Astute Observations

Entre Nous

BY JAMES “HAGS” HAGGERTY

e lost a musical colossus in January. The untimely passing of Neil Peart, drummer and principal lyricist for progressive rock trio Rush, caught us by surprise. Like David Bowie, Peart’s cancer was a secret to the public, and he was gone a few days before the news reached his fans. As in life, so in death; Peart was not interested in adulation or fame. He was a musician who preferred to let his incredible drumming and thoughtful, intellectual lyrics speak for him. Bravo, I say.

Rush’s Moving Pictures was released in February of 1981. I was 10 years old. I bought that LP with $9.98 of hard-earned paper-route money. The song “Tom Sawyer” was a radio hit, and the album was in continuous rotation on the Panasonic receiver/turntable/cassette combo that held center stage in my adolescent bedroom. Thus began my youthful obsession with the band’s music. I devoured their previous seven records and concert videos in no particular order. Checked out from the local library or borrowed from a friend up the block, each record was promptly taped on the Panasonic for deep examination later, under headphones.

Having failed as a drummer, I got my first bass in the summer of 1982, after which the other half of Rush’s rhythm section, bassist Geddy Lee, immediately became my hero. Together with Peart, their aggressive, precise, complex, and melodic partnership — coupled with guitarist Alex Lifeson’s smart, toneful, soulful shredding, and considered, deliberate rhythm style — took over my imagination. Each record was like the golden ticket in a Wonka Bar, a mysterious invitation, a challenge, a treasure to be savored, song-by-song. I would spend hours listening to each track. Playing along clumsily on my bass plugged into the microphone jack of the Panasonic, the distorted speakers (kind of ) sounded like Geddy’s overdriven Rickenbacker bass tone. As the hours passed and my fingers blistered over, I would make the occasional breakthrough. The heavens would part and the light would shine down. Giddy with excitement nearly describes that barely pubescent, “Eureka! I did it!” feeling.

I was hooked. I would listen as I held the album covers and read all the liner notes. I would stare at the photos, imagining what it might feel like to be in the studio recording these epic pieces. Each record became yet another exciting adventure to capture my imagination and light the path to some mythical musical destination.

Critics dismissed Peart’s lyrics as cosmic drivel and black-lit bong water; second-rate Tolkien imagery. Lee’s voice was often compared to the shrieking of a monkey. I didn’t read Rolling Stone much and I didn’t care about lyrics or vocals, except as the melodic icing on the Rush chops cake. The music was anything but urban. It wasn’t hip. It had absolutely zero irony. It was hopeful and positive, and these regular guys were monster players. Also, they were from Canada, which seemed exotic and intriguing.

For me the records also held some solemnity. This was earnest music to be approached with reverence. It was not blues-based riff rock. It was almost classical in its construction. Each record provided one jaw-dropping musical moment after another. For a misfit kid, newly inundated with testosterone, who couldn’t catch a football or hit a baseball, the fact that I could play my way through side one of 2112 was something I could be proud of. For the young musicians that I played with, Rush tunes were a litmus test that was particularly unfair to drummers, as in “If he can’t play ‘La Villa Strangiato,’ he’s out!” I apologize now for any past transgressions, but this was serious, life and death, teenaged-rocker business.

It’s a funny thing to put words to youthful feelings. When I was a kid, I used words like “cool” and “mint.” All the music I liked was “great” and the stuff I didn’t like simply “sucked.” There was no need for analysis. Time does not stand still. Youth is beautiful and fleeting. In summation, losing Neil Peart sucks. W

We are secrets to each other each one’s life a novel no-one else has read Even joined in bonds of love we’re linked to one another by such slender threads Neil Peart, 1980*

Hags is a a full-time bass player, part-time bad influencer © , and goodwill ambassador for The East Nashvillian.