He knows changes aren’t permanent, but change is.
Taken from Rush’s most famous song, “Tom Sawyer,” this line might best illuminate the “elemental empathy” that came to define Neil Peart, as man and musician.
Rush grew — and changed — considerably during their five-decade career, and their audience grew (many grew up) and adapted with them. Yet for a band incorporating so many styles and trends with an unrestrainable talent, they were, in all the important ways, the same band in 2013 (belatedly inducted to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame), as the scrappy opening act laboring in obscurity during the mid-‘70s.
Despite his desire to disappear behind his ever-expanding drum kit Peart, in part owing to his role as primary lyricist, became the front man of sorts. This was only one of the many paradoxes that made Peart so unique and admired. Even as he came to be affectionately nicknamed “The Professor” because of his indefatigable appetite for learning, he was incorruptible, never tempted by the facile trappings of fortune and privilege. In fact, he disdained the very things rock gods are ostensibly entitled to; what many assume is their divine right to accrue. In a world filled with posers whose sole mission is to be noteworthy by any means necessary, his reserve (his quiet defense), maintained decade after decade, made him at once the ultimate role model and singular force of Nature everyone acknowledges it’s impossible to imitate. That he was genuinely uncomfortable being worshipped only augmented his street cred and appeal.
it’s why his work will endure as long as people are still paying attention to rock music. Where so many of his peers (crossing the ’70s, ’80s, and beyond) proved good at one thing, or cultivated one style, Peart’s writing reflected the times he was living in. Unlike so many other famous musicians, he seldom if ever seemed satisfied (with his playing, himself, the world), and that drive made him — and his bandmates, for that matter — sort of anti-golden gods.
Rush, of course, have always been for the nerds, but they did the improbable and, with Moving Pictures (1981) became a band embraced by seemingly every demographic. Put another way, they did the full Breakfast Club: the brains, athletes, basket cases, princesses and criminals all adored them. Okay, not the princesses. Indeed, the fact that Rush is at once the ultimate guy’s band but in actuality are the opposite of one-dimensional meat heads — in their styles, lyrics, appearances — is, arguably, their superpower.
Speaking of super powers, Peart played drums and wrote the lyrics, both at the highest levels, which means he was The Incredible Hulk and Bruce Banner at the same time. His musical proficiency was unquestionable (“the most air-drummed to drummer of all time,” according to the eminently air-drummable Stewart Copeland), but it’s possibly his masterful lyrics that elevate him in the pantheon. If his early writing lingered a tad too long in the Sci-Fi and Fantasy realms (Tobes of Hades, anyone?) and his short-lived enthusiasm for Ayn Rand aged poorly, by the end of Rush’s first decade Peart had pushed himself to become one of rock’s most literate writers.
Social commentary, which became Peart’s calling card, does of course need to register with clarity and precision during the time it’s written; insights that abide are definitive but also (because as humans we’re so reliably predictable in our patterns) resonate years after they’re first recorded. As poetry, much of Peart’s work can be extolled as an enlightening take on the late 20th and early 21st centuries. Proof of his keen eye can be found via two examples that seem especially resonant in 2020. From 1985’s “The Big Money,” (an homage to his hero John Dos Passos), the succinct and pithy barb “it’s the fool on television getting paid to play the fool” is almost painfully prescient. And, of course, his statement of purpose, 1980’s “The Spirit of Radio” is worshipped as a celebration of the liberating and bonding powers of music. It’s also a prediction of sorts, envisioning an era where compositions aren’t just designed with commercial aspiration (same as it ever was), they aspire to be commercials:
One likes to believe
In the freedom of music.
But glittering prizes
And endless compromises
Shatter the illusion
Of integrity…
Speaking of integrity, that’s the best one-word description of what guided Peart, resulting in his character being lauded by so many millions of ardent admirers (even as he often made a point to note that the word “fan” derives from “fanatic”). Driven by and faithful to his better angels, he maintained an unwavering philosophy, telling Rolling Stone he sought “to never betray the values (he had) as a 16-year old.”
And yet, he didn’t remain an angst-ridden and sullen outcast; he grew and changed, responding to the challenges of aging by setting bars only he could conceive and achieve. His principled obsession is perhaps best illustrated by the judgment that, despite being regarded as the world’s greatest living rock drummer by the ’90s, his playing could be better. Needless to say, he began taking lessons and, in his words, “changing everything.” (Change again.) This is a commitment so rare it’s almost absurd, particularly when many of us marvel at a legend like Keith Richards for merely remaining alive. Consider how many old school acts are obliged to add new musicians in order to pantomime past hits, then contrast that image with one of Peart ceaselessly refining and revising his incendiary live drum solos, tour after tour.
The more that things change, the more they stay the same.
That he’d been battling brain cancer for the last three years and apparently didn’t let word slip is, in the final analysis, typical Peart. What type of person, however confident and secure in their skin, could resist getting some last, well-earned adulation? As he made clear in “Limelight,” he didn’t want it (“One must put up barriers to keep oneself intact.”) He knew who he was, aware how his audience felt, and that’s all he needed. In fact, it was more than enough, and that’s proof of two things: he lived his best life, and we have been and will remain the beneficiaries of his artistry.
His legacy will inspire listeners to become deeper and more curious (“always hopeful yet discontent”), unwilling to tolerate conformity or easy solutions. Peart was the rare superstar who never stopped seeking and expanding (while the world around him simultaneously and symbiotically expanded). He was an example and archetype, which makes him a legend; he brought indescribable joy to so many, which makes him a kind of god. He was true to his art and himself, respecting the journey and everyone who was along for the ride, which makes him the rarest of human beings. Exit the warrior, and rest in peace.
