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Still, her kiss was a benediction because, a few days later, when I was sitting in the lobby of the New Yorker Theatre after the AC/DC movie, someone I recognized as the famous concert promoter Gary Topp approached me. My stomach somersaulted as I recalled that, a few months prior, I鈥檇 sent Topp and his business partner, Gary Cormier, a demo cassette that an early version of the Rheostatics had recorded. Topp sat down, folded his hands and told me that he鈥檇 called me at home to offer us a gig at the Edge 鈥� the Taj Mahal of New Wave, for kids of my generation 鈥� and that my mom had said I was watching movies downtown. He did the math and chanced it that I might be where I was.

The following month, we played the show, our first-ever gig. Forty-five years later, here we are.

Back in 1980, the Rheostatics had no records to our name, but after 14 years, we鈥檇 made a bunch. In 1994, a film for which we鈥檇 recorded the original music 鈥� Richard J. Lewis鈥檚 Whale Music, with a screenplay by Paul Quarrington, who鈥檇 based it on his own novel 鈥� was TIFF鈥檚 opening-night movie, screened at the grand Uptown Theatre, on Yonge Street. It was a high-water mark for us, partly because of the creative freedom of the job 鈥� we composed music for the film鈥檚 main character, Desmond Howl, before shooting started, as a lot of the scenes were about him inventing the work 鈥� and partly because we felt as if we鈥檇 entered an elevated world. We moved among Norman Jewison, Martha Burns, Saul Rubinek, Maury Chaykin, Patricia Rozema, Atom Egoyan and other artists who鈥檇 made an enormous mark on their country.

There we were, throwing down canapes and flutes of bubbly during the opening-night party at the ROM, when someone put on our varied-tempo music. I remember looking up at two hired dancers who鈥檇 been swivelling on faux-ancient plinths to party music. One turned to the other and mouthed the words: 鈥淚 ... can鈥檛 ... dance ... to ... this.鈥� Still, at the screening, producer Robert Lantos introduced us out of the crowd, and we felt like a big deal. One of the gifts of TIFF is that it occasionally lets working artists feel a part of the brilliant swim, and that鈥檚 how it was for us.

Six Septembers later, we were sitting in Paul Quarrington鈥檚 backyard in Riverdale with the Irish writer Roddy Doyle, whom I鈥檇 gotten to know through his wife, Belinda Moller, who, in 1988, handed me a novel her then-boyfriend had written 鈥� The Commitments 鈥� and said, 鈥淚t鈥檚 about music; you might like it.鈥� Roddy was at TIFF, screening a film he鈥檇 written called When Brendan Met Trudy. That June, my wife and I had had our first child, and we dared to bring her to the screening, but she stayed quiet and mostly slept, and, as new parents, we got to have a day out at the movies. It was our first festival as a family.

Next week, we鈥檒l return to TIFF together with our daughter. Twenty-five years after slumbering through Roddy鈥檚 film (he didn鈥檛 take it personally), she will celebrate her work with the rest of the crew of Tuner, Daniel Roher鈥檚 dramatic feature, which screens Monday afternoon. Our life, her life, the festival鈥檚 life 鈥� each has been framed by what is, despite TIFF鈥檚 preoccupation with celebrity, the festival鈥檚 true charm: its ability to sunny up the lives of movie lovers, artists and families in a city that needs its cultural signposts.

That鈥檚 why it鈥檚 worth remembering that TIFF isn鈥檛 just about the films. It鈥檚 about the people who made them, and the people who made those people, and what a gift it is that we can all watch together.