Thanks, man. (Requiem for a drummer)

Dedicated to the life and work of Neil Peart.

It all started May 17, 1978.

At the Salt Palace in Salt Lake City, Utah.

I recall it all very clearly in my mind’s eye. I saved enough money from my paper route to buy two tickets and A Farewell to Kings at Cottonwood Mall. The total cost was $22.50. Plus tax. Imagine that: two concert tickets with three acts on the bill, and a brand new long-playing record album for $22.50! I am loathe to discuss what I paid to attend the R40 Live Tour show. But watching you wave goodbye and “exit … stage left” was worth every penny. I didn’t know then what the year 2020 would bring.

When I saw the news January 10, 2020 that you had passed through the veil to truly become that eternal ghost rider caught me completely off guard. I felt sick inside. I should have paid more attention to the foreboding that would follow.

Reflecting back to that day that indelibly changed my life, I cannot help but reconsider your influence on my growth. As a performer and a person.

I was in the 7th grade and clearly adult enough (in my own estimation) to get myself to the venue. I knew the bus routes. I planned to bring a friend. I pleaded with my mother to little avail. She made my sister take me to the show. To her credit, it all worked out perfectly. It was, after all, my sister and her boyfriend who first turned me on to this new band from Canada called Rush.

Being a huge KISS fan, it was a natural progression. My mom commented during the course of playing A Farewell to Kings that you all were, at least, better musicians than KISS. I took it that she was finally coming around. Musicianship notwithstanding, it was the writing that altered my worldview — permanent waves — I guess you could say.

As I ascended the stairs to our seats that fateful night, Uriah Heep was doing their thing — selling when they should have been buying. Up next was Head East. They still hold a small place in my heart as a sincere Midwest rock ‘n’ roll band. I enjoyed it all just fine. Until you, Alex, and Geddy took the stage. Then my enjoyment quickly turned to enthusiasm. (I know you were fond of that word and its origins — and it’s true.) By the time “2112” was over and flash pots were exploding, my mind was made up. It was career week in junior high and I decided I was going to be a rock star.

Everything — everything changed at that very moment. To watch grown men in kimonos and platform shoes scream at the top of their lungs about philosophy of all things became the blueprint for so many dreams to come. I am grateful we all got over the fashion blunders of a life well lived in rock ’n’ roll. What I did not get over — and still haven’t — is that rush (pun intended), and what it made a pubescent young man feel — and think.

As we exited the arena, my excitement could hardly be contained. That’s when my sister noticed me eyeing the merch table. But I had exhausted my resources. I didn’t have a dime left to my name. She must have instinctually known that a commemorative poster would be a milestone in my journey as a musician and a man. She was right. She reached into her HASH jeans (all the rage in those days) and helped me buy the concert poster pictured here:

That too cost $7.50. For a little over $30 there remains a memory forever etched in my mind. Well worth it. It also set me on a trajectory that would cost far more. Far, far more. Also well worth it.

That concert poster has been tacked up, and subsequently torn down, from every rehearsal space I have ever been in. Thus its obvious wear and tear. It wasn’t until recently, when I realized most of my rock ‘n’ roll paraphernalia had been discarded without so much as a second thought, that I rediscovered its value to me. I have since framed it in order to preserve not only a piece of rock ‘n’ roll history, but to sanctify that moment for me.

And I have you to thank for it all.

I am aware you’re not fond of adulation. But to be fair, it’s not so much adulation as it is admiration. The kind of admiration that is happy — and healthy.

I’d like to think that if I ever saw you dining, or enjoying the Macallan, at any one of the roadside diners or grander establishments you frequent, depending on who you were that day — a knowing look, a smile, and a “thanks, man” would suffice.

The trappings of fame urge me to take pause. I might feel that enthusiasm of yore. I might reel in that old time feeling. I might want to join you and pour that sweet saving Macallan grace into a plastic cup for a toast. But now that it is not to be. You are gone.

And how tragically fortunate your life was. For you, for me, for all those who held on to your every word. To look for guidance, inspiration, some solace from the harsh world outside. That’s what your work has done for as many.

The losses you have endured are staggering. Despite your philosophical platitudes that — correctly I might add — attempt to make some sense of it all. It still sucks. To not be able to enjoy either one of your daughters grow into beautiful women is nothing short of unspeakable. Alas.

“What cannot be altered must be endured.”

Not too long ago I attended a show for Glen Phillips (of Toad the Wet Sprocket) show and he was noodling around with “The Spirit of Radio” between songs. I couldn’t help but comment (rather loudly mind you) that Rush is awesome. He approached the mic and agreed, “Rush is awesome. They made me start paying attention to lyrics!”

A short year later, I had the pleasure of opening a show for Glen. We discussed much during sound check. Philosophy, enjoying what life hath provided. And Rush. He again noodled with your music during his performance, this time citing bits from “Circumstances.” He questioned what record was that from. My Hemispheres shout from the back inaudible. So he had the crowd Google it. (Do you capitalize a proper noun when it’s used as a verb?) Suffice to say, your reach runs far and deep. As I pondered the third installment of your writings and thought they might be entitled Far and Deep. Shows how much I know. Far and Wide: Bring that Horizon to Me! is far better. Far.

The things you have left me with are profound. For example, “Are people stupid?” The discussion you had with your fellow cyclists in West Africa from The Masked Rider: Cycling in West Africa has generated a great deal of interest in personal and professional pontifications. Most of my students arrive at a conclusion similar to my own: People aren’t stupid. Of course, people can be lazy, ignorant, cruel, and exhibit many other poor behaviors, and isn’t that stupid? It makes for interesting discourse, no doubt.

And of course, on a personal level, people may not be stupid, but cancer is. Stupid cancer. Thanks for that thought. Especially since it was that stupid cancer that took you far too soon.

I have purchased all your books and have given a great many as gifts as well. I am more inclined to enjoy the later works: Far and Away: A Prize Every Timeand Far and Near: On Days Like These. Those works demonstrate a man who had journeyed, dare I say “far,” to enjoy his life is reaffirming. So many hold on to the past, or dream of a better tomorrow, as opposed to embracing the here and now. That you are open and honest about life is one thing. But that you exhibit in your writings the one tacet habit of highly intelligent people — eternal curiosity — is everything. I suspect that’s why I enjoy the later works so much.

I was overwhelmingly excited for the release of Far and Wide: Bring that Horizon to Me! but there was also a sense of impending doom. A fear that it may be your last. Writing is hard work. Choosing the exact words and phrases to convey emotion is no easy task. Damn the blogosphere. (Mine included.) That doom has turned to bittersweet admiration when I turned that last page. I undoubtedly looked up from the book wistfully and proclaimed something surely sappy.

I also enjoy the older books. One can literally “see” the 20 years you put into the craft to make such a profound debut. I also suspect the reason so many claim Ghost Rider: Travels On the Healing Road to be their favorite is due to the content of the material. For one to seemingly have it all, and subsequently lose it all, would surely pique the interest of even the least inclined. I often tell the story and it never fails to raise an eyebrow or two. (And hopefully, sell a copy or two.)

It also comforts. The writing itself is healing. For someone so fortunate to have such a fate befall him allows others whose lives are more “normal” to not feel so bad about their losses and tragedies. That yours was so profound, and that you kept going is a lesson for us all to admire and appreciate.

The impact you, among others who are less well-known, have had on my life is important to me. I mean, it is my life. And your work has made an indelible mark on that life.

Oh, to be Canadian and bemuse all the failings of a once-great nation as late. No need to say “sorey” as Canadiens are often wont to do. You’re a polite nation, if not generous tippers. I applaud the moniker “Bleeding Heart Libertarian,” although I suspect most who identify with such a title fail to understand the depth of what it really means.

I’m not exactly on board any Ayn Rand boat, by any means, although I do wish that those who purport to support her philosophy would include her atheism in the process. I do think one should be allowed, encouraged even, to follow his or her pursuits — so long as others are not injured in the process. (Of course that constrains countless capitalists as history has taught us.) I also believe that society has an obligation to aid its unfortunate should they need it, and to preserve national treasures (including parks!), as well as promote peace and prosperity at home and abroad.

I have also been adequately inspired by your fondness for birds. I have learned to sit back, relax, and simply observe. Darling, little (and oftentimes evil) creatures, to be sure. An awful lot like humanity.

There is also a reason the best pubs alert patrons to refrain from discussing religion or politics. There is bound to be disagreement. And disagreements, on occasion, lead to more “physical” confrontations, especially when duly imbibed. I have come to believe that agnosticism is the only honest answer. While it may be reassuring to have faith, it is definitely not realistic.

I agree that we ought to tax those churches! They provide a service — a product — as you have noted and they have influenced politics in the ugliest of ways. “Who would Jesus starve?” would be a good church sign to accompany your long list of pithy preaching via fluorescent signage.

Indoctrination is just unhealthy. Especially for children. I know, as I have taught many of these children once they became adults. Some get it, some refuse to, and some accuse me of “heresy” in the process. Regardless of what one may believe, I have lived my life and behaved as openly, honestly, and as kindly as I could have at any given stage of development. Sure, I have been dishonest, unkind, and a general ass at times, but I have done my best to learn from those unflattering assessments of myself. If only the über-zealous would do the same, this would be a better world indeed. Imaginary sky god — be damned!

I have learned that self-righteousness reflects a lack of self-awareness. I was recently entangled in a little scuffle at one of my local haunts. I am definitely too old for that kind of behavior, as it is tantamount to admitting I’m an idiot. Most who engage in such behavior certainly don’t use words like “tantamount,” but what can I say? I’m a complicated individual.

The aggressor (I’m doing my best to refrain from using bad words, so bear with me) was berating those would not subscribe to his personal beliefs. I suggested he “stop hating.”

He began to poke at me and become more aggressive, so I pushed his hand out of my personal space. He then shoved me down a step into a table. I said, as I scrambled to my feet, “That tears it!” (Others would have no doubt chosen more calloused words, so thanks for encouraging me to choose my words more carefully.)

When he did it again, and began yelling profanities at me, it was clear his convictions were shaky at best. I learned for myself to not engage with those who have no regard for a spirited debate. When faced with the truth, those so self-righteously inclined tend to act out in unhealthy ways. The same is true for as many “believers.” Why they feel the need to “include,” er, “save” those unlike themselves is unfathomable to me. I’m good, thanks.

As a professor I have employed your concept of “Love and Respect” as a teaching tool. And what better band than Rush to make that point? If the stats are true: that you have sold more albums than any other band, sans the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, that you have been together with the same line-up longer than any other band, and that your fans are one of the — if not the — most dedicated group of followers, clearly demonstrates the importance of your work — and your tenacity. I suggest that you may not love Rush, but you have to respect them. I — clearly — love and respect you and your work. With the band, with your words. You have accomplished the aforementioned to those that matter. And for those who do not matter quite as much (myself included).

I also use the terms “Love” and “Respect” to help students better understand themselves and their education to a greater degree. They may not love doing the work all the time, but they do love earning the grade. When it’s the grade they want, they discover that work, and work alone, helped them accomplish that. When it is not what they want, I hope they learn that their lack of work contributed to that outcome. I also hope they learn to respect themselves if they want to make the most of their learning (and their lives).

So many fail to recognize the importance of self-love and self-respect but when I make it about others, they catch a glimpse of what I mean (and what I think you mean). You can love someone and not respect them; you can respect someone and not love them; but when you love and respect someone, especially yourself, why, that’s what makes life worth living. And it is what we are all hoping to accomplish.

The secret of life. Thanks for that.

I taught a course that was designed to look at humanity collectively and make some sort of sense of it all. To make connections so that students may see the past, present, future, and that which resides in all of us. In addition to some of the classics, including Aristotle, I also use selected works of yours, as well as those of Bill Watterson, creator of Calvin & Hobbes, and Ernest Becker’s Denial of Death. There is a corresponding film for Becker’s work entitled Flight From Death: The Quest for Immortality and with any luck at all, those all combine to generate more questions than answers. It is all quite interesting, if I say so myself.

“We are only immortal for a limited time.”

There are so many other thoughts that come to mind — so many so, I’m not inclined to share them all. But suffice to say, I admire: “A gentleman never inflicts pain intentionally.” That’s a good one. And true (recall the aggressor above).

I also had to deal with “There is no lack of talent, only lack of character.” That one really got to me. I was wrestling with the dissolve of a dream and couldn’t help but realize the part I played in that dissolve thanks to your quote. It was painful, but revealing. And to wit I made it through to the other side.

That I persevere today, with little to no hope of acquiring fame or fortune, says a great deal about me and my work. And I see it as positive. I continue for the love of the work, for the love of myself. Despite what may come, I endure. Because, as you have said on more than one occasion:

“What cannot be altered must be endured.”

You have also reified several judgements I have made over the past decade or two. Traveling “8 over” the speed limit, ordering eggs “over-medium” when dining in an unfamiliar restaurant, putting safety first, using the proper gear, enjoying the view, the reward for a day well spent should include your favorite beverage, among many others. Perhaps it is just part and parcel to growing older, but I also witness as many older people ignoring, or simply not caring, about matters such as these. I can only hope to pass down those sentiments to the younger sect. As you have done for me.

Reading your work is a transcendent experience. Reflecting upon as much is further proof that what you do matters. It mattered then. It matters now. And in my life, it will always have meaning, worth and value.

As a musician — and as an author — your work has been greatly appreciated.

As a working musician, if I am ever accosted, or berated, from the stage by whatever obnoxious ne’er do well happens to be there and does not have his or her request obliged, I am comforted by your “You should try it sometime” quote.

“What? You don’t do blankity-blank by such-and-such? And you claim to be a musician?” To which I respond, “You should try it sometime.” I recall one particular lady (and I use that term loosely) who, after I informed her I did not know her particular request, suggested that I should learn it. I said she should learn it. At least I was amused.

That someone could remark to you of all people that drumming is not real work surely hadn’t tried it. I’m quite certain those who would utter such nonsense to a performer doing his or her best most certainly cannot do it themselves. Many an armchair quarterback should learn as much. (Or goalie as the case may be.) Playing and singing, as well as maintaining a repertoire of literally hundreds of songs, is no easy task. I, too, do what makes me happy. And I hope it makes others happy. I am proud to say that more often than not, it does.

Thanks to you, I have made my 16 year-old self proud. I am concerned about my 60 year-old self. But that trepidation will have to wait for another day.

I also admired your ability, and desire, to continue learning more about your instrument and the finer aspects of performance. Your time with Freddie Gruber certainly shows in the development of your drumming. The “swimming” effect and attention to motion has helped me in my own performance. I have learned to relax more, initially prompted by the philosophy of the iconic Bill Murray in one of his interviews on the Late Show with David Letterman, but cemented by you and Freddie on the Rush — Beyond the Lighted Stage rockumentary. I have realized that the greatest amount of effort does not necessarily produce the most desired effect. Good stuff.

“What is a master but a master student?”

I did spend the better part of my youth in LA chasing that dream. And while the band I was in came close, it was not to be. Like your London years, I, too, went seeking fame and fortune, and found the exact opposite. I don’t regret a moment. I lament a few missed opportunities. But I do not regret a single, solitary thing. I did my best. While it was not quite enough “in the end,” it was my best.

Whilst earning my degrees in the Midwest, I formed a band, and was privileged enough to open shows for some established artists. I subsequently moved to Nashville to pursue the craft as well as work at a community college to “keep the lights on.” After nearly a decade of that, I realized that while I am good, I may not be great. And the modern world only has time for great. I’m okay with that. I have to be. But I keep working to get better.

I then moved to the beach and now to the mountains to profess and to continue to perform, and more importantly, to enjoy my life. While my own songs may not be exactly in demand — well, quite frankly, not in demand at all — it doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t perform. So while I may be an artist of little renown, I am still an artist. I have to be. It’s what I do. What’s the phrase you liked to use? It’s how I’m made?

I recall a comment made by a co-worker years ago in LA while working at Tower Records. He suggested that some of us [musicians] do not have a choice. I liked that. I still do. It’s a calling. While many of us do what we must to support ourselves and our family, making music is in the blood. We can no sooner deny that than our own humanity. Not if we choose to be happy, anyway. And I choose to be. I have to.

You mentioned “interpreting” certain songs for the Feedback album while on Jim Ladd’s Deep Tracks program. That’s the key. Make them your own. I likely learned to “interpret” many of the songs I admire because I couldn’t actually “play” them correctly. I suspect the same is true today. Note for note perfection has never been my thing. It most assuredly never will be.

But providing a different perspective for any given number furthers the idea that a song can be mutable. It was Tom Waits who said, “Recording a song is like putting a bird in a shoebox.” Times change, people change. The song should have a life of its own too, and not be relegated to one recorded performance. But the western mind values product over process.

The life I lead is far from glamorous, but what you have said about coming up through the ranks in the 1970s spoke volumes to me. You suggested other “rock stars” would “take it easy” until their solo, but you and your bandmates could never appreciate that sentiment. You had to give it your all.

It may well be why Rush was rocking for 40 years and so many others have gone home and been forgotten. Now that R40 was the last tour, and Far and Wide was the last book, I feel a sense of loss for a litany of things. That you never really got to call it a day is nothing short of tragic. To spend time with Carrie and Olivia and reflect upon all that has been. To enjoy your life without work or worry would have been well-deserved.

After nearly 60 years of living, laughing, learning, loving, losing, and growing, I have come to accept — embrace even — that you are my favorite author. Don’t misunderstand the sentiment, I love a great number of writers. But one who takes such “great care” to communicate is surely worth that kind of admiration. That you got me rocking and inspired me to make my own music all those years ago makes it so much more, well, real. That one artist’s work can inspire a 12-year-old to rock, and a 60-year-old to write, is surely worth something. I’m not sure what’s it worth, but it is worth something.

While A Farewell To Kings was the first album I procured, I have enjoyed them all. Understandably, 2112 was a biggie for me and obviously millions of others. My friends and I would skip class and play air guitar, bass, and drums all afternoon to it. I may be one of the best “air” musicians of all time because of that record.

Surely, that you are the most “air-drummed drummer” of all time is indicative of how profound your impact has been on so many.

I admit you lost me for a few years there during the 80s, after Moving Pictures (aka the “first” Rush album), but I now understand you had to evolve, to learn and grow for yourselves. Not that it matters now, but I came back with a greater appreciation.

I wish I had the resolve to write all my thoughts about all those little vignettes of the good life you have contributed to but I fear it may well be read as obsessive (as if I’m not already condemned as such). The last thing I would want is for your family, friends or fans to think I’m weird. (Others can think what they darn well please.) And so — at this juncture — I digress.

It is safe to say that you and your work have inspired me — then as well as now. It certainly feels like a life that has come full circle. So much loss for so much popular culture that has soothed my savage breast.

Given that my first rock ‘n’ roll concert experience was Rush, it’s only fitting that it should be the last. It is a shame the scalpers, er, bots, have to profit so much from your people. What was $15 back in the day, is a small fortune today. The concert hall does indeed echo of salesmen.

And while the crowd wasn’t as enthusiastic as I was, it was still a fine performance. Given that you and Alex were suffering from the ravages of time makes the show all that much more admirable. I couldn’t help but read the look on your face as a grimace. It has been suggested the painful look was your “concentration face.” It was also mentioned that you smiled twice, but I didn’t witness either. I was probably looking at Geddy bouncing around like an eternal teenager.

It was a bittersweet moment when you waved goodbye and “exited…stage left” that I shall cherish for years to come. The journey of a lifetime came to a respectable end. I did, in fact, “slap da bass, mon,” cry, wail, smile, laugh, sing every word, and revel in every second. Well worth it all, indeed.

That you, Alex, and Geddy, have lasted so long is nothing short of a modern miracle. (It’s not lost luggage finding its way home after a decade or more, but lives may have been saved.) For the funniest man in rock ‘n’ roll, Alex didn’t seem to be that jovial self of yore. But his acceptance speech to the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame is one for the ages.

To be denied for so long, his “vengeance” was indeed sweet (even if a bit embarrassing for you and Ged). I suspect Alex does not suffer fools gladly, as his little “incident” with Naples’ sheriffs attests. Not to mention, his playing helped me learn guitar. So there’s that, which is not only nice, it’s notable.

And the Colbert dig regarding the Hall of Fame fiasco suggesting your next album should be called That’s Bullshit was hi-larious. That you and your bandmates’ sense of humor has helped you from beginning to, well, now, is more than important — it was necessary.

It is one thing to be a good musician. It is quite another to be a good person. That you have done both with such grace, talent, wisdom, and wit is surely worthy of my admiration. I never intended to embarrass you, make you uncomfortable, or “squirm in your seat.” It is simply an effort to offer my gratitude for so much edutainment.

I’ll continue to read, to write, to rock, to cook for those I love, to eat, and to quote another of my favorite songwriters, Warren Zevon, “enjoy every sandwich.” I will continue to inspire young minds to “take great care” at every endeavor they undertake.

I hope the great care I have taken with this requiem has been noted. And I will continue to do the same — whether performing, professing, or just enjoying time well spent — to take “great care.”

I had intended to close this tribute with well-wishes for a long and happy life. That, too, was not to be.

So I’ll end just as I began with a simple, heartfelt thanks.

You have left the world better than you found it. You have made some of the best rock ’n’ roll humanity will ever know. Your impact on the lives of millions is most assuredly the best life that could have ever been lived. And for all the magic, memories, music; for all the words that have hung heavy on my heart, I can only say…

Thanks, man.