How do we put to words how much one person can influence us? How do quantify or qualify how our heroes change and become a part of us through our lives? How can I tell you how much Neil Peart and Rush have become a part of who I am and get you to understand what Neil’s death means?
I was 15 years old in 1986 (overall a pretty stupid year for music) when Ian Welter came over with the cassette for Signals in his hand and said, “You gotta hear this.” He played Subdivisions and it blew my mind; there was nothing before that moment that compared to what I heard, the cool synth and tricky musicianship were clearly unique, but it was more than that. This song was about living in the suburbs and how it kinda sucked, and how peer pressure sucked, and not being cool sucked, and that if you didn’t want to be like everyone else it would suck. So they were writing about my life in a way that I had never heard, and wow that connection came hard and fast and I was instantly a Rush fan for life.
Then at the end of ’86 I started to play the drums, which was the single most important thing that happened to me up to that point, and now it wasn’t just about listening to Rush — I was trying to play along to Rush (on my dad’s ’67 Ludwig jazz kit that Peart would have totally appreciated) and OH MY GOD MY HANDS HURT!!! Now I had moved past just listening to the music and lyrics and was trying to crack the code of these drum lines that were beyond complex, and yet every single one was exquisitely crafted and composed to make sense in a way I didn’t know possible. Before I had been a Rush fan, but now I was a Peart disciple and would forever be his drumming student.
Yet, as I began to discover, the connection to Rush was even deeper than just fan or student. Go look at the list of top songs for 1986 for context, because it helps to understand that the mid-80s were a pretty dismal place if you try to get your musical connections and influences from the radio or MTV. Yes, there are some good tracks and bands, but overall there is little there for nerdy, uncool kids with glasses who don’t get school or girls or really anything and just want attention and connection more than anything but are not really into Tiffany or Debbie Gibson or Cutting Crew (ugh). But what I was into was RUSH. By the time I discovered them they had just come out with Power Windows (from ’85) and it told these amazing stories of a world I didn’t understand. And it was just these three guys making all this noise, but more importantly RUSH WAS NOT COOL. People didn’t like Rush (except me and my friends) and they didn’t play it at dances and the girls weren’t into it and really no one cared that I was into them, because, guess what? I WAS NOT COOL EITHER. Like the other thing from the ’80s that is now suddenly cool (looking at you D&D), Rush was a part of an identity that had you not stand out and not be part of the larger crowd. They were not cool but they were okay with that, and to be a Rush fan, you had to choose not to be cool, but shit, I was already not cool, so fuck yeah, count me in.
So then, by the late ’80s, the hooks were deep and would never let go. Here was this very uncool band who stood by their vision of craftsmanship and creativity, even at the cost of coolness and being a part of the crowd. How does a child (cos that’s really what I was) who was already unable to be a part of the crowd, who was picked on and shunned and unliked for just trying to be himself — how could I not instantly bond to that sort of creative and deeply mature stand? To stand up for one’s self even if the crowds shun you is the ultimate form of rebellion and the more Rush I played the more people didn’t like me so FUCK YOU, here’s more Rush.
These connections to Peart and Rush, then, are deep for me. And over the years I have cultivated it and after (finally) becoming an adult I decided I was going to put my money where my mouth was and spend the 100s of dollars to see Rush near to the stage, in the first 15 rows, where you can actually feel the energy from the stage, and it was always, ALWAYS worth it. Because as I and other Rush fans grew up, so did Rush, and as the years went by they put more and more into their stage shows, to the point where seeing Rush meant hanging out with the band for 3 hours of music and videos and cool stage decorations and drum solos — we always wanted the drum solos. Seeing them from the 7th row on their final tour was the culmination of everything that teenage me would have asked for from adult me and worth every dollar.
But finally, and perhaps most importantly, Rush grew up and the world grew up and yet Peart continued to push himself to be the best drummer he could be. Again, though, it wasn’t about what was popular or cool or what anyone else wanted. He pushed himself to be the best because the music demanded it, and his high standards never wavered, both as a drummer and a lyricist (the man was literally a drummer-poet). So as I grew up and watched Rush stay the course and not sell out their values and always do what they wanted, it became a blueprint for life, for my life. Rush never compromised, even if they weren’t cool or got it wrong or sometimes just plain sucked. Rush is by no means perfect (which they themselves admit) and that’s part of their identity too — they are humans with faults but they also have a dedication to music that is really quite unique and we will likely never see or hear again.
So Peart’s death isn’t just about drumming or writing lyrics or the end of Rush, which it is all of those things. But, for me (and I’m sure others), it represents the dying of a real life connection to a man who stood against the crowds, who just wanted to be left alone with his drums and books and cars and family, to not have to worry about what everyone else thought about him. And now, as an adult, I can see that’s not an easy thing to do, not an easy path to lead, and hero or not, we must admire anyone who chooses that path, to recognize their contributions and death at the end of a life well lived.
Thank you Neil Peart and Rush for all you have done for me and all your other fans. You formed a connection that has lasted a lifetime, a deep and uncompromising connection that will truly last the test of time. You were my favorite drummer, my favorite band, and my favorite performers, and you will be missed. But, more importantly, you will always be here in my heart, playing your music deep in the roots of my childhood and all the way through my own death. Thank you again. I will miss you.