Bombast, drama, fantastical lyrical imagery, banshee vocals, killer riffs and pinball arcade synthesizers. What more could a thirteen-year old boy in the year 1978 ask for? 

“Okay Boomer, so some old dude named Neil Peart died, what of it?” 

First off, 67 isn’t that old. If you’re lucky enough to survive, it’ll come barreling down on you as swiftly as a Geddy Lee bass run or as fast as a frenzied Peart pounding of the tom-toms. Secondly, you may be as dismissive as you like but I’m actually sorry for you, because you just plain missed it. You missed it all. The kimonos, the smoke machines, the Passage To Bangkok arena haze, Geddy’s double-neck Rickenbacker, Alex’s double-neck Gibson, Neil’s doubled-up drumming, KSHE’s Valentine Massacre, The Checkerdome… you missed it all. My God, it was glorious!

Now I’m driving, in a grim, depressing, January rain, still reeling from the news. I’m flat out blaring A Farewell To Kings, ignoring completely the consequential tinnitus that only 15 hours earlier had so jarringly awoken me with it’s persistent, maddening ringing. So be it. While I may regret not being more cautious with the stereo volume in my youth, there’s no fixing it now. So, when Xanadu comes next, I crank the volume even higher, all the way to eleven. If I had a dollar for every time that “I have dined on honeydew and drunk the milk of paradise”, I’d be a wealthy man. Even so, it never gets old. If I am asked to choose a favorite Rush album, the answer always seems to settle on A Farewell To Kings. If I am forced to pick a favorite song from that album, it might have to be Xanadu. I feel like Bill Hader’s Stefon from Saturday Night Live while gushing about it, but this song has everything; tubular bells, temple blocks, Mini-Moogs, Pleasure Domes, caves of ice and Kubla Khan! It is a triumph of intelligent, indulgent, prog-rock genius and every instant of its eleven minute, six second length is pure delight. Or it could be Cinderella Man with its prescient, biographical lyrics and bouncy, bass fueled jazz break featuring Alex’s guitar wah-wah-ing, from left to right though the speakers. Turns out after all of these years and all of these listenings, I wake up to find I am the Cinderella Man, with every qualifying box diligently checked, save the riches. Most likely though, it would have to be Closer To The Heart. That song still just flat out slays me, from gentle opening to wailing finale. 

It was just this afternoon when a local radio host, an avid Rush fan himself, came back from a break to share the bitter news. Now it is five hours later and I am trying to dismiss the fog of a few beers that began earlier with a toast Jenny and I shared in Neil’s honor, so that I can organize a few thoughts on what makes me love this trio so. I sit cataloguing the countless instances where Rush played a significant role in my life and struggle to reconcile the impact of the loss. Outside the rain has accelerated to a steady downpour and with it comes the occasional, misplaced rumble of winter thunder that tonight sounds strikingly like the explosive conclusion to the overture from 2112, right before Geddy sings, “and the meek shall inherit the earth.” Fitting, so very fitting. I’m staring at the back cover of that album now, looking at a perfectly feathered and rather dandified Alex Lifeson, slender, slim and camel-toed, looking almost nothing like the rather husky, gregarious gentleman he has eventually become. Don’t misinterpret my evaluation of his appearance, I find him magnificent in his full-on 70’s splendor, right down to the powder blue satin scarf that rings his neck. Anyway, I’m not about to knock the fashion sense of anyone who possesses the ability to ring the neck of a guitar with such strident intent as Alex does. Geddy looks relaxed and reserved, almost petulant, as he lingers in the shadows. A second glance at his eyes suggests that maybe he was just high as a kite for this particular photoshoot, which might explain his apparent detachment. And Neil is looking as authoritative and stern as any man can look while wearing a white, satin kimono. Honestly, between his black tee-shirt, kick-ass medallion and Rollie Fingers handle-bar mustache, thirteen-year-old me couldn’t have imagined how a rock god might come off any cooler.

Thirteen was about my age when I first discovered Rush. I have the Lupo brothers, Joey and Frank, to thank for that. Most of my musical education up to that time was passed down to me from my older sister and brother and what was in their album collections, but not Rush. Rush would be the one band I could claim as my own. Although, unbeknownst to me, a million other North American teenagers were simultaneously staking similar, competing claims. It was on a trout fishing weekend expedition with my parents and the Lupos that I first became aware. None of my other siblings went on these trips and Joey and Frankie being the youngest of the sizeable Lupo brood were the only two in attendance with their parents. Joey having been my childhood friend, although both families by this time had moved from Glasgow Village where the two families had been neighbors. The Lupo brothers had my captive and undivided attention in their family Winnebago and incessantly played this great music I had never heard before, while arguing over air-guitar chord structures. I think Frank went on to become a rather good guitar player and I seem to recall him playing the local bar circuit some years later. My friend Joey never had much of an opportunity to develop his skills as he was dead by the age of seventeen or eighteen. Car crash as I recall. But on the first of those few fishing trips, I was absolutely steeped in those earliest Rush albums and I remember feeling that Fly By Night had to be just about the greatest song ever recorded. What an introduction to the band that song was! The first 20 seconds are sublime as we meet the boys in brilliant, clarified succession. Alex first with those pealing opening chords, followed by Neil’s modest but forceful kick-off, who is in turn followed closely by Geddy and that lovely opening bass line that is responsible for my first recognizing and appreciating what it is the bass guitar adds to the mix. By the time Geddy finishes singing, “Why try? I know why”, thousands of young rock star wannabes had already coopted the sentiment in their determination to replicate those sounds on cheap electric guitars and modest drum kits the whole world over. I personally know a good handful of drummers and guitarist whose primary inspiration for taking up their instruments was the band Rush, if not the song Fly By Night, specifically. If you listen to the tributes pouring in from the music community you’ll realize, maybe for the first time, just how broad and encompassing the scope of Rush’s influence was on professional music makers. Why try, indeed. 

In addition to introducing me to Rush, I’m fairly certain the Lupo brothers were responsible for introducing me to weed as well. Back in the late 70’s anyway, the two seemed to go hand in hand. Slightly stoned, walking along the roadside at Montauk State Park at dusk, campfires reflecting off the meandering stream, with a curtain of stars unfolding above us and the lyrics to Lakeside Park, freshly ingrained in my consciousness, makes for a distinctly pleasant memory. I’ll always be beholden to the Lupo brothers for that memory.

It is hard to imagine a more perfect band to provide the soundtrack for the age and the times. As a teenage nerd who was into movies like Star Wars and Wizards, pinball machines like Gorgar, Black Night and Bride of Pin-Bot and bands like Angel and Kiss, the hokey mysticism of songs like The Necromancer and By-Tor and The Snow Dog meshed perfectly with my burgeoning being. The Sci-Fi fantasy of 2112 and Cygnus X-1 were like George Lucas’ work if he wrote heavy rock opuses instead of movies. I can specifically recall how during one of our lengthier, summer break forays into the neighborhood woods – when we had gone further through sewer and viaduct than ever before – our quest eventually morphed into an imaginative search for fabled Rivendell. Not because we were students of Tolkien but because we were connoisseurs of Rush. Never mind that in reality we were trudging through a toxic creek leading out of Bridgeton to a not very magical land with the exceptionally bland name of Earth City. In our minds, buoyed by Neil Peart’s lush, descriptive lyrics, we were adventurers seeking magical lands. I never said we weren’t dorks, but Rush fans have always possessed a measure of geeky, outsider status. I wear it proudly. 

I remember too, my friend Brian and I hustling down to Tim Rafferty’s house on an autumn school night because he had in his possession the band’s newly released album, Hemispheres. We huddled in his darkened room and eagerly listened to both sides, lapping it up like milk-starved alley cats. “What the hell was that? Is he singing in French?”, we all wondered. I swear I can remember the goosebumps upon hearing The Trees for the first time. At the moment the ax fell and settled the longstanding score between the oaks and the maples my hair stood on end. We just sat there with our jaws open and then smiled at each other knowingly. I mean we loved that song straight out of the gate! Of course, Cygnus x-1 Book II was a delightfully ponderous sequel to the final cut on A Farewell To Kings, sort of like having an awesome comic book sung to you by your favorite band. As for La Villa Strangiato, it took quite a few listenings before its sophisticated quirkiness registered in my dull brain but once established and untangled it grew to become a solid contender for a spot on my all-time Rush Top Ten list.

Not much more than a month later I would have my first opportunity to see my new heroes in concert. December 13, 1978 was the date and I was awestruck at my initiation to the 1970’s arena rock scene. Everything from the ticket tear, to the pungent smell and smoky haze, to the encore stomp and the Bic lighter salute was new to me. I loved it all and I left the show loving the band even more. From there I was hooked and proceeded to consume all things Rush with the sort of obsessive passion that grips young minds so tightly. I affixed my sparkling Rush belt buckle to my wide, brown leather belt and wore it like a badge. I wore my concert tee at every opportunity, including my eighth grade St. Lawrence The Martyr field day. On this exceedingly rare instance, where we were allowed to express ourselves outside of the required uniform of navy pants and white oxford, my fashion choice resulted in my being promptly culled from the herd for a stern lecture. Father Murphy droned on in his monotonous way, clearly agitated by the evils of the pentagram on my back and the nakedness of the man inside the pentagram and so on, and so on. Had he known how much he was reinforcing my deep need for the individualism that Neil wrote and Geddy sang about, maybe he would have backed down a bit. I mean, it was like 2112 all over again with the haughty priest scolding the little guy who only wanted to express himself. Talk about your “ancient nobles showering their bitterness on youth”, this was an absolute deluge! His impromptu sermon went on for what seemed like hours when I finally screamed at the top of my lungs, “If you don’t shut-up I’m going to miss the flippin’ sack race! Unhand me sir, Sharon Drees is out there somewhere in shorts! Shorts, I say!” Well, of course I only screamed it in my head but that’s what I was thinking. Eventually, once self-satisfied that he had done his due diligence on my sinful soul, he released me.

Of course, the music of Rush has absolutely nothing to do with devil worship or any other negative connotations. If anything, it brought an enlightened, anti-totalitarianism message of self-reliance and self-destiny to a kid who desperately needed to hear it. The older we all grew and as more information became available, I came to realize just how decent and charitable the band actually was. Rush were the good guys of rock, maintaining until the end a camaraderie unheard of in a band of their profound success. Their mutual respect, friendship and admiration for each other’s talents was always in evidence. Geddy and Alex, best friends since high school, have the kind of relationship that many old friends can identify with and their respect for Neil’s privacy and willingness to put the band on hiatus to give their friend room to recover, speaks volumes to their character. If you are familiar at all with Neil Peart’s story, you’ll know that much of it reads like Shakespearean tragedy. The fact that they remained a band at all, much less such an apparently well-adjusted band, is a miracle and a testament to their quantum decency. Outside of the music, it is the one reason I remain a devoted admirer.

Maybe it’s that famous Canadian reputation for politeness that keeps them so grounded. They are to music what NHL teams are to sport, accessible, appreciative of their fans and down to earth. The fact that Neil Peart was an extremely private man who off the stage shunned attention never made him any less likeable than Geddy and Alex. He even had the courtesy to explain his position to his fans in songs like Limelight and Freewill. His admirable, honest approach will be sorely missed. 

You’ll notice I never really mentioned his drumming. Sure, he was the best. The stellar musicianship of the three goes without mentioning. Their talent and dedication to their craft was and integral component of the band’s identity. I couldn’t dissect the complexities of their rhythms if I tried. How do you dissect perfection? 

God Bless Neil Peart and Godspeed. I hope his trip through the astral door to Heaven was befitting his vivid imagination and I hope when it is my turn to go, he will swing by in the ‘Rocinante’ to pick me up for the journey. His lyrical voice helped me navigate so many obstacles down here that I can’t think of a better tour guide for the cosmos and beyond.