Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: Neil Peart

Random Thoughts On Neil Peart

Purt? Pee-YART? Pyuh-ee-rght? Was there an unvoiced fricative in there somewhere? It doesn’t matter now.

Mistuh Peart, he dead. Mistuh Peart dead, suh.

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What did the cool kids listen to? Fucked if I know; I didn’t go to cool kid parties. I was in the marching band. We listened to Rush. At least 75% of the crowd at a Rush show used to be in the marching band.

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Imagine being the best in the world at something, anything.

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It’s YY-Zed, not YY-Zee. Get it straight, hoser.

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Neil wrote the words, and very few of them were about his dick. Most bands let their singers write the words, and all singers think about are their dicks, and so most rockyroll songs are about the singer’s dick: where it had been, and what its plans were, and how well pleased it did make all who encountered it. Mick Jagger sang about his dick so much that that the one time he didn’t (Waiting On A Friend), he is forced to spend the entirety of the lyric assuring you that it is not a ruse, that the song is not secretly about his dick, but instead sincerely about waiting on a friend.

Hell, even Dylan wrote about his dick. He just high-faluted it.

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40 years without succumbing to Band Bloat. No black-up singers, no horn section, no utility guy covering keys and rhythm guitar and harmonies, no Ray Cooper on percussion. Just the three of ’em. Trios either self-destruct or last forever; there’s nowhere for assholes to hide in a trio.

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I oppose the Solo Solo on principle, that spotlight ten minutes where the rest of the band leaves so the individual instrumentalist can show the crowd just how hot his licks are. It’s usually just an excuse for the singer to get a beej.

Neil’s were different:

He didn’t play the drums. He played music, on drums. Listen to his tom-toms: they’re tuned to a pentatonic scale.

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I don’t know why he’s dressed like Aladdin in that clip. He just is.

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He could take a punch. Daughter, 19 years old, dead on the highway. Wife a year later, cancer. He quit the band, rode his motorcycle for a while, rejoined the band, got remarried. Lot of folks would’ve taken up drinking.

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Neil Peart was better than John Bonham because he didn’t employ any goons. Neil Peart was better than Keith Moon because he never, ever dressed up like a Nazi. Neil Peart was better than Ginger Baker because he wasn’t such an asshole he was forced to flee multiple countries. Neil Peart was better than Ringo Starr because c’mon now.

Neil Peart was not better than Charlie Watts.

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Read this.

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Christ, I’m getting tired of remembering dead Rock Stars.

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You could be in a band when I was in high school. It was an identity, like being a jock or a theater kid or smart. Mostly, you jammed in your drummer’s basement and then drove around town discussing what the stage would look like when you played MSG. On occasion, there was the Teen Center.

And here’s how you judged bands when I was in high school: Can they play Rush?

My band could not play Rush, and did not even try. We stuck to Cheap Trick tunes.

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Only the armless do not air-drum to Rush.

Can't Live With 'Em…

drums 1978

I don’t know if any of you have known any drummers but this shit right here is why every band that has ever existed (except for our protagonists and one other) doesn’t let the drummer vote.  If you don’t keep a sharp eye on percussionists, the amount of timbales, congas, and other hollowed out fruit/skull/animal skin combinations in your life will multiply like Tribbles on Molly.

And, obviously, the other drummer allowed a vote is Neil Peart. Which has–INEXORABLY–led to this:

peart-kit-overhead-660-80

Drummers cannot be reasoned with. They exist solely to play when you don’t want them to, disappear when you need them, collect noisy things, and have too much sex. They understand only the lash, and in most cases, request the lash, please and thank you.

IF YOU SEE A DRUMMER: Do not under any circumstances let him or her name the drum solo. Once a drum solo gets a name, it immediately accesses the Dungeon Dimensions and becomes NIGH-UPON UNSTOPPABLE and goes for thirty fucking minutes and it’s unbearable.

The Drummer (if male) will almost certainly remove his shirt. Do not be alarmed: DRUMMERS HATE SHIRTS. Almost as much as they hate books, but let’s be reasonable: no one hates anything as much as a drummer hates a book. If you see a drummer reading, just run. Something awful is happening.