Each Another’s Audience - A Thanks to Neil Peart

I never met Neil Peart. The closest I got was my seat on the floor of Marine Midland Arena in 1996- about 100 yards from the Holy Triumvirate. I honestly wasn’t even a Rush fan until the late eighties unlike the die-hards who have followed the band since their 1974 debut album (or even from their 1968 inception in the southern Canada club circuit). I didn’t know Neil, the Human being- the man with faults and dreams and sorrow and joy. I only know Neil’s art.

One of the wonderful things about art is that the end user has the opportunity to behold the fruit of the artist’s mind and assimilate it into his life even if his interpretation is different from the artist’s original intention. The art becomes an almost independent entity - an extension of its creator with which anyone may develop a relationship. Art is a mystical hand held out to the people by the artist, and that hand changes color or shape depending on who reaches out to grasp it. I grasped Neil’s hand and held on for a long, long while.

Often the music that is most meaningful to us is the music that appears during important transitions or times of high emotion. The notes and words become magically intertwined with personal experiences and feelings. The melodies and harmonies, rhythms and syncopation become armor and sword with which the listener can face and slay the dragons of life. Rush delivered my blade and chainmail on the strength of Neil’s words and almost magical time signatures and off-beat accents. For every hardship in my life, there is Bravado. For every stimulating sunny drive there is Spirit of Radio. For every moment of contemplation there is Totem and Mystic Rhythms. The soundtrack of me is riddled with Neil. When I look back at the milestones of my years, at the fond memories of youthful abandon, there is always a Rush song to accentuate the moment. 

Neil’s death is not for me what it is for his bandmates, friends, and family - the true human experience of losing a loved one. Instead his passing simply means that the spiritual hand I am holding no longer has a heartbeat. The music twisting through my being is still there, but more like the gnarled roots of some long gone tree wrapped around the frame of me. They still give me shape and structure, but will never grow or change.

 The loss of this hero of mine is also representative of my own mortality - another chapter of my past closed and committed only to memory. A nagging reminder that all things tarnish and fade with time; that, as Robert Frost observed, “nothing gold can stay.” Yet Neil Peart’s art is gold and its essence will live forever with me until I draw my own last breath. I am prepared for battle because of him, and for that I must offer my sincerest gratitude.

Neil, thank you for granting the wisdom that has provided the backdrop of my adult life. Thank you for enduring memories. Thank you for acrobatic percussion and inspiring words. Thank you for decades of musical genius. Yet more than all of that, thank you for sharing of yourself-for stretching forth that mystical hand. Although we never met, you have influenced my life in spectacular fashion.  

God Speed.