LISTENING FOR NEIL
On the Passing of Neil Peart - 1952-2020
Neil wondering how the hell Max got a photo-pass with his little family camera.
By Max Mobley
Losing Neil Peart or any member of Rush was a day I had never thought about. Not once. I mean, of course it was inevitable, like losing a parent is inevitable. But something about your band such an integral part of one’s life had made them immortal for me, and not for a limited time.
I escaped into Rush during those glorious first albums with Neil. Back then, Rush was a band you only heard about through someone so moved by their music they were hell bent on sharing it—just like the hero in 2112. And like that hero, sharing the new wonder was met with derision. Frankly, I was stunned to learn the hard way that listening to Rush, let alone being full-on captivated by their music, was just another sign that there was something wrong with me. Me and a million other misfits, sure. But in this pre-internet age when Rush was mentioned so infrequently in rock magazines, and usually those mentions were intentionally cruel—bullying by typewriter—being a Rush fan often meant being an outcast in certain circles. Ironically, so did being in Rush. But this band and what they stood for, what they played and how they played it made being an outcast okay, because neither Alex, Geddy, Neil, nor any of us were about to give up this amazing music in some fatal attempt to fit in. And because deep down, for both the band and their legendary fanbase, Rush’s music achieved with remarkable effectiveness what rock and roll was born to do—help us tolerate being so goddamned misunderstood. And for those of us seeking shelter from the brutal storms of adolescence, where outcasts are the chosen fodder of those most terrified of not fitting in, Rush’s songwriting and musicianship created an elaborate world that made for easy hiding. Escaping there, no one could find us if we didn’t want to be found. Except for the brotherhood and sparse but vital sisterhood of Rush fans, of course. Amid the beats and riffs and poems of better worlds within and without, we eventually found each other. And together, we allowed ourselves to loudly yet secretly celebrate our mutual love for something so much of the music world had shunned and made no attempt to understand. This is no uncommon thing, Art has always been the ultimate means of escape and our only means of immortality. Though for the artist it comes at a price (see “Losin’ It;” see “Limelight”).
When we did discover each other hidden in the secret world Rush had created with such sincerity and conviction, more often than not, our secret handshake ended with one finger to lips--shhh, LISTEN! For it was the music that mattered most. Always and forever. And like worshipers forced to practice their religion underground, in hiding our passion and our need for this band’s music, fierce, unbreakable connections were made.
When we first found each other, we celebrated in secret. Now, arm in arm, post to post, we cry out in shock and pain having learned of Neil’s passing. And in these sad days, we are brought closer together, issuing secret signals to each other (and some not so secret ones, too). Signals that remind us that Rush had made bearable all the pain and hope felt from different things. Where gods point a finger or wave a magic wand to create a world, Alex, Geddy, and Neil worked their asses off to build the Rush one—by hand and by heart. And when it came time to share it, they worked even harder. Makes me think that Sisyphus would have made it to the top if only he had two close friends to share in his obligation.
After the hiding
After Permanent Waves came out, a profound change had occurred in what Rush offered us. Instead of expanding the world we had so comfortably escaped to, they created music that helped us find our place in the real one. The unsafe one. A world where the Holocaust happened. Where friends die (and, tragically, families, too). Where the light is limed and comfortless. A world of possibilities and hard realities so full of differences and out of touch that we must treat each other with kid gloves if we are to survive it. A world where we are still cast-outs from the cool, but we are no longer in hiding. Because now, the band’s music had given us the courage and comfort to stand and face it. Sure, we still got our asses kicked—who doesn’t? But we knew we’d be able to take it. We knew we would be okay, because we’d been listening. And dear God and Alex and Geddy and Neil, how listening has helped. I don’t think I would have made it without listening.
And I know I am not alone.
I am crying as I write this. My keyboard would be rusting except, just like Rush’s music, it’s not metal. I have to smile. I don’t want to, goddammit, not yet. But I think Neil would have wanted me to think of the music and smile. He certainly would not want us to be maudlin. But it’s so hard and his passing is such a huge event. The afterimage so all consuming. We lost the man who, with his best friends, literally pounded into us that it is okay to be different. It’s okay to stand true to our moral code. Okay to evolve our world view as wisdom leaves its scars. Being a cast-out offers gifts, and according to Neil, we are obligated to use them best we can. That’s why I became a writer. And a guitar player. Why in part I became an empathic, ethical being. Listening as Rush grew up and evolved helped me do the same. I am so grateful.
In the end, I feel blessed. My first concert ever was Farewell to Kings and my last Rush concert was R40. I remember seeing R30 alone with 22,449 other cast-outs. I scored a ticket close to the stage and teared up when they tore into Spirit of Radio. Geddy looked me right in the eye and I looked away because I was embarrassed.
Rush has been an important part of my life for almost all of it. I suspect that will remain the case even though there will be no new Rush music. And I’m truly okay with that. Because, like always, when I am listening, I am experiencing Alex and Geddy and Neil’s immortality. When I am listening, they are right where they are supposed to be: Alex throwing down some of the most memorable and original riffs in rock and roll; Geddy redefining what bass can do while playing multiple instruments at once and singing words that touch my heart and soul. And at the center of the stage, one especially humble, deep, and talented man sharing his gifts, protected by a constellation of drums and percussion expertly bashed with a serious kind of joy. And when I am listening, you are there too, just like you were in the concert hall, the car, the record store, the secret world. Another refugee for whom they mean (not meant) so much.
Thank you, Neil. Thank you, Alex. Thank you, Geddy. Thank you Rush brothers and sisters. Thank you so much. I promise I will always be listening, and some part of me will always be testing for echo, hoping for the impossible and seeking to remind myself that I am not alone.
To the Rush family and fan, I am so sorry for our loss.
Max Mobley
Losing Neil Peart or any member of Rush was a day I had never thought about. Not once. I mean, of course it was inevitable, like losing a parent is inevitable. But something about your band such an integral part of one’s life had made them immortal for me, and not for a limited time.
I escaped into Rush during those glorious first albums with Neil. Back then, Rush was a band you only heard about through someone so moved by their music they were hell bent on sharing it—just like the hero in 2112. And like that hero, sharing the new wonder was met with derision. Frankly, I was stunned to learn the hard way that listening to Rush, let alone being full-on captivated by their music, was just another sign that there was something wrong with me. Me and a million other misfits, sure. But in this pre-internet age when Rush was mentioned so infrequently in rock magazines, and usually those mentions were intentionally cruel—bullying by typewriter—being a Rush fan often meant being an outcast in certain circles. Ironically, so did being in Rush. But this band and what they stood for, what they played and how they played it made being an outcast okay, because neither Alex, Geddy, Neil, nor any of us were about to give up this amazing music in some fatal attempt to fit in. And because deep down, for both the band and their legendary fanbase, Rush’s music achieved with remarkable effectiveness what rock and roll was born to do—help us tolerate being so goddamned misunderstood. And for those of us seeking shelter from the brutal storms of adolescence, where outcasts are the chosen fodder of those most terrified of not fitting in, Rush’s songwriting and musicianship created an elaborate world that made for easy hiding. Escaping there, no one could find us if we didn’t want to be found. Except for the brotherhood and sparse but vital sisterhood of Rush fans, of course. Amid the beats and riffs and poems of better worlds within and without, we eventually found each other. And together, we allowed ourselves to loudly yet secretly celebrate our mutual love for something so much of the music world had shunned and made no attempt to understand. This is no uncommon thing, Art has always been the ultimate means of escape and our only means of immortality. Though for the artist it comes at a price (see “Losin’ It;” see “Limelight”).
When we did discover each other hidden in the secret world Rush had created with such sincerity and conviction, more often than not, our secret handshake ended with one finger to lips--shhh, LISTEN! For it was the music that mattered most. Always and forever. And like worshipers forced to practice their religion underground, in hiding our passion and our need for this band’s music, fierce, unbreakable connections were made.
When we first found each other, we celebrated in secret. Now, arm in arm, post to post, we cry out in shock and pain having learned of Neil’s passing. And in these sad days, we are brought closer together, issuing secret signals to each other (and some not so secret ones, too). Signals that remind us that Rush had made bearable all the pain and hope felt from different things. Where gods point a finger or wave a magic wand to create a world, Alex, Geddy, and Neil worked their asses off to build the Rush one—by hand and by heart. And when it came time to share it, they worked even harder. Makes me think that Sisyphus would have made it to the top if only he had two close friends to share in his obligation.
After the hiding
After Permanent Waves came out, a profound change had occurred in what Rush offered us. Instead of expanding the world we had so comfortably escaped to, they created music that helped us find our place in the real one. The unsafe one. A world where the Holocaust happened. Where friends die (and, tragically, families, too). Where the light is limed and comfortless. A world of possibilities and hard realities so full of differences and out of touch that we must treat each other with kid gloves if we are to survive it. A world where we are still cast-outs from the cool, but we are no longer in hiding. Because now, the band’s music had given us the courage and comfort to stand and face it. Sure, we still got our asses kicked—who doesn’t? But we knew we’d be able to take it. We knew we would be okay, because we’d been listening. And dear God and Alex and Geddy and Neil, how listening has helped. I don’t think I would have made it without listening.
And I know I am not alone.
I am crying as I write this. My keyboard would be rusting except, just like Rush’s music, it’s not metal. I have to smile. I don’t want to, goddammit, not yet. But I think Neil would have wanted me to think of the music and smile. He certainly would not want us to be maudlin. But it’s so hard and his passing is such a huge event. The afterimage so all consuming. We lost the man who, with his best friends, literally pounded into us that it is okay to be different. It’s okay to stand true to our moral code. Okay to evolve our world view as wisdom leaves its scars. Being a cast-out offers gifts, and according to Neil, we are obligated to use them best we can. That’s why I became a writer. And a guitar player. Why in part I became an empathic, ethical being. Listening as Rush grew up and evolved helped me do the same. I am so grateful.
In the end, I feel blessed. My first concert ever was Farewell to Kings and my last Rush concert was R40. I remember seeing R30 alone with 22,449 other cast-outs. I scored a ticket close to the stage and teared up when they tore into Spirit of Radio. Geddy looked me right in the eye and I looked away because I was embarrassed.
Rush has been an important part of my life for almost all of it. I suspect that will remain the case even though there will be no new Rush music. And I’m truly okay with that. Because, like always, when I am listening, I am experiencing Alex and Geddy and Neil’s immortality. When I am listening, they are right where they are supposed to be: Alex throwing down some of the most memorable and original riffs in rock and roll; Geddy redefining what bass can do while playing multiple instruments at once and singing words that touch my heart and soul. And at the center of the stage, one especially humble, deep, and talented man sharing his gifts, protected by a constellation of drums and percussion expertly bashed with a serious kind of joy. And when I am listening, you are there too, just like you were in the concert hall, the car, the record store, the secret world. Another refugee for whom they mean (not meant) so much.
Thank you, Neil. Thank you, Alex. Thank you, Geddy. Thank you Rush brothers and sisters. Thank you so much. I promise I will always be listening, and some part of me will always be testing for echo, hoping for the impossible and seeking to remind myself that I am not alone.
To the Rush family and fan, I am so sorry for our loss.
Max Mobley