July 11, 2112

Sorry, neighbors, but Dave's gonna rock out tonight.

My late sister gave me Rush’s 2112 LP album when I was 16, probably for my birthday. At the time, my collection was mainly classical — Beethhoven, Tchaikovsky and Liszt — with a smattering of Deep Purple and Tom Jones (!). Yeah I was a weird kid. Still am. But she knew I would like that album, because she knew me.

It was the evening my musical universe changed.

Rush’s 2112 taught me that a dozen barre chords could smash a pair of 6-inch speakers into pulp, make me desperate for decibels that I could never achieve at home (to this day) and turn me desperate to learn guitar right the hell now. Music didn't have to be about puppy love and sex but could be about politics and ideas and weird novels I'd never heard about, but immediately devoured.

(Note: Ayn Rand was full of shit.)

Progressive rock became my thing, thanks to this album. My CD rack and vinyl stack is still heavy on the Yes, Jethro Tull, ELP, Genesis, Zepplin, Floyd and Styx. And I still listen to them, often. Like, tonight, and loud.

After “Moving Pictures” in 1981, the band moved away from the bombastic crash chords and pretentious lyrics I loved so much and began to incorporate Reggae, Ska and other influences that I never had the background or education to really appreciate. While Rush were no longer the white-hot center of my musical universe, I admired their growing technical mastery.

I first saw Rush at the Chicago Stadium when they were promoting their "Farewell to Kings" album in 1977. I've seen them two or three times over the years, the last in July 2010. They were as great as I had remembered and hoped they’d be, despite us all looking old. They rocked the hell OUT and did a "2112" medley for us senior fans, who were extremely grateful.

I am happy to note that my son likes Rush. He enjoys the old stuff — in small doses — and has a
fairly extensive collection of their newer material from the late 1990s, when they’d returned to a more guitar-forward, power-trio sound. (Albeit much more polished and featuring radio-friendly subject matter. Hey, a band’s gotta eat.)

My musical muse and me.

When I heard drummer Neil Peart had died, a bit of me died along with the news. (I learned after he died it was pronounced "Peert," not "Pert," and I’d been confidently saying it incorrectly all those years. Dammit.) I found myself deeply missing my sister, and wishing I could just call her up and thank her for that moment in the mid-1970s when my head exploded over the course of a 20-minute-and-34-second full-side prog-rock anthem.

Rock On, my Rush Fan Friends, Rock On. And happy 58th birthday, my dear little sister.

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