I was in my grandmother’s attic where my uncle lived, looking through his albums. I was listening to them based on the covers. I listened to Molly Hatchet. I didn’t like it. I listened to Meat Loaf. I loved it. I listened to Styx. Eh. I listened to Led Zeppelin. Eh.
And then I found an album called 2112.
It was a gatefold. I opened it up, saw the songs made up a long story. A story stretching across the entire first side of the album. I put it on the turntable and started listening. And the thing that blew me away most–not the lyrics, not the story–was the fact that all that noise came from just three guys. I loved the first side, but the second side had a song called Something for Nothing. My little mind read the lyrics and they stuck with me. I couldn’t get the tune out of my head. I loved that album.
Later, when my uncle asked me which was my favorite album, I told him. He asked, “Did you listen to Permanent Waves?”
I shook my head. I was chosing albums based on the covers. I didn’t even remember an album called “Permanent Waves.” We went back up to the attic and he put that album on. And again, I could not believe three guys were making all that noise.
Later that year, I was over at my grandmother’s house again, hanging out with my uncle. He was talking to a friend of his, talking about the fact that their third friend couldn’t make it that night. They were wondering who to call. Everybody was working. I asked them what they were talking about, looking up at them, no more than four feet high.
They both looked at me. My uncle smiled. “Did you like 2112 and Permanent Waves?” I nodded enthusiastically. He turned to his buddy. “Let’s take John,” he said. I didn’t quite understand what was going on until the lights went down and the music started.
I was at my first Rush concert.
It was not my last.
The next time they came to MN on tour–for Moving Pictures–I was there. I saw them on Signals. I saw them on Grace Under Pressure. I saw them on every tour for every album.
And I still can’t believe just three guys make all that noise.
Of course, those three guys have been my favorite musicians since I first saw them live with my uncle and his buddy. And when I saw Neil Peart’s drum solo, I knew–I KNEW–that I wanted to be a drummer. And I started writing poetry. Really bad poetry, but hell, every teenager writes his share of bad poetry.
Their example drove me. Devotion to musicianship. Devotion to the band. Devotion to the music. It was all about the music. Not costumes, not image, not wrecking hotel rooms, not Satan worship, not groupies. Just the music. I still remember the reporter asking Peart why he didn’t do “stick tricks” like Tommy Lee and the other hair metal drummers.
His answer? “They don’t record well.”
It was all about the music. And friendship. Three friends making music.
Thirty years of making music.
On Thursday night, my buddy Steve and I drove out to the stadium with butterflies in our stomachs. We were smiling all the while. Big, dumb grins. We couldn’t ditch them. When we got there, we had the distinct impression that we actually were going to miss out on what was putting those big dumb grins on our faces… but it happened. It really happened.
We stood in line. We watched the ones ahead of us get ushered up, click, then ushered away. Ushered up, click, ushered away. Ushered up, click, ushered away.
Then, our turn.
We walked up, shook their hands. We couldn’t get those big dumb grins off our faces. And I knew there was no chance to say what I wanted to say. No chance to tell them how important their music was to me. No chance…
So, I said that.
“I don’t know how to say ‘Thank you’ for thirty years of music in five seconds.”
Alex laughed. He said, “That’s about enough time.”
Click.
And they ushered us away. And to this day, I’ve still got that big dumb smile on my face.
