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.
