye and was horrified by the possibility of any alternatives. We found our way to the ICU. I buzzed the front desk and told them I was there to visit my father, Conrad Foisy. Uttering his name made it real. The hi-def daydreams about fathers and sons were put on pause. Now he was a person, a man, alone and in pain in a city he didn't live in. We walked down the hallway to his room and there he was. He was surrounded by screens and devices, tubes running from his body. He was bigger than the last time I saw him; his upper body was bare and his hair was long and brushed behind his ears, giving him an aura of tattered elegance. His mouth, near-toothless and ravaged from abuse, winced around the intrusive, alien chord of the ventilator. I focused on his hands. Big, meaty things, betraying a lifetime of manual labour. When we were young, and he was feeling playful, my dad would crawl around on his hands and knees and try to smash our toes with those hands. My brothers and I would scream and laugh. 'Look at his hands,' I kept mumbling, 'They're so big.' 'I think they're just swollen,' my girlfriend replied, thankfully puncturing the overwrought meaning I was shoehorning into the scene. The nurse on duty was a kind man, quietly watching hockey on a little TV. He told me my dad was stable and conscious; he could hear me if I wanted to say something but wouldn't be able to respond. It is difficult to imagine a worse fate than that. Trapped inside your own body, alone and unable to communicate, kept company and consoled only by the memories of your decisions and actions that led you to this place. The nurse called his name, 'Conrad, Conrad, your son is here.' I joined in. He opened his eyes and looked at me. There was a brief flash of recognition, before he closed his eyes again. I was relieved. Honestly, I didn't want him to wake up, not from malice or anger, but fear. Fear of the impossibility of that moment. He'd wake up and we'd, what, fix everything? No, we'd sit there at his death's door in a painful, regret-filled silence, with so much to say and no way to say it. My whole life I'd been afraid of him. He was big, loud, and prone to arbitrary outbursts of big, loud anger. I'd come home from high school and he'd be asleep on the living room couch, and I would pray he didn't wake up. Fifteen years later, and I was praying for the same thing. We stuck around for roughly an hour, which felt like the right amount of time to spend looking at an unresponsive, dying man. Again, this question of how much time is appropriate; what is the proper penance to pay for being the ones in the room that are healthy and alive? So much of being around the dying is in that uncertainty: a constant search for the right thing to say, the right thing to do. What will absolve this guilt that I'm not the one lying there with tubes running out of my mouth? Whenever I've been in this situation, I've always been plagued by the question: how long should I stay? Yet, the sight of my father – shirtless, pain etched into his face – should have obliterated this notion that there is any sort of redemptive, narrative arc to this life. Sometimes you mess up and then just keep on going; never learning a lesson. You can never learn your lesson. You can hit rock bottom, and instead of picking yourself up, it turns out you can always find another rock bottom. The next day, I talked to his doctor. We were 24 hours away from the deadline for any miraculous recovery. The doctor explained to me that should I decide to take him off life support, they would give him painkillers and simply let nature take its course. They would make it comfortable, peaceful. I asked what would happen if I zagged and kept him alive. The most likely outcome, I was told, was he would remain there in the ICU, immobile and alone. The doctor emphasized the terrible quality of life awaiting him; he had one patient who had been there for five years. It felt like I was the last patron at a bar, and the staff was putting the stools up. I got the hint. He didn't have to worry, this wasn't a rescue mission. Only one moment shook my assuredness. The doctor called his name, and I followed. This time his eyes shot open, and he caught mine with a look of horrified recognition. He was afraid. He started blinking and furrowing his brow, his mouth gnawed at the ventilator. He was thrashing as hard as he could against the restraint of his own paralyzed body. It was harrowing, a sight that a year later I can picture clearly: the look in his eyes, a fevered pitch of helplessness, rage, and despair, as he tried with all his might to say something, anything to me. I touched his brow and told him I loved him and reassured him that I was there. After what seemed an eternity, he mercifully closed his eyes. What was he trying to say? I still can't get the thought out of my head. In the weeks after, friends would tell me that he was probably trying to say, 'I love you' or 'I miss you' or even, 'I'm sorry.' All possible, all welcome. Though those loving statements don't necessarily correspond with the pain I saw in his eyes. What if it wasn't peaceful acceptance I saw, but pitiful denial? He could have just as easily been saying 'Help me,' or 'Don't do this.' or 'Please, just give me one more chance.' He always liked that last one. Shaken, I went to the cafeteria and called my aunt. I got my uncle instead. He complimented me for me being there and told me he recently went through this exact scenario with his brother. I was struck by how much hurt we're all carrying around with us. The older you get the more tragedy and sickness accumulates, like mollusks on the hull of a ship. The greatest tragedy is we're expected to bear it. Our culture makes no room for grief. We treat death like a chore, a mess to be cleaned up and then moved along from after two-to-three business days. Work awaits. Please make sure your small talk is sanitized and acceptable. That's what this ultimately was: a chore. My uncle emphasized that there wasn't really a choice here at all. He was right. The worst-case scenario had already happened; it just hadn't caught up with my father yet. I wasn't there as some sort of arbiter, empowered to make a judgment and decide on the values and qualities of possible life paths. Those decisions had been made long ago. I was just the last one there, and it was my job to turn off the lights. The next day I came in and told the doctors that they could take him off life support. He had gotten worse overnight, so they had increased his meds. He wouldn't wake again. A relief. My brothers arrived that night. We went for a swim and had dinner. We batted stories about our old man back and forth. It was strange. We each had a similar relationship with him, estranged and sporadic. The stories we told were all different but ended up being the same: maybe there was a surprise phone call or an accidental run-in, or an encounter with one of his associates. While each story was different, they all emphasized the same point: how little we knew about our father. Random encounters with him or surprise phone calls or cryptic conversations with his friends only added to his mystery. Any encounter with him or the life that he lived, instead of illuminating, would add more questions. It was like we were building a puzzle of him but discovering that all the pieces we had were for the corners. Day four, we took him off the ventilator. They gave him painkillers. The nurse told us they used more than usual because his tolerance was so high. One last reminder of why we were there. We said some last words, halting but sufficient. He lasted for another hour. What is that imperceptible shift that occurs when you see someone die, when they transform from a loved one to an inert object, a body, a thing? Is it a trick of the eye, of the mind? Or do we lose something? Before he passed, he was barely alive, but within that 'barely' was everything. In the hours after, I called a funeral home back in Sault Ste. Marie to organize a pick-up for his body. In fact, someone was driving back from Toronto and could pick him up the next day. I envisioned a network of refrigerated hearses filled with bodies, criss-crossing the province, picking up the remains of the loved and unloved. The funeral director also reached out to Ontario Works, who quickly determined they would pay for his cremation. It was one of the smoothest public and private sector interactions I'd ever been a part of, and I thought if only this country was as good at taking care of his living body as they were with his dead body, he might still be around. My grief has been strange. No feelings of acute loss and sorrow, no heart-seizing realizations of absence. A friend afterward told me those would come. A year later, they still haven't. Another friend who lost his mom tells me he feels it when something makes him want to call her and remembers he can't. I guess that's the difference. I had stopped calling my father a decade before he died. Maybe I had been grieving that whole time. His death was not a shock or rupture, but an ending. An end to the sliver of hope that he would get clean, an end to the gnawing guilt that I should do something to help. Along with grief, there was relief. Those doors were closed; our story had been told in full. That's all my father ever was, that's all the father I'm ever going to get, and now I have a lifetime to figure out what that means. My brother and I returned to the Sault later that summer, and we both sheepishly admitted to feeling lighter knowing there was no chance of a run-in. There was no way the pitiable figure slouching toward us could be him. Which was good because there were plenty of pitiable figures. In 2024, Sault Ste. Marie had 38 opioid-related deaths for a per 100,000 rate of 48, the second-highest in Ontario. I don't know if his death was officially part of those statistics. I do know that the final, painful years of his life – bouncing between sketchy motels, shelters, and street corners – could have been featured in grainy, attack-ad footage from the last federal election; one that would be screeching with tabloid hysteria about the lost Liberal decade. It goes without saying that there wasn't a large inheritance from my father. But I did get one thing: empathy. It's a gift I hope to share. As communities suffer through unprecedented housing and addiction crises, there's been a corresponding rise in callousness. We're seeing a surge in Canadian Travis Bickles, hoping for a real rain to wash all the scum from the street, and politicians more than happy to capitalize on this sentiment. I hope that in this rush to demonize and dismiss, to bash safer supply and shut down supervised-consumption sites, that we can remember the humanity of our fellow citizens. That no matter how lost someone is, they are loved and missed; that they have sons and daughters and parents willing to make that last drive for the chance to say goodbye, to put our hand on their brow, and to let them know it's okay – I forgive you.


Globe and Mail
an hour ago
- Globe and Mail
Sweet success: The story of Honey Jam
As the concert series for women in music celebrates its 30th anniversary, notable alumna including Jully Black, Nelly Furtado, Haviah Mighty and more share an oral history of its legacy Josh O'Kane The Globe and Mail Photo illustration by The Globe and Mail to view this content.