Though it’s just a memory, some memories last forever…
Eight track tapes were a dubious technology from the very start. Everyone that lived through the eight-track era knows what I mean. No one would choose a way to listen to music that includes fading out in the middle of a song, hearing a loud click as the tape progresses and then fading back into the same song? How arrogant must the music industry be to think the general public just didn’t care enough about music to stop consuming a defective product. And to be fair, for the most part, we just took it. It was bad enough when you were listening to an album of 3-minute songs, but when you were listening to an album of perhaps 5 songs that meant almost half your music suffered from this intolerable annoyance.
The first eight albums of Rush are my most cherished group of music by any band. Those albums were never going to stack a bunch of radio-ready three-minute songs one after the other. At that age, my life was filled with sci-fi/fantasy paperbacks, and these guys were engaged in plugging that genre into musical tracks. It just couldn’t be done in 3 minutes. Then as now, most of the public is content with bumper sticker philosophy. Just sound poetic and wise, while ignoring any reasoned scrutiny in favor of a catchy melody, and do it all in two minutes forty-five seconds.
As a teenaged boy, when you begin to consider the profound mysteries of the universe, transformative revelation occurs when your own inclinations find continuity in reality. You begin to see through the hollow ideas of the mainstream and seek out those ideas that lend strength and harmony to your own predispositions. At the same time, you find surprises along the way. Things that didn’t occur to you and ideas that you are compelled to embrace. All of this happened for me at the same time I began to immerse myself in those 8 albums. By the time I was 16, I knew every word on these albums by heart. I understood the basic philosophical derivations, and I had a deep sense of emotional connection to these albums. I am now 55 years old and these albums have lost no importance to me.
Neil Peart is dead at 67. He has done all he is ever going to do, and far more than he may have known. We never met and he has no idea who I am. I doubt that I could even make the cut of third-tier acquaintances in his orbit considering the number of people who desperately wanted to be near so much talent. That does not, however, mean that he was not part of my life. He was an unknowing friend, who gave me support whenever I needed it. On top of that, he was one of the most bad-ass musicians ever born.
I doubt that I can add much to the descriptions of his live performances. I was lucky enough to see him three times starting in the early eighties. I don’t claim to be a fan of the entire compendium of Rush music, but when it comes to watching them live, it is a sublime experience. I still have my original concert shirt from 1982, though it was a bootleg (far cheaper) and is in really bad shape at this point. By the time I saw them in Milwaukee, I could afford the official shirt and it has held up far better over time. They are the only concert shirts I have managed to save over the decades. I can still picture those concerts in my mind as if they just happened. Those guys toured relentlessly and anyone could see that they had a genuine appreciation for one another.
What is it about musicians that mean so much to us? It feels like divinity uses people like Neil as a conduit to our soul. When I think of Neil it is damn near overwhelming to consider what he brought into my world. The joy, the thought provocations, and the unmitigated admiration of skill are only a small part of it. He created beauty that I turned to in times of trouble. He helped calm the storms of my existence in his far off lighthouse. When a person does that for another human being, the emotional bond is incredibly powerful, even if it is completely unilateral. Neil would have been mortified at the level of admiration I have for him. He truly had this ironic disdain for those that heaped adulation upon him. When I was young I wrote him a letter, which to me was profound and sincere, explaining what an important part of my life he was and expressing my highest wish for him to enjoy the kind of life deserved by such an immensely benevolent force in the universe. I am sure it was immediately thrown away and I was put on some sort of Neil Peart blacklist.
For all the good he brought to my life, he did suffer greatly in his own. I cannot imagine losing my 19-year-old daughter to a car accident and then my wife just months later to cancer. Why would the fates allow the meaning to be stripped from this man? I can only imagine the despair he carried on that bike. I am sure he never fully emerged from that black abyss. The last time I saw him live, it did seem to show on his face. Perhaps I am being a bit too presumptive here, but there is no way a professional career can make up the difference, no matter how successful. Then to hear that he still had to personally fight a losing battle against brain cancer for over three years is heartbreaking. Schopenhauer’s suffering settles itself in an unjust way upon us all.
As I read these words back to myself I have come to realize that this is more about me than it is about Neil. Foregoing an examination of my own weaknesses in this regard, I think this is exactly what Neil would have wanted. Each man his own force in the universe, struggling and fighting, all of us destined to defeat. If only we could all create such beauty as Neil did while he was here. Rest in peace noble poet.