RushFan

Chapter One:

Jesus Made Me Shit

During my youth, my parents were dedicated Pentecostals and amongst my many learnings, I was informed that many hard rock bands do a trick called back-masking where subliminal satanic messages are planted. This intrigued me. I had nothing but Rush LPs but the cover of CARESS OF STEEL promised a host of transmissions from old scratch. So, I placed the needle at random points and found nothing in the violence of “Bastille Day” or the lugubrious dirge “The Necromancer”. On the second side I inadvertently dropped the needle on “Bacchus Plateau” and heard during the line “hazy glimpse of Me” —”Jesus made me shit!”

Being an acute ulcerative colitis sufferer tortured by pentecostal parents this made a ton of sense. Jesus did make me shit.

X X X
The stool isn’t black.. It’s just red. I shat out nothing but blood as I re-read a GUITAR WORLD interview with Alex Lifeson. Blood loss is a buzz. My Walkman sounds like the Centrum as I blast EXIT STAGE LEFT and let the cramps subside with a sneak puffy puff of a roach that Philly gave me. I exhale out the window and Lysol the bathroom that smells like Peter Fonda farted.

I pick up the toilet paper and place a maxi-pad in my underwear as I button up my 501s.

X X X
Listening to Rush for you is often an adventure. You were 14 when the keyboard fill in “Xanadu” sent you reeling. With a piece of wood, you assimilated their songs with your Houlton room as a stage. Maine was your fucking stage. The moments you had in Neil Peart’s “happy solitude” will kill you with caution and care.
X X X
The only thing I can see in the 11pm New Hampshire night is a barely lit sign for a long closed BP station. I couldn’t sleep—haven’t been able to since I shit myself on the bus. So, I quietly go outside and count the Maine and Massachusetts license plates. Nanny’s dying up in Houlton and I can’t sleep.

For some reason I’ve been thinking and dreaming for my sister’s “exorcism” in which 100 Oklahoman people witnessed a ritual to cast Satan from an 18 year old girl who did no more than anyone her age. They tried the same thing with me when I was 14.
I quoted Neil:

“Fly by night:
Away from here”

The 15 Houlton cult members knew they couldn’t exorcise what didn’t exist.
X X X

At age 13, I left Christianity (which we left Judaism for) and became a RushFan. Notorious for our love of the live or memorex of Geddy Lee’s vox or the crazy tribal stomp of Neil’s feet alone. It was “difficult listening hour” as Laurie Anderson once spoke. And everyone who hated Motley Crue and Jesus found a hearthside companion within the sound.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Colitis cramps have degrees. I can have a cramp for 2 hours before I shit. The blood lessened due to more azulfadine. Bleeding through one’s rectum is as unsexy as a crushed turtle
I was thinking about fear. When don’t I feel it?
When I’m stoned and listening to Rush.
I sense a lifelong dependency.

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In terms of production you prefer MOVING PICTURES but for material you prefer SIGNALS. If SIGNALS had the same brightness it may have been a definitive.

You’re on the toilet pretending to be interviewed about your knowledge of Rush. A wave of reality. You’re stoned on a toilet. Shitting for the 7th time. This morning, you recognize your dilemma. Your tears should be dry now. But you emit a sob as peristalsis kicks in and a revolutionary cannon shoots a urine-textured stream of “feces” into the last place you saw your fish.

“Xanadu” (AFTK) was inspired by Coleridge. “The Camera Eye” (MP) was inspired by Dos Passos. Yet the only credit they gave any author was on 2112′s liner notes where they acknowledged “the genius of Ayn Rand.”

I fucking hate Ayn Rand.
I have dreams that she’s still alive so I can stick a fork in her colon. Atlas Shrugged indeed.

“By-Tor and the Snow Dog” (FBN) is cranking through his room. He’s reading Gore Vidal and experiencing cramp relief from codeine.

The room is safe now. His womb is a cube and 4 pills.

“I suspect the worst,” he said.

“Why?” asked Sam.

“It’s Rush release week and they’re playing “Legalize It.”

He walked to the counter and asked the clerk what was up with the Peter Tosh.

“He was shot and killed yesterday.”

Rush opened for Peter Tosh at Pink Pop in 1979. First thing he thought. He bought Rush’s HOLD YOUR FIRE and Peter Tosh’s BUSH DOCTOR and a happy musical experience turned to an infinitesimal dust crusted on tear ducts.

As Cancer said “hello” to my young colon it was my destiny to be an ostomate. They removed my entire colon and rectum on August 27, 1990. It was Alex’s birthday. I mentioned it to everyone as I recovered. They smiled at my morphine and persevered the obsession. That was my life. Everyone had patience with the patient.

One night I wrote my first and only fan letter. I told Alex that I had cancer removed and couldn’t get over his birthday being the date. I expected and got no response. It was fun to write though, like a letter to Santa or a love letter to Julie Newmar.

Chapter TWO

The Next Wave

I met Kara just before my surgery. I loved her immediately despite her t-shirt with the man and star circled and slashed out like a cigarette burning in a No Smoking sign.

As we talked more, I also discovered she was doing a piece to expose the Beat Movement as shallow and misogynist.

My favorite author was Jack Kerouac.

After the surgery it didn’t seem to matter that we were so different. That’s until Primus came out. Primus– an alternative trio from San Francisco were jamming their interviews with Rush praise. Rush were no longer just the domain of the D&D set—they were in SPIN.

Suddenly I was more forceful of all my artistic opinions. To argue Rush at a Cambridge vinyl shop full of Social D posters was a fun challenge now. It’s as if they grew with me.

Which is absurd! I don’t know these men except for the sounds they recorded or played live with me and 10,000 others watching. Did Alex know I was losing my ass on his birthday? No. It was another birthday. Yet, I thought of him. A media friend to comfort me……..

On the back of PERMANENT WAVES there is a picture of Alex against a backdrop of a glass window revealing snowy Quebec. His 335 and doubleneck are in the photo too.

An what an album. PWaves boasts “Jacob’s Ladder”. A gorgeous tone poem about a looming storm and its sun shaft resolve. It is the grandest moment in Rock history, in my opinion. But seeing that this is my fucking book, I suppose the phrase “in my opinion” can be retired here.
After a couple of years in Boston, Kara and he moved to NYC. He wanted to write about prog rock; she wanted to photograph the whole city. The pix were eventually lost and he spent his writing time building a train set on heroin.

Heroin suffers no one. It grabs you up and throws you out the doggy door. Puking, withdrawing, lying, spending money you don’t have. It’s all a scream when you listen..

He barely listened to Rush in NYC when he was alone. He used to challenge others, and Hank and Chris used to laugh when Matt wouldn’t realize he was digging Rush.

He lost them for awhile though. His comfort zone had taken a turn from a bedsit with Rush to a Lionel with scag.

Earth and fire
Water and air

Yet there are over 100.

Poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge was an opium guzzler to treat his acute consumption. He often spoke of how it affected his dreams and his work. But never did it come so obviously as the unfinished “Kubla Khan”. He awoke from a dream with a vivid memory of scaling icy mountains to the land of Xanadu.

I knew none of this until I did research on the Rush song “Xanadu” (AFTK). The song is based on the poem that which Coleridge was writing when a door knock stopped it. The spacey, glacial music accompany a melodic yet tortuous scream-fest from Geddy. I was 14. And somehow unfinished due to interruption.

Hank, Chris and you found a great brand named after a great band. Stamped on the baggies of boy was the word “Rush”. We had to walk the extra 6 blocks up to13th and B – but when you snort it you’ll know where that shoe leather went.

You all did 2 bags of Rush.

Chris got some coke and made a speedball in his trust syringe. You and Hank snorted straight from the bag.

As you got higher you knew with your buddies that Rush only did one opiated song—”Xanadu”

You roll a joint and Chris puts on the vinyl. You puke into the sink and cleanse your moth with a Dr. Pepper.

Allen is my straight-edge Republican friend. He’s my best friend. A dedicated Rush-ian along with our mutual buddy Chris would tear apart the most complex time changes. We weren’t as good as a “real” band.

We were better.

It was August 8, 1989 when you met Allen at a Yes show. You hit it off instantly and began talking prog rock all the time. It was like a reunion more than a new friendship.

Allen’s a successful studio photographer now. You still talk Rush like nobody’s business.

You miss your clear mind sometimes.

Do you miss colitis?

Marillion opened for Rush a million times. The band featured a 6 and ½ foot monster named simply Fish. He was a great mime and often used grease paint and props to illustrate the drama of their material. It was fascinating stuff.

But usually Rush had some lousy hair band open up. Making fans fill their bladder with beer before their pet trio appeared.

But I believe Marillion may have decreased early beer sales…..

EXIT…STAGE LEFT is such a great experience for a beginner. Killer tune selection. The version of “Jacob’s Ladder” is a pristine example of why I erected a new steeple.

Upon the width of lit stages
Upon skies
This open gush is
heady and green
supportive of sanity
Yet birthing no bruises

I used to log in my journal my 3 favorite Rush albums of that month. Sometimes the raw period of the first four took precedent; other times the new wave prog of the 80s dominated . I was all dependent on mood, season, social environments…..

It seemed silly. But in my hemisphere it was therapy.

One Thanksgiving night less than a year before you lost your rectum; you got unusually high on the resin and decided upon listening to COS that it was justifiable to worship Rush.
The next morning you were boggled. You can’t worship.
You’ve been denied access………

Sometimes I swear I hear a typewriter bell after some of Rush’s rhythmic changes. They switch lanes so fast they are easily passing 110 words a minute. That makes Rush.
Biddly-biddy-biddle–
biddly-bidy-bid-bid-bid.

What the hell signature is that? And that’s just to introduce a middle eight or a solo or even a chorus 25 years later it is my heartbeat—-
murmur to confuse.

Ayn Rand.

What a cunt. And Rush made me read her 10 years after they too realized she was a cunt. For a rock group to be into An Rand is like the Boy Scouts touting NAMBLA. But there we were. Contemplating Howard Roark, the carrot top architect.
Capitalism. The cunt.
“Have you read Ayn Rand?” asked the sorority girl.

I missed the MSG show. That sucks. Certainly I’m the only one on St. Mark’s who cares— but I’m a dour presence anyway.
It was spring of ’94 and none of us knew what was happening next.

The true contemporary musician shot himself in the face.

Now it seems we all missed the Rush show.

Chapter 3

Thirtysomething

In my head there’s a school of thought that links three guitarists—Andy Summers, David Gilmour and Alex Lifeson. All 3 are textural arpeggio fans working with great bassists. Their use of effects is crucial. As one chord may represent a whole measure ,it’s important to be remembered.

Winter
Handled red tape player
Already worn copy of MOVING PICTURES

Houlton
hole town – interiors of incest—-
burn
Bill Banasievics was the least desirable Rush fan in the world. And becoming an NBC radio DJ didn’t help.

See… he thought he knew all and was given the right to write their first official biography. A turd eventually called VISIONS. The book is basically fact free. And the”cool” drug experiences he decided to detail were removed from the second edition. Rush fans weren’t delighted. Hid dorky ranting made things so much worse. He was later estranged by the band by playing RTB on the radio early. Good riddance.

It’s a shame that more literary thought hasn’t gone into Rush.

But I’m always surprised by something…..

“Cinderella Man” (AFTK) is one of those rare moments when Geddy Lee wrote lyrics after Neil’s entry. It’s his take on MR. DEEDS GOES TO TOWN. He describes the hero as “this manic depressive who walks in the rain.”

I feel solace. The solo wails over a rhythm section roller coaster that brings me back softly to the chorus.

Rush have never been critical darling. But the best article on Rush as the informative yet scathing interviews CREEM had with Alex Lifeson and Neil in 1981. Neil went first and flubbered his way through a major clusterfuck – while keeping his Ayn Rand conceit. When interviewer J. Kordosh met Alex he stated that “anyone short of William Shockley would’ve been anti-climatic.” That’s perfect.

Geddy wouldn’t talk to CREEM. Rush received so much shit that he just plain refused. Kordosh responded to this boycott by stating that a “conversation with Geddy Lee ranked just below standing in line” on his list of amusements.

Kordosh’s rants backfired, though. It became his most popular interview.

You’re still waiting for a decent band to cover a Rush song. Why doesn’t 311 do “Vital Signs” (MP) or “New World Man” (S). 311 is a great amalgam of rap, rock and dub. The aforementioned songs are beautifully reggae tinged and would sound nice.

Sebastian Bach. He was the lead singer of Skid – fucking – Row, sings on a tribute album of awful bar band versions of Rush songs you love – “Jacob’s Ladder” (Pwaves) is particularly raped.

It fills you with guile. You hate Bach. His stringy hair. His stupid accent. Even his Aryan Nation hue.

People you see without a gun.

Watch the parade. They’re suspended through Harvard Square to celebrate their induction into Hasty Pudding as “Musicians of the Millennium” for 1993. This is a millennium that included Mozart. But it’s good clean fun as we all give thanks and salutations to Rush.

Because Rush does rule.

I’ve seen tons of shit
literal turds and
diarrhea soup.
I’ve heard tons of
tunes that dance
a 7/8 peristalsis

Met Allen at a Yes show. Met Chris through Allen. When Chris and I moved to NYC we met Hank. Rush fans reveal their love for the prog trio in NYC in hushed tones. It’s easier to be a pedophile. But when you do gather three or more in their name they are there.

Forever 14 in opiation.
This is grunge nation……….

My first concert was at the 1980 Oklahoma state fair. Little did the church group know that seeing Willie Nelson at 10 after being fed the Beatles by one cool uncle in Oregon would change my life. I knew he was stoned.

Nanci Griffith opened that show. The magic of unintended exposure.

John Dos Passos wrote the seminal USA trilogy, a beautiful, poetic and stultifyingly frightening collection of tales that rocked the literary world. From the wobblies to Hollywood and back in the farmlands, Dos Passos perceived America as a non-linear mess. Not unlike his idols work—James Joyce’s ULYSSES.

Rush wrote “The Camera Eye” (MP) as a tribute to his poetic powers. But it also showed a sharp contrast in Neil’s reading habits. Emerging from the Ayn Rand concentration camp to the left ramblings of the progressive works of Dos Passos* was a terrific leap for Neil and his fans. Following a rock stars’ reading habits is not always healthy but it was like a feet severing ride.

*After bad experiences with Marxist extremists, Dos Passos spent his elder years being as bitter and right wing as Jack Kerouac was in a similar period—but at least for our sake’s Jack was too drunk to write about it..

YYZ (MP) is the airport code for Pearson Airport in Toronto. A place where Rush have worn a groove. The intro in 5/4 is actually Morse code for those letters. An odd inspiration for a riff indeed…..

The stage lights go off except a small spotlight on Neil tinging on a triangle anticipating liftoff of the blistering 747 as Alex and Geddy alternate between two notes in tight junction with Neil’s pounding. When the plane arrives, I see the crazy world—

I wish I hadn’t blinked.

Geddy and Alex met in Junior High School, formed Rush and the rest is history. Imagine going from proms to Wembley with a friend that old. It is astonishing to me. I barely remember junior high and have no idea where any of those friends are.

Neil came late when they were 20 or so, but has been behind the drums ever since. That kind of friendship exudes through their syncing and ability to improvise so well together.

Mike Myers said of Rush:
“Rush speak the universal language of their music. If that language were esperanto.”

Witness the summon
of looming bass
on your belted turntable

The howl sends you further
than you anticipated

Diesel and steel

When Geddy sings I see ERASERHEAD.

Album cover artist, Hugh Syme, is as crucial to the Rush aura as the music itself. Starting in 1975 with the creepy cover of CARESS OF STEEL and still hanging with them today. Amongst his greatest covers include SIGNALS and A FAREWELL TO KINGS. The former is a simple pic of a dalmatian sniffing a hydrant. When you consider the album’s theme of communication—it is not hard to see its brilliance. The latter features a puppet king in a throne surrounded by rubble. Amongst the trash is his crown. Fucking Shakespeare, I swear.

Syme has done for Rush what Hipgnosis did for Pink Floyd or what Roger Dean did for Yes. It gave them not only advertisement but it also showed how complex the album medium really is.

Artists have responsibilities to their admirers. Wanting a following requires forethought about what they may do with our work after witnessing it. Of course a Dada-ist or a punk rocker would make a voodoo doll of me for saying that. But I doubt anyone of that ilk are even reading this.

Being a RushFan you may think elsewise… but I hate drum solos. Drumming is so much stronger within a song than rolling around your kit like a monkey writing the great American novel.

Jesus. Neil Peart is a genius. I should savor his sobs with major gratitude.

But it’s usually when I go empty my colostomy.

You really like the cover of FLY BY NIGHT. A pre Hugh Syme a blue landscape with a bruising owl lurking as a jet scales the sky. The band hates it—maybe because it is pre-Syme but it beats the hell out of HEMISPERES, a cover that showed the importance of a shit detector.

Hank and I just snorted a bag apiece and I decide to put on SIGNALS. From the ominous keyboard bash intro to “Subdivisions” right through to the NASA fadeout of “Countdown” we nod happily.

Rush and heroin are such a dreamscape. We hide in my East Village cave, split a bag as we put on The Police and enjoy the day.

“Tom Sawyer” (MP) is a tale of a modern day free spirit that is apparently willing to escape to an island.

It contains my fave Rush line—-

“What you say about his company is what you say about society.”

Apparently, Neil had his Huckleberry Finns.

Saw the “Far Cry” (S&A) video. Rush are barely in it, but it’s great. Most of their old videos are marginal. The Cure’s video director, Tim Pope, did their best 80s video though for “Afterimage” (GUP). From penny farthings to orphanage—it sparkles like the back of a tarantula.

Snow
Rush is snow.
It is northern light.
It is a refinery lit christmas
tree on Lake Ontario

Neil Peart states in his book TRAVELING MUSIC that SARSstock was an insensitive name. But Rush played anyhow. Starting with a jam of “Paint it Black” as an homage to headliners The Rolling Stones, they blasted their hits in a rare festival setting since Pink Pop in Holland in 1979. AC/DC played after Rush. Ironic seeing that AC/DC once opened for Rush.

Rush were asked to play Woodstock ’94 and SNL but refused. After attending Lollapalooza in ’92 I am secretly relieved. People en masse really suck. Ooh… put down that Ayn Rand reader!!!

Becker’s Chocolate milk. Sold at Becker’s stores in Canada. Delicious. So delicious that Rush thanked the stuff in the liner notes for ATWAS.

Great fucking stuff. As good as their beer.

My grandfather was born in New Brunswick.

I am ¼ Becker’s.

On the VAPOR TRAILS tour Alex and Geddy did an acoustic version of “Resist” (TFE). Which was weird. About 10 years previous my wife dreamt that we had tickets to see Rush on MTV’s “Unplugged”. She found that funny because Rush were now in her subconscious. Upon seeing footage on the RUSH IN RIO DVD she said that it was how she imagine it. But Geddy looks better now.

The End

Afterword

Rush fan fiction. I hear your sudden fear of God from here. But you write about what you know. Rush were like a food to me. And now that I’m fed I need to burn off some prog fat with yes… Rush Fan Fiction.

Geddy, Alex and Neil are quite private chaps and I chose not to do a piece or bio on them. This is my experience. My thoughts on Rush have been expanding for so long that this seemed like an obvious thing to do.

I will always be in awe of hard workers. Rush are a great example. Lots of prog bands are. And for that I am grateful for the example they set.

Good Work. –MD

Strawberry Moon

It was 3:30 when I called Kara’s apartment. I knew the late call would startle her but I needed to see her.

“Hello,” she answered groggily.

“Um….Kara it’s Michael. You know it’s the summer solstice and in an hour we can catch the sunrise hit the moon.”

“Are you high?”

“Of course…but listen at like sunrise the red of the sun makes the moon look like a strawberry. It’s called a Strawberry Moon, actually.”

“You want to drive up to Connecticut real fast to see a pink moon.?”

“Yeah….I do tonight. I do.”

Kara laughed and said ok.

Within a half hour we had crossed the Connecticut line and was heading towards the clearest field where I could smoke opium.

I brought apples and peanut butter and napkins and knives and like 4 blankets. We set up camp as light permitted and maintained a thorough view of the moon.

“Why are we here right now?”

“I wanted you to see this.”

“Michael you haven’t wanted anyone to see anything since the divorce and now we’re on a manic trip to the country like the Mansons….”

I passed a joint to her.

As she inhaled she asked me my favorite question but prefix-ed like this…..

Michael. I love you. We have 4 children. You are a magnificent father and grandfather. You are also sick and need to take something for your mental health besides opiates, you know?

“Ask it Kara.”

“Have you seen a shrink?”

I picked at my facial hair as a tic and smiled slightly.

“No…..”

“Look” she said pointing at the moon.

I took a hit from my opium pipe that flipped me like a whippet and I silently forgot she was my ex-wife in this lonely city………

Farewell, King

 

 

FAREWELL, KING

by Maurice Doubleday

 

 

 

We should have been going west but a snow storm from Erie was pressing into the Buffalo area and my father had the bright idea of going east…then south…and then west again. Needless to say the lake effect snow was traveling faster than Nixon would approve and caught up with us in 20 minutes within a half hour of Buffalo. The snow fell like depression era bankers and bam! we settled into a blinded snow bank. My father uttered a “fuck” or two as it became apparent we were stuck with a cheap u-haul trailer on the back. Nothing in sight but white and stationary car lights. My mother started praying to Christ of course. A dude I could never come to grips with. My grandmother raised a bunch of good jews excepting my fat ass mom. Before this trip to Oklahoma she sent a “prayer seed” donation to Oral Roberts for $100 to insure our safety…even at 9, I found that funny.

 

We were jews for jesus on a trek from New Hampshire to Tulsa to do the lord’s work. Don’t underestimate any body’s stupidity is basically the lesson I learned from my “parents”. If sinners got to Hell how could my father say “fuck” so much and get to heaven. They were idiots and I was in their custody and under their car roof. The 28 hours of stranded boredom that ensued after getting stuck means little to me now. We pissed in the snow and ate from a rancid cooler of Vienna sausages and store brand root beer. I remember the carbon monoxide smells of the engine that my mother insisted stay on so she could be warm as my sister and I got nauseous on the bad food and the black fumes. I complained to no avail, my mother saying “I’d rather have you nauseous than freeze to death…”

 

 

I remember the shag rug behind the back seat where he kept his cheap car speakers that blared Paul Harvey. I found a pencil stub and began moving it around like a toy car. It flowed freely with its passengers warm and safe and heading to a Holiday Inn with pong and an indoor pool. This desperate stimulus actually kept me quite occupied until I started getting stomach cramps.

 

My mother stayed as comfortable as she could. When a trucker came and asked if we had chains to help us pull out my father shook his head. My mother chastised him…as if she were the rational one in planning this trip. These two Christians bickering and swearing like the drunken trailer trash they were only made me want to quietly slip out and trail a way thru the meridian to the dump road that at least the local county was prepared enough to plow. I wanted to be Jeremiah Johnson for a day. I wanted to escape the arguing of people who made crap for Christ, who shelved their parenting for some vague love of bad tv. I wanted to erase the memory of two tards debating God’s will or whether or not we should have left New Hampshire. It was painfully disconcerting to be the charge of such morons.

 

 

When the plows arrived we woke to my dad yelping “they’re here princess.” Princess was my sister of course.

 

She replied to him, “you mean the plows?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“The plows are coming,” I asked with glee into the fucked up sunrise.

 

“That’s what I said…”he said impatiently.

 

No-one has been happy with me since I started farting and shitting outside a lot. We had no toilet paper and it was getting harder to stay fresh. I had to shit whilst being stuck in a snowbank and my father hated me for it. It was no comfort to live like Matilda.

 

We made our way to a suburb of Buffalo and checked into a motel where I was immediately ordered to bathe. The hot water on my rash and the solitude seemed welcome and I watched the tv thru a cracked door. It was a scary movie that my sister wanted to see. Shelly Winters and Debbie Reynolds in WHATEVER HAPPENED TO HELEN?

 

I didn’t pay much attention until I saw the most frightening scene. Debbie Reynold’s corpse painted and posed as a puppet while Shelly Winters plays the piano in vaudeville madness. Brushes with mortality didn’t seem appropriate for recuperation from what had just happened.

 

I screamed.

 

My mom ran in with a rare sense of concern.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“The movie,” I said.

 

She shut the door.

 

My legs and groin were red and sore from residual feces and I tried to soothe them in the hot water as I tried to erase the image from my mind.

 

I guess this is where the love of dragonflies and sunflowers died. Where childhood slipped down a shit chute bound for somewhere dark and full of heroin.

 

I was no prince. I guess it was a relief. If I wasn’t his prince then he wasn’t my king…..

 

 

-the end-