Shared Roads

You could say I am a fan of the Canadian band, Rush. I certainly say it. It might help, however, to clarify the word "fan," at least as far as I am concerned. Yes, I own all their major studio releases and live albums and have a couple of esoteric releases as well. But I've only been to two shows and I have only one Rush t-shirt and that no longer fits me. So hard-core fans might balk at my "fan" status.

In any case, I find myself comfortable with them in that weird way that only fans of something can understand. Whether you are a fan of a particular musician or group or painter or writer, you feel there is a metaphysical connection between you and the object of your devotion. If you're crazy, you'll stab and slash at the rational voice that says, "Hey, I get it. The artist has done the job well and your emotional response has made you feel something and feel it quite strongly. Therefore, it's no surprise that you'll extend this feeling from the art to the artist as a person. It is much like falling in love. I get it. But it isn't real."

But if you're not crazy, you can simply enjoy the feeling and the art and occasionally marvel at some coincidental connection between you and the artist. For instance, as a teenager I fantasized that Geddy Lee was singing my name in the nonsense vocals section of "Didacts and Narpets."  And by the way, if you get that reference without looking it up, you count as a Rush fan as well, whether you want to admit it or not.

Today I noticed another interesting coincidence that really isn't all that amazing but does make me feel strangely connected to Neil Peart through a piece he wrote about shunpiking with his motorcycle in the United Kingdom. When you put Peart and the Sceptered Isle together in one article, with pictures, I get a feeling I can only describe at this moment as nostalgically euphoric. When I saw the post on Peart's page, I immediately thought of Hardknott pass, a single-track road that climbs like a rocket and twists like a wounded night crawler. I was so entranced by the idea that Peart must certainly have shunpiked his way through the pass, probably stopping at the ruins of a Roman fort near the top, I didn't read the article at first, I just mouse-wheeled down, scanning the contents and sure enough, Hardnott appeared. I immediately felt a completely irrational sensation that Peart and I were road buddies, asphalt Eskimo brothers, ready to throw up high fives and throw back pints of bitter and the end of the travelling day. So if you're a Rush fan, maybe you'll want to join Neil and me on my delusional road trip:
http://neilpeart.net/index.php/space-for-news-items/drummer-singletrack-mind/

E-Published

I'm finally published, e-published, that is. It is nice to have someone who has never met me, isn't connected with anybody I know, and is interested in maintaining a quality product, choose to publish something I wrote. Loyal followers of this blog will recognize the piece, a slightly polished and renamed blog from earlier this year. To read it, go to the current issue of Grumble.

Rush to the Front

I saw Rush (the band, not the pseudo-pundit) with my best friend at the Los Angeles Forum back in 1979. My friend drew the band's trademark red star logo (sans naked man with gripping butt cheeks) on the left breast of a pair of heavy cotton hooded warm-up pullovers popular in those days with night time Huntington Beach-goers. I still have mine, and it fits if I try hard.

We scored our front-row, center tickets from a Ticketmaster booth next to Anaheim Stadium for a mere $80.00. Sure, it ate into our Asteroids and Defender budgets, but it was way worth it for such awesome seats, dude.

We rolled in, red stars prominently displayed, found our seats and were soon embracing a bra-less hottie (er, "fox," to use era-correct parlance) with her own homemade T-shirt sporting the words, "Neil Peart: Achiving Balance." We didn't really care that she couldn't spell "achieving" and were disappointed when ticket-checkers discovered she may have simply been jiggling and hugging her way to the front row with no more authorization than her breasts could muster. In our book, that was pretty substantial authorization. My friend and I both agreed she deserved to stay a little longer for her efforts.

After Geddy, Alex, and Neil played for us, I felt complete. I couldn't aural direction-find for a week; my deafness was a battle-scar: "Sorry man, I can't hear you very well, I had front-row seats to RUSH in LA last WEEKEND. FRONT-ROW."

Yes indeed, chicks dig eardrum scars.

Sadly, I only went to one other Rush concert after that: Wembley Arena, London, 1982, lame seats, no pre-show breasts, no 7-day aural disorientation. Since then, I've wanted to see Rush in concert and I missed their last gig when they came through town. In fact, I purposely missed it because I was a weak, tired, middle-aged old dude.

Lame, lame, lame.

Now I find that the mightiest epic-rock-power-trio ever to grace a Dungeons and Dragons gaming session is rolling back through town on their Snakes and Arrows tour. I know, as sure as my 8:30 PM bedtime, that I need to see Geddy's hipster goatee up close, count the hairs and wonder if "Just for Men" gets his business. I need to (carefully) bang my head and play unabashed air guitar/drums/bass to whatever the hell the boys want to play. I need to wail along with Geddy, "Earthshine/a beacon in the night/I can raise my eyes to Earthshine" and watch Neil hammer tight and clean through another set.

Bring me up front, Tickemaster, plant my ears in the 4KHz killzone.

Sure, for $740.00.

What! Is that the inflation-adjusted 80 bucks of my youth?

Adjusted for inflation, my 1979 tickets would run me $156. 80 today. Not too bad, I could probaby get the wife drunk and convince her that spending $627.00 for the whole family to get their eardrums pasted was a good deal. As long as I didn't mention bra-less, half-educated hotties willing to snuggle for a seat I'd probably be golden.

So what's going on here? If we leave out the fact that I now automatically count admission to anything that costs money in sets of four and look for "family pack" discounts, something seems terribly wrong. Is there some sort of conspiracy to jack up the price so aging guys can't live out their rather hum-drum rock and roll fantasies? I don't think so. I think it's simply supply and demand, ram 'em when you can capitalism. I suppose I shouldn't complain, The Police are coming and ear-bleed tickets for their gig in my town are running $3,750.

It looks like I'll have to buy cheap seats, pull on something sexy, and work my way to the front.