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Drumhead Magazine April 2020 by John King |
There is an entire generation of people who know
exactly where they were when they learned John F.
Kennedy died on November 22, 1963. And now there
is an entire generation of drummers who know exactly
where they were when they learned that Neil Peart
passed away on January 7, 2020.
Headlines everywhere referred to him as Rush’s
“drummer and lyricist.” But describing Neil Peart as
simply a “drummer and lyricist” is like saying Joe Di
Maggio was merely a “ballplayer and coffee machine
salesman.” There was much more to the man, and the
story. Neil may have left us at only 67, but he epitomized
the maxim, “It’s not the amount of years in your life, it’s
the amount of life in your years.”
Neil Peart was the most influential drummer of his
generation, and arguably one of the greatest of all time.
Debates about technical minutiae will always persist, but
quite simply, no other drummer had as much influence,
and for as long. Neil was an integral part of the band
Rush from his debut with them in 1974, until his passing
in 2020. They sold over 40 million albums, packed arenas
for decades, released numerous music videos, earned
prestigious awards, and enabled Neil to create his own
infotainment documentaries about the art of drumming.
On top of all that, Neil was also an author, birdwatcher,
bicyclist and motorcyclist, an eternal student, a true
individual, and a husband and father.
The talented, adventurous, driven autodidact who is
probably the most “air-drummed-to-drummer” of all
time ignited a spark in countless kids to play real drums,
and defined what a progressive rock drummer could be.
The high personal standards he set for himself raised the
bar for everyone else. His playing became the proving
grounds for rhythm seekers. If you could play his parts
correctly, you were deemed serious.
Neil Peart played with power, passion and precision.
He flowed seamlessly in and out of odd time signatures.
He understood composition, and enhanced Rush’s music
with his creativity and execution. He utilized the snare
drum for more than just two and four; he played lengthy
phrases on it that harkened back to the big band era
that he loved so much. His snare drum forays typically
led to tom toms, and Neil was a master of shifting gears
during fills. He created a rush of excitement like no other
drummer with his exhilarating rolls around the kit, which
always had an incendiary drum sound.
Some drummers think “less is more.” Neil believed
“more is more.” He expanded the boundaries of the drum
set. His large double bass configurations caused drum
fever among novices and professionals. But refreshingly,
his immense instrument was not for show; he used every
item on his drum riser, from the tiniest splash to the gong
bass drum. He also incorporated discoveries from his
far-ranging travels: exotic instruments, world rhythms,
the spirit of adventure, and the warmth of humanity he
encountered all over the world.
His “more is more” ethos also permeated his
drumming. Neil often played more notes in one song
than some drummers played on an entire album. And he
played more notes on an album than some drummers
played during their entire recorded careers. That does
not mean the man played recklessly though, like his first
drum idol, Keith Moon. Neil developed his own style,
and pulled off a magic trick in the process. No matter
how complex his playing became, it hit you right in the
chest, and it felt great.
Neil had a strong work ethic and gave his all onstage,
and in the studio. Lest anyone think those signature
parts simply flowed from him on “take one,” here are
his own words about the process. “My method is to try
everything I can think of, everything that might possibly
work, then gradually eliminate the ideas that are less
satisfying: wrong, bad or just plain dumb. Over a period
of several months, I work(ed) through each song, playing
them again and again, refining the structure, the rhythmic
and the textural elements, and smoothing the transitions
between them.”
That kind of dedication led to his studying with Freddie
Gruber nearly thirty years into his drumming journey,
when Neil was widely considered among the best of the
best. Many did not understand this move, but Neil was
basically self-taught, and had reached a point where he
felt stiff, and restless. He wanted to push himself, open
up a new frontier, and challenge his limitations and self-expectations.
He did all of that, and more.
Unlike other pros who revamped their styles privately
in mid-career, Neil documented his progress and created
instructional media so other drummers could learn from
his endeavors with Freddie. He took notes during his
epic bicycle journeys and turned them into “The Masked
Rider,” an enjoyable travelogue. Amazingly, his openness
flourished even after he experienced the incredible dual
tragedies of his daughter Selena passing away in 1997,
and his wife Jackie following shortly after, in 1998.
Neil needed to retire from Rush for a while after those
two life-changing events. Fortunately, his bandmates,
best friends, and soul brothers Alex Lifeson and Geddy
Lee, understood. They stepped back as Neil swung a
leg over his BMW motorcycle, and then rode across vast
parts of planet earth. Neil’s extensive note taking and
reflections on life led to another successful book, “Ghost
Rider.”
But he was still a drummer at heart. And when he
was ready, he came roaring back. Sonically, his return
was recorded via the Vapor Trails album. Visually, it
was documented via “Rhythm & Light,” a collection
of beautiful black and white photography that was a
collaboration between Neil, and his wife Carrie, who
he married in 2000. The images and words revealed a
side of Neil never seen before, and launched him into a
second chance at life with his new wife, and eventually,
their daughter Olivia.
The once aloof and ultra-reclusive drum star who
still believed wholeheartedly in the lyrics he wrote
for “Limelight” revealed even more of himself to the
world through his playing, writing, interviews and more
instructional videos. He was self-aware, yet self-effacing
and extremely intelligent. When facing a challenging
situation, he’d ask himself, “What would a smart person
do?”
As a teen, Neil was a fan of Ayn Rand’s objectivist
ideology. It was his raison d’etre, and inspired him to
become his own (super)hero, riding the public buses of
Toronto wearing a purple outfit, complete with a cape
and permed hair. This deep level of conviction also
fueled his early sci-fi based lyric writing. However, with
maturity came wisdom, and empathy. He eventually
disavowed Rand, identifying himself as a “bleeding heart
libertarian” who practiced enlightened self-interest. This
evolution was also reflected in his lyrics.
Neil once commented that he wished Rush’s career
had begun with the Moving Pictures album, because all
of their previous musical and lyrical output was a matter
of experimentation, fantasy and fun. However, everything
came together on Moving Pictures. The band wrote
concise, catchy songs that retained their complexity,
and said more in five minutes than they previously did in
twenty-five.
That winning combination continued into the Signals
album, and produced the song “Subdivisions,” which
perfectly described growing up as an outcast in suburbia,
and resonated on a deep level with massive amounts of
listeners. Every legendary band has a career defining
moment, and for Rush, this was it.
According to Neil, “‘Subdivisions’ happened to be an
anthem for a lot of people who grew up under those
circumstances, and from then on, I realized what I most
wanted to put in a song was human experience.” He did
just that, and never looked back as he continued onward
and upward until he retired while still at the top of his
game in 2015, in order to spend more time with his family.
Now, it is our turn to look back on the life and times
of an individual who showed us what is possible on the
drum riser, and in life. He left a vast legacy of words and
music that will be cherished for generations. After he
passed away, following a valiant three-year battle with
glioblastoma, many “lost” interviews have surfaced,
providing new insight into his mastery.
Neil truly believed that the absolute highest goal of an
artist was to inspire others, and that the highest possible
compliment was if someone that you admire respects your
work. Based on the outpouring of affection, reverence
and tributes to him in the Drumhead community and
beyond, he certainly attained those lofty heights.
MARTIN DELLER
A Man with Many Voices
“Beautiful, shiny, circles and lines - magical!”
I’d only known Neil a couple of hours when he asked
to borrow my hi-hat pedal. It was 1979. My band, FM, was
opening for Rush at Varsity Stadium in Toronto. We were
new kids on the block Rush had taken a shine to. Neil’s
hi-hat collapsed during sound check. You always needed
- ‘two for the show’. Could they borrow my backup? A
Slingerland, as it happened.
“Yeah. Sure.”
I got it back three months later. Bronzed. He laughed
when I told him. And was, of course, in my debt forever.
The gold plate era came later. Beautiful kits. And then
drum and cymbal design with DW and Sabian. You could
recognize Neil in all those little details, he was always
looking for something – always moving…
It was the Moving Pictures tour that really cemented
our friendship. They were a great band to tour with. Rush
treated you like equals on the road at a time when most
didn’t. They wanted the whole show to be great. One
night, in the middle of our set, during a hard stop in one
of our tunes, we heard this clatter behind us. It took a
moment to realize that Neil was playing along behind us!
He would go under the shroud covering his show kit and
warm up! Too funny. But oh, so practical. Wasn’t long
before he had all the breaks down.
We had some memorable sound checks on that tour;
the six of us wailing away. A lot of fun. There is a tape. I
bet they have a ton of them. Could make for some very
cool, ‘official’ bootlegs.
Rush toured constantly. Often with a ‘6 in 7’ schedule.
Exhausting after eight to 10 months. Many of the
musicians they hung out with were those on tour with
them. Neil was like a sponge, soaking up ideas from
everyone – forget playing along to records – here’s the
band, live, in front of you! Ha! They grew up in arenas
and concert halls. Imagine how that shapes your playing.
And Neil did play to records - his own! He would
famously rehearse to rehearse. After the Moving Pictures
tour, I visited Neil at his home outside of St. Catherines,
ostensibly to interview him for “Canadian Musician”.
It was an evening of shared enthusiasm for music,
drumming, and automobiles. Some of our wide-ranging
discussion on influences, style and composition did
eventually make into to that article.
Neil had just finished renovating a space above the
garage into a practice studio. He explained that before
a tour he would sit down and play along to his own
records. We laughed. It was how we started – playing
to records! The irony was not lost, but it was smart.
“At least someone knows how the song goes!” Rush
rehearsals often started out sounding like a band trying
to play Rush. It also meant he remembered all the parts
everyone in the audience knew so well.
His was a classical music approach to performance. I
grew up on rock and roll but was schooled in jazz. I took
a more improvisational approach using the song as a
framework to build upon. He said the studio was where
he improvised, the stage was where he tried to get it
right. Every night. And more often than not, he did.
He surprised me by knowing the origin of much of what
he played, where a lot of his shit came from. We shared
influences and insights and learned a great deal from
each other. He would call me up to review transcripts
of his playing that someone had done. “Tell me if this
is what I’m playing!” (I’d had a more formal education)
Then I had the fun of analyzing what he was actually
playing. He was very generous with what he was up to
and interested in what you were doing. Lots of back and
forth - where something came from, how it developed -
playing, composition, lyrics, philosophy, books. He had
this ridiculous memory for things.
Both of us embraced the new tech, drum machines,
electronic drums and samplers. They were just another
voice.
After the Moving Pictures tour, our friendship grew
more personal. We both had young families and Neil’s
daughter, Selena and my son, Shane were the same age.
“Perfect,” said his wife, Jackie, “You must come up to
the Laurentians!” She and my wife, Melanie hit it off and
we spent many a summer and winter vacation up at their
cottage.
His cottage in the Laurentians fronted onto a classic,
northern lake. Deep, clear, and fresh. Neil had fallen in
love with the Laurentians while recording at Le Studio.
It was a magical place. Deep in the Boreal forests north
of Montreal, dotted with beautiful lakes he bought a
modest cottage on one of the small lakes.
Neil was competitive. That first summer there, I decided
to swim across the lake, a bay, to a rock, a piece of the
Canadian Shield, that was not far, eight or nine hundred
yards maybe. As I turned to swim back, I see Neil and
Jackie in their little paddle boat, madly paddling across
the bay towards me. Turns out for Neil, flying wasn’t
the only thing he didn’t like. As a child, he had almost
drowned and was really nervous in water away from
shore. I let myself be rescued amid admonishments to
not be so foolhardy again.
However, Neil was never one to shy away from a
challenge, and with Jackie riding shotgun in the paddle
boat, wasn’t he was swimming the length of the bloody
lake by the next summer! We would swim for about an
hour at a fairly determined pace and then for the last one
hundred yards or so we would sprint! Killer. “Drum solo”
he called it.
Neil was very disciplined, even on holiday up at the
cottage, he would a set routine for the day and follow
through on his plans, not just letting the days flow by. Up
early - for rockers and way ahead of everyone else - he
would prepare a Spartan breakfast of freshly squeezed
orange juice and two boiled eggs with toast for the two
of us. If it was winter, we were off on a 25 km cross-country
ski jaunt packing water with a chocolate bar for lunch.
I loved it. I would curse and respect his regimen. We
shared a lot that way, one initiating, the other happy to
engage. We had totally different styles. I was much more
verbal when the going got tough, swearing like a sailor.
He silently simmered at adversity, but one time, the climb
got the better of him and he thrashed an unsuspecting
tree with his ski pole, only to realize too late that he
would need it to ski home! We always laughed at our
misfortunes - later. The crisp air, dry snow, -10 degrees
C – ‘green wax days’, we called them.
When we were able to, we would hang out at each
other’s shows. I met Brutus, in fact, when Neil and Jackie
brought an old school friend of Jackie’s and her husband
to a summer jazz gig I had at the Bellair Café in Yorkville,
a supper club in Toronto. He wasn’t Brutus quite then.
Jackie would often come out to FM shows when Neil was
on the road. She was a very dear friend.
Neil was a big kid. One afternoon, years later, Neil
and Jackie invited us to their new place in Toronto for
a Christmas get together. Behind their house sat the
St. Clair reservoir and with a good snow it created a
wonderful hill to toboggan on. But this was the time
of the GT Snow Racer! Neil, ever the kid, suggested to
Keeley, my daughter, who was about five at the time, that
we should go try the racers out. It was too funny to see
him, all 6’4” of him, hunched over the little GT Racer.
Off the two of them went, down the hill, fast. Neil was
ahead and knew about a turn at the bottom to avoid
a five foot drop off at the end. He turned successfully
but poor Keeley didn’t see him turn and she went flying.
Man, we scrambled to find her, both of us yelling - our
wives are going to kill us! Keeley was a little shook up but
otherwise okay. Another of those experiences that are
fun in the telling but not so much as they happen.
Rush’s support for my band, FM, continued after the
Moving Pictures tour. I won’t go into details here, but
FM was at a crossroads following the tour and Rush
wanted to help. After a lot of discussion, Neil suggested
that maybe FM should sign with Anthem Records and
Ray Danniels, their manager. Throughout the transition
Neil was supportive but stayed out of things directly. It
turned out to not be a good fit and Ray and FM parted
ways amicably. It was unfortunate but my friendship with
Neil continued unabated.
“It would be so much easier if we were perfect.”
When the invite from Cathy Rich came asking Neil to
sit in with the Buddy Rich Big Band, he asked me to come
down to the studio where he was rehearsing and critique
his prep for the show. When Neil played that show in ’92,
it’s an understatement to say he hadn’t played much jazz.
Maybe a handful of “sessions” outside of Rush.
Watching it and talking to him later about it, I
recognized all the classic jobbing nightmares – unfamiliar
surroundings, the kit too far away from the band, no time
for a good monitor check, if at all, and the worst if you’re
not reading, a different arrangement from the one you
had rehearsed. He said he couldn’t hear the band. Yikes.
But he hung in there. The guy had balls.
Shortly thereafter he introduced me to Freddie Gruber.
Neil invited me out to a dinner with Jackie and Freddie,
while Freddie was in Toronto to teach Neil a series of
lessons. He wanted me to meet his new teacher. Freddie
and I, we hit it off. What a character – the stories! “If half
them are true!” Neil laughed. They would become very
close.
Neil showed me what Freddie was teaching him. “Look
Ma, I’m dancing!” I could hear the change in Neil’s
playing – it was rounder. After a year or so of studying
with Freddie, Rush recorded Test For Echo and I was
in invited to the studio for the final mix. They weren’t
often in Toronto recording so it was a treat to visit and
hang. On commenting on how good he sounded, Neil
turned to me and said, “Yeah, Ged asked me if I had new
cymbals!” We were in tears.
“Hyena says - I am not lucky, but I am always on the
move.” (Kikuyu proverb)
Words cannot express the absolute, excruciating grief
and pain of Selena’s death. When Jackie died ten months
later, we were just so numb. Time stood still. It is hard for
me to say anything about that time. Neil, said he had to
write “Ghost Rider”, but wondered aloud, “How anyone would want to read it.”
We stayed in touch - notes from Freddie’s back yard,
from a hammock in the southern Baja - but there were
long stretches…
As time passed, he reached out more and more and I
could feel his spirit returning. Friends in L.A. helped with
the difficult task of re-entry into whatever the rest of his
life was going to be. It is hard to imagine how vulnerable
he was. Then he met Carrie and allowed himself to fall
in love.
We didn’t know if he would play again. I asked him. He
wasn’t sure. Some time later, he wrote back saying Carrie
had looked at him one day and said, “You’re a drummer,
you should drum.” With baby steps he got back on the
kit and pounded away, pounded his grief, wailing at his
story.
Rush didn’t disappear when Neil needed time to
grieve and get sorted. Their absence made their fans
grow fonder. They came back. They doubled down. Neil
had a publisher in ECW, he was making more videos,
and created a web page full of humor and with “News,
Weather, and Sports”, a blog that was a personal memoir.
He really was A Man with Many Voices.
When Rush played Toronto in support of Vapor Trails,
there was not a dry eye in the place.
The thing about Rush was their integrity. They didn’t
sell out to the man. After the success of 2112 - the album
where they resisted all pressure to conform or be cast
out - they now had ‘f*ck you’ money. They never took
sponsorship. Discussions about photos, caricatures on
lunch boxes? Not a chance. Started their own record
company. Owned their masters. Again and again they
showed us, evidenced by their choices, that they were
coming from the heart, and we loved and respected
them for it.
Objectivism had appealed to Neil when he was younger
and Ayn Rand’s writing had influenced his early thinking.
Neil did “live by his own effort,” but as to Rand’s idea
that one “does not give or receive the undeserved,” well,
if he had ever agreed with that philosophy, he certainly
didn’t after Selena’s death. “Who deserves that?” he
remarked.
And then. After he had hung up his skates, after his
amazing career, after everything, his annual birthday
greeting contained the news of his “brain salad surgery”
- I was devastated.
I got out to Santa Monica the following spring. At
dinner he reconciled. “I had a good run,” he said. And
it had been.
An enviable career, an extraordinary 45 years, doing
what he loved at the ultimate level, the way he wanted.
What a life. And now he was fighting the good fight - for
his daughter Olivia, I think. It broke my heart.
I’m thankful we had a chance to say our goodbyes, the
only sliver of silver in an otherwise dark lining of a life
well lived.
Neil never lost the fascination, the real relation, the
underlying dream. I’ve never met a man who was truer
to his word.
You will be missed, my friend, but you are not gone.
ROD MORGENSTEIN
Neil Peart was a Renaissance man. Most of us know him
as the iconic drummer and lyricist of Rush, but beyond
his exceptional talents in the world of music, Neil’s zest
for life, thirst for knowledge, and quest for adventure led
him down many divergent paths.
I had the honor and pleasure of meeting Neil in 1985,
when The Steve Morse Band toured with Rush as their
opening act on the band’s 85/86 Power Windows Tour.
Most touring musicians will attest to the absolute joy and
excitement of bringing their music to audiences around
the globe. Most of these same musicians will also agree
on the physical and emotional toll that endless touring
can take on a human being.
That said, a typical show day often consists of
travel, sound checks, meet and greets, interviews, the
performance, followed by more meet and greets. Well,
as if this is not enough, a typical show day for Neil
Peart on tour would usually begin in the wee hours of
morning, as Neil would journey on his bicycle from the
previous city (assuming said previous city was within
150 miles of the next gig). Neil would often be on his
bike for hours, arriving in time for Rush’s sound check.
Directly after sound check, he would have dinner, which
was immediately followed by a one-hour conversational
French language lesson with a local French-speaking
tutor. Upon completing his French lesson, Neil would
proceed to a private practice room and warm-up on
a small drum kit prior to the band’s two-hour concert.
After the concert, Neil would usually hang for a short
time before excusing himself to go to the band’s tour
bus, to work on one of his future literary creations.
At some point during this same time period, when
he had some time off from touring, Neil flew to China,
where he met up with a handful of bicycling enthusiasts
for a 3-week journey through remote parts of the
country. With pad and pen in hand (at the time, Neil
felt that a camera interfered with the creative process)
he would jot down highlights of the day’s experiences,
which eventually culminated in one of his first literary
works entitled, “Riding The Golden Lion”. In addition
to the writing portion of this 39-page journal/book, Neil
was involved in every step of the process in putting the
book together, including choosing the cover art, font,
page color and thickness, etc. I believe it was the first
outing in what would become a passion of his, eventually
authoring several critically acclaimed books.
On the very last day off of The Steve Morse Band’s
final leg of the Rush Power Windows Tour, Neil, Alex,
and Geddy took our band to an exotic restaurant for a
memorable band dinner. Sitting cross-legged on pillows
on the floor, in our very own private room, sans silverware,
we dined on an incredible feast of delicacies using only
our fingers. Alex, a wine expert and connoisseur, made
sure the nectar of the gods was flowing. So, there I am
sitting next to Neil, chit-chatting while trying to think
of something interesting and stimulating to say to this
sophisticated, worldly, well-traveled man. Neil beat me
to the punch, turning to me and posing the question,
“So Rod, have you ever considered the effects of climate
on the development of Western Civilization?”
That, in a nutshell, sums up the ever-inquisitive Neil
Peart, always seeking knowledge and new experiences,
never happy with the status quo. He is the textbook
definition of ‘Carpe Diem’, seizing every moment of
life to engage in something of importance, be it music,
reading, writing, philosophizing, bicycling, motorcycling,
sailing, cross-country skiing, trekking through foreign
lands, climbing the highest peaks, and devoting himself
to family. He is a truly inspiring human being, whose
breath of humanity has touched millions around the
world.
I am forever grateful to have known this unique and
special man. RIP Neil
PETER ERSKINE
It’s a common enough thing to do...when time or
circumstance brings a friend or loved one to mind,
we search for a tangible element of memory. This was
always in the form of a scrapbook, a photo album or even
a shoebox filled with letters. Of course, nowadays, it’s
the searchable database of an email program that can
bring past digital conversations to life. That “life” word
is very important.
And so, it was after I received the news of Neil Peart’s
passing, I needed to touch something of him. I could watch
some YouTube videos, but any of those performances
were not at the core of our relationship (even though
some of our work together did manifest itself in his later
playing, at least, according to Neil). Tributes galore from
all manner of drummers, but, again, that was not the
basis for our friendship or ensuing correspondences.
Reading the back and forth of our letters, I’m surprised
now by how collegial and even intimate our written talks
turned out to be. This was due to a couple of factors...
First, Neil was an incredible writer of words. Each letter
is as carefully constructed as one of his drum solos, and
he enjoyed an ability to be as prolific as he was varied in
his voice on paper. To put it more simply: his letters are
an incredible if bittersweet pleasure to read again. The
comparison that comes to mind is a warm and inviting
bath. The man knew how to turn a phrase. And he was
always a perfect gentleman in his prose, spontaneous or
otherwise.
As tempting as it is to share some of his missives with
the world at large, that would betray his confidence in
me. I’ll just leave it at: the man could write.
Second, he surrendered much more of himself than I
expected him to. I’ve taught other rock drummers who
were coming to me with the vague reason or expectation
that learning a wee bit of jazz would somehow
automatically “up” their game in no time. They were
usually disappointed to discover that these things TAKE
time. Neil had no such illusions. An instructive allegory
can be found in his love of motorcycle riding and his
appreciation for the journey. He found meaning and joy
in the process and in the work. And this guy wasn’t just a
rock star. He was THE drumming rock star.
Meanwhile, I had never even listened yet to a single
song by Rush when we met for the first of several lessons
at my home. (Since Neil spoke openly about our work
together, I can follow suit.) He was an ideal student
of the instrument. And, in that sense alone, he was
very much like his idol Gene Krupa, who sought out
instruction from other drummers and percussionists
while at the height of his own fame and glory. Neil paid
attention and did his homework. He seemed to delight
in keeping me apprised and abreast of his steady stream
of improvement and epiphanies. One of his goals was to
improvise more. My first job as his teacher was to provide
some practical mechanical and musical advice. My
second job was to encourage the fire that was already lit
under his motorcycle seat. Teacher’s delight: he ran far
and wide with the ball, to mix metaphors. To be honest,
I only showed him a couple of things. But I suspect that
the dynamic of the mentor/student relationship was
something he intuited that he needed at that moment.
He was ready to get to his next level, I just helped him to
find the button on that elevator.
Of course, because I was not a fanboy, he could trust
me completely. I know he took delight in giving me my
first Rush album and was quite happy when I told him
how much I liked it. His drumming really impressed me.
Duh. I just got done saying that he was the Gene Krupa
of our time. Allow me to explain...
It was only with time that I was able to fully appreciate
what Gene Krupa did for drumming and for jazz. Gene
was no Chick Webb, no Baby Dodds, no Sid Catlett, no
Papa Jo Jones and no Buddy Rich. I mean, he was no Art
Blakey either (when I was real young, I was crazy about
Art Blakey and Max Roach). But Gene Krupa was, in some
respect, greater than the sum of all of their parts. Gene
Krupa made the drums so popular that it was as if he
had INVENTED drumming. For most folks, Gene Krupa
WAS the drums. Yet, Gene Krupa was innately modest
despite his abilities as a drummer and performer. His
persona at the kit, while it scored a bullseye with most
non-drummers, belied how seriously-well he played. Neil
may have enjoyed or suffered that same misconception
on the part of some drummers. Several million Neil Peart
fans can’t be wrong, however. I never got it until I got it.
As far as I could tell, Neil never considered himself
anything other than a student of the instrument, plus
a guy who went on the road to do his job even if that
meant leaving his wife and daughter at home for
extended periods of time. But I am fully-prepared to join
the chorus of fans who love Neil Peart...I just came to
love him ultimately for different reasons.
Two key words: his humility and his humanity.
Like his original idol Gene Krupa, Neil Peart changed
the world of drumming forever, and we should all
mourn this loss as well as celebrate all of the joy that his
percussive journeys brought us. I think he would prefer
the “joy” part. He reveled on the road less traveled, and
he delivered wherever he went. I’m grateful that we kept
in touch for some of this time and that I have his letters
to hold and cherish. I’ll be printing them out later today
to read by the fire.
STEVE SMITH
Neil Peart and I met in 1985 during the recording session
for bassist Jeff Berlin’s first solo album Champion. The
album was produced by Ronnie Montrose and featured
Scott Henderson on guitar, T Lavitz, Clare Fisher and
Walter Afanasieff on keyboards, with Neal Schon sitting
in on guitar for one song. Jeff had me play drums on
most of the album and asked Neil to guest drum on
two songs. We all knew for Neil to accept that offer
was unusual and we were excited to have him perform
on the record. When Neil arrived at the session, he was
gracious to us all, a true gentleman and humble. He was
also extremely prepared. Neil played on the title track,
“Champion (of the world),” and as I recall, he played a
perfect drum part in one take. He also played on the
Cannonball Adderly tune, “Marabi.” Jeff had devised
an incredible arrangement for this up-tempo swinger.
Neil played a grooving shuffle throughout. It was my job
to come in on the rock bridges, and the outro, playing
a double-bass Billy Cobham-style shuffle, double-drumming
with Neil. The song came out great and we all
had a fantastic time. Everyone was impressed with Neil’s
musicianship and creativity. After the session Neil broke
out his bottle of scotch and we had a lovely time trading
stories and laughing into the evening.
I knew Neil as a man of great humility, intelligence and
humor. His drumming has inspired generations and I’m
sure, will continue to inspire and inform drummers of the
future. He left us far too soon with scarce time to enjoy
his new family and his retirement. I am grateful to have
known Neil Peart. He is already missed.
JOE FRANCO
I actually got to play Neil’s kit in 1979. The Good Rats were doing a Northeast run with Rush on their Hemispheres tour in 1979 and the first show was at Nassau Coliseum, our home turf. Neil was watching our sound check from side stage and afterwards came up to me, introduced himself (needed no introduction) and asked if he could check out my kit AND if I’d like to check out his. We did a short drum-off and it was awesome. Since his passing, I’m totally obsessed with all things Neil and Rush. I didn’t grow up a Rush fan as Neil and I were the same age and started making records around the same time. For me, the 70’s was about Tony, Billy, Alphonse, Lenny and the whole fusion movement. That’s where I went for inspiration, so I wasn’t listening to Rush, Sabbath and a lot of the bands that rockers were into. I liked what Rush was doing and respected the hell out of Neil but never listened in detail… until recently. I was so moved by the amazing tributes that were posted on social media and have since gone back and revisited their body of work. I can’t get enough of YouTubing his interviews and playing. I’ve also picked up a few of his books and am in the middle of reading “Ghost Rider.” What an amazing man. Unequalled in his passion for life. A great loss to us all. RIP Neil Peart.
CHRIS STANKEE
One of the things I admired most about Neil was his
discipline. He worked at his many crafts. Not to be the
best-ever, but the best he could be. He looked for fresh
inspiration through experiences. When he had ridden
all the paved roads, he went off road. When he ran out
of road, he took to the sea. Literally and figuratively. He
read thousands of books to inform his own writing.
When he reached a point in his drumming that he
thought he could benefit from new techniques, he took
lessons. He understood that a good student needs
empathy and humility in addition to talent and discipline.
This made him a master. He was all in- dedicated,
devoted and we should all be as bold as Neil Peart.
DOANE PERRY
During the last three and a half years, Neil faced this
brutal, aggressive brain cancer bravely, philosophically
and with his customary humor, sometimes light and
occasionally dark - all very characteristic of him, even
given the serious situation and the odds handed to him
at the time of the diagnosis and subsequent surgery. But
he fought it. By his own request for privacy, few people
knew, but his understandable response to this news in
no way excludes or diminishes ALL of those who also
knew him, worked with him or loved and admired him
from up close, or at a distance. His tenacious approach
to life served him well during these last years and
although he primarily kept his own counsel, he retained
his dignity, compassion, understanding and his deeply
inquisitive nature, which never deserted him. Remarkably,
considering the severity of his condition (glioblastoma)
and through the resulting aftermath, he really had no
pain. This was always my first question when I saw him.
“Any pain?” I asked.
“No pain”, came the reply.
What a blessing that was. We were all grateful for that.
For every one of us who loved him, near and far, this
is a loss that is difficult and impossible to summarize in
a few short paragraphs. The outpouring of love, respect
and appreciation from every imaginable quarter for this
extraordinary, singular talent and beautiful man with a
mind like no one I have ever met, is touching beyond
words. To those that had to guard and hold on to this
information closely for three and a half years, for obvious
and protective reasons; his wife Carrie, daughter Olivia,
his loving family, band, colleagues and friends, they have
my undying admiration. You know who you are.
Apart from his deeply gifted, genius talent and prolific
output, which he brilliantly displayed through music,
lyric and prose writing and that staggering storehouse
of knowledge across an array of subjects in multiple
fields, he remained a kind, gentle, considerate and
modest soul and a consummate gentleman… as well as
an extraordinary friend. If you were his friend, you knew
it and he understood how to be the best friend that you
could ever hope to have. I think I speak for all, known
and unknown to him, to say he will be deeply missed,
eternally loved, appreciated and remembered for his
many invaluable contributions to music, art and the
written word. That will be forever celebrated.
Despite what he knew and we knew which was
inevitable, I believe there is some sense of relief that this
long, difficult odyssey has finally ended.
Thank you, my dear friend, for passing this way. We are
all richer for your presence and light in our lives.
JASON BITTNER
To describe just what Neil Peart means to me would
take an entire issue so I will attempt to keep this brief.
I first met Neil in June of 2007 through my friends Rob
Wallis, Paul Siegel, and Joe Bergamini from Hudson
Music, along with the help of my then-new, NAMM 2007
buddy, Lorne Wheaton. I had just finished up my Hudson
DVD and asked Paul if he may be in town for my local
RUSH show and, “Would there be ANY WAY POSSIBLE
to meet The Professor?” Yes, I know, he doesn’t really do
the meet-and-greet thing, but I figured I had an “in” of
sorts. He said, “All I can do is ask,” and that was good
enough for me. Meanwhile, I had already met and hung
with Lorne at a Promark party at NAMM 2007 where he
repeatedly told me, “Just text me and I’ll get you in,”
along with, “Oh, don’t worry, Neil knows who you are.”
Are you kidding me?! I really just thought Lorne was
being nice to me and there was no way that I was on
Neil’s radar, even though I had heard the same from Nick
Raskulinecz who was working on the Vapor Trails demos
with the band, while he was also working on one of my
records. Anyway, I still didn’t believe them.
At around 3:00 the day of the show, Paul calls me and
goes, “How soon can you get up here?” I said, “Forty
minutes. Why?” He then says, “Neil has agreed to meet
with you!” My wife then hung up the phone, since I had
had a heart attack by that point, and we raced up to
Saratoga.
The next 40 minutes was complete “Holy shit, this is
happening” mode. My good friend Mike Portnoy texted
me with one very important piece of info, that I already
knew from years of knowing about NP: Do NOT talk
about drums unless HE brings it up. A wise thought
indeed… And yes, he did start talking about drums. As I
waited backstage with my wife for his arrival, I finally saw
the man walk by, and it literally took my breath away–I
indeed just saw God. Of course, I would never tell him
that, and never, in all the times I talked with him, did I
say, “OMG you’re my favorite drummer.” I didn’t have to.
As we entered the room, Michael, Bubba’s right-hand
man, said to my wife, who was holding my camera, “No
pictures.” I thought, “Uhhhh, I don’t think so. If I’m finally
going to meet him, I will ask him and chance getting
shot down, but I’m at least asking, especially if I never
have another chance to talk to or see him.” He then took
the next 20 minutes of his warm-up time–you drummers
know how important that is–and chatted about our
shared producer “Boosh;” he also showed me what he
had been working on in his lessons with Peter Erskine–
I’m realizing right now as I type this with a wet keyboard,
not only did he talk about drums with me, but he gave
me a five-minute lesson too…priceless…I need a second
here…
Okay, so before we left, he signed my Slingerland Artist
Snare. “I had one just like this,” he says, “Yes sir, I know.”
I then asked, “Neil, would it be okay to take a picture?”
and he said in that bellowing Bubba voice, “Suuurrreee.”
I think I may have casually smirked at Michael as I handed
Paul the camera...ha ha, told ya! It’s all jokes–Michael is
my buddy now, and he was just doing his job, but there
was no way I was leaving without proof this actually
happened! At this point, he took a pic with my wife
and I together, so my wife says, “Neil, would you mind
just taking one more with only him, because he’s been
waiting his whole life to meet you!” And he looks at her
and goes, “Of course, we wouldn’t want that first one
to end up in a settlement one day!” The whole room,
us included, broke out in hysterical laughter, it was so
quick and so perfect for my first-ever meeting with him–
signing my/his drum, giving me a lesson, and cracking
jokes…I still can’t believe it, it was amazing. And that’s
exactly what I told Mike, when I texted him after I left the
dressing room, “Holy shit bro, it was amazing!”
For the next tour and every single one thereafter, I was
on his guest list every time I could make a show, and even
when I was on tour myself and missed a few, he would
still put my wife or my other family members on and give
them great seats. Then on the farewell tour, when I said
“I think I’m coming to more than one show, but I don’t
expect entrance to all of them” I got, “No problem, just
let us know when.” That’s the kind of guy he was. I was
lucky enough to meet with him a few more times over
the years, with more great stories, and even when he
didn’t have time to get to see me backstage, I always got
the email, “Sorry I won’t be able to meet today, but your
tickets and passes will be there, all the best, and I hope
you enjoy the show!”
Until the day I can finally tell you, “You’re my favorite
drummer!”
RIP Neil, Bubba, The Professor
COREY MANSKE
Every one of us has a few favorite drummers and some
of us can boil it down to just one. It’s a common dialogue
here in our drumming community and I’ve proudly
offered, “I’m a Neil guy” since day one of my journey.
For me, Neil Peart was nothing short of a superhero. He
harnessed everything I aspired to be as a drummer, as a
bandmate, as a writer, and as an individual. In 1991, I was
an eighteen year old college freshman in my very first
night away from home after my parents dropped me off
at my dorm. As a percussion scholarship student, I had
to report a week early for band camp so the residence
hall was mostly empty. I started to set up my half of the
room and I began to cry because I was all alone. I was
scared and instantly homesick. Self-doubt crept in and I
wondered what I was doing at this university two hours
from home. In an attempt to shake it off, I did what any
music fan would do: I hooked up my stereo, popped
in a CD, and cranked it up so I could start hanging my
favorite band posters. The CD was Rush Hold Your Fire
and the first poster–which I still have–was an all red Hold
Your Fire tour poster with an individual photo of each
member beside each of the three red spheres.
I stared
at the poster, wiping tears from my cheeks as the fifth
track played. “The point of the journey is not to arrive.
Anything can happen.” In that moment Neil’s lyrics
blossomed in my mind, made me believe I was in the
right place, and enabled me to continue on my path–one
that I’m still on nearly thirty years later. His musicality,
creativity, passion, technical prowess, skill, and attention
to detail have always, and will always, inspire me as a
drummer. Each of those attributes is important to me,
but there is one more which tops them all: an endless
dedication to honing his craft. Using his vast drumming
vocabulary, with each record Neil always had something
new to say and I will forever be grateful that he said so
much to me.
JEFF BERLIN
Going back many years... Rush used to come and watch
Bill Bruford’s band play, because for that brief period
in music history, we were a very big thing. The Bruford
band was a “player’s group” and in that particular time in
history, players were admired just for playing well. I was
very fortunate, as was Neil, to have been recognized for
that; we appeared in a window of time where the mere
demonstration of skills at a high level was appreciated by
a lot of people. It was through that, that Neil and I met. I
don’t remember exactly how, where or when, I just recall
meeting this very nice man who played in a Canadian
rock band that everybody loved. Eventually I heard the
records and thought, “Yeah, these guys are great” and
became a fan.
When I did my record Champion, it was 1985 and an
early part in my life where my involvement with Neil
could have been at a higher level. Meaning, that if I had
collaborated with him recently, I’m certain that I would
have worked with Neil in an entirely different level of
musical interaction. Back at that time, I was transcribing
a lot of great solos from artists that weren’t bassists. Neil
was such a powerful rock drummer, and I had this heavy,
hard-hitting arrangement of Cannonball Adderley’s
“Marabi,” so I invited Steve Smith, who was playing with
Journey at the time, and Neil to double drum on it. It
came out fantastic. It was so powerful that when I heard it
back in the studio, I wish I had done four more choruses,
just to have more of them playing. Again, I was a young
guy and wasn’t thinking about arrangements in the way
that I would be today.
With regard to working with him, I simply asked
if he wanted to come and play and he said, “Sure, I’d
love to be a part of the record.” He was totally open to
anything that I wanted to do with him. To prepare for
the recording, I recall sending him demos, and then we
rehearsed somewhat before we recorded. I wish I had
taken pictures back then, but I didn’t. Neil’s drum set was
a double bass, with a snare, two toms, two floors and a
few cymbals. Even though Neil was known for playing
this monstrous kit, it was the music that came first, so his
usual setup wasn’t necessary. For the recording, Neil was
facing Steve and they played together for what I called
The G Section, because it was in G. But what I discovered
was, when they played that section together, their bass
drums were playing triplets that were just unrelenting–it
was too much. I had to decide to simplify it a bit between
the two of them and what ended up working was Neil
played his triplet figure with a cymbal downbeat, then
one bass drum and then the other bass drum, then a
snare downbeat and one bass drum and then the other
bass drum. So, for the triplet figure, Neil was playing
cymbal-bass drum-bass drum, snare-bass drum-bass
drum. Steve then played a shuffle with the two bass
drums and between the two of them, we got a full triplet
double-bass drum pattern playing every note.
For the other song Neil played on, “Champion (Of
The World).” I’m tempted to go back in and do it again–
isolate the original drums, but this time, record and
mix it to today’s standards, with the rock vibe that I had
originally had in mind.
Neil and I had a quarter note together; we could play
together and didn’t have to think about anything else–
that’s why I did the Buddy Rich Big Band with him. We
instantly found a musical kismet between us, as well a
socially understandable manner of life–we were the
same age and amongst other things, had a common
admiration for Cream, with Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker.
We were a couple of knuckleheads and just clicked. He
would send me the books that he’d written, or send me
emails with stories about life, and he’d also send me
demos to listen to as well. We clicked as people and
clicked as musicians; you can only click with someone
musically if you have an agreed upon attitude about the
music. If we agree on the quarter note, I’m going to play
great with them and they’re going to play great with me–
we had that. Our musical collaboration, ironically, wasn’t
the outstanding feature of our relationship, it was our
friendship. We hung more than we played. We talked
a lot, sent emails, had pet names for each other...not
to be revealed here, but for 35 years, the guys in Rush
never called me Jeff and I never called them Neil, Alex
or Geddy. So, my relationship with Neil was really more a
friendship than anything.
He was a natural in what Ginger Baker called, “Time”.
And it wasn’t about the astonishing drum set; I could
have and would have loved to have played with Neil on
a four- or five-piece kit. Music was very important to Neil
and what I mean is, it counted equal to or even more
so than his status. He was always evolving and forever in
flux, playing different setups and eventually, even taking
drum lessons later on in his career. The number one rock
drummer on the planet, at the height of his fame and
he chose to continue studying, first with Freddie Gruber
and then with Peter Erskine. That’s such an admirable
quality, and something we shared, because I still study
myself. We had so many things that we shared as people,
but it was a friendship above and beyond music.
I remember one time, he invited me up to his house,
which was out in the Canadian woods. It was winter time,
with lots of snow, and he went up on a ladder to hang
Christmas lights. I snuck up behind him, grabbed him
and we both went flying into the snow, laughing–that’s
what I miss the most.
JOHN GOOD
Neil and I had a great relationship because we both
admired each other and the things that we did. And to
be absolutely honest, I couldn’t say that I was a big Rush
fan, but I can honestly say that I was a big Neil Peart fan.
Neil came to me and said, “I really dig what you do.
I’ve seen a few things online...”–he had done a bit of
homework–and he actually helped me take a lot of the
things that I was talking about trying to accomplish and
trying to put out to the rest of the world; things that I
felt were important for drummers to understand–how
to tune their drums and where I was going with making
drums.
We had many discussions about making drums, and
eventually he started calling me The Wood Whisperer.
As time went by, year after year, we got closer and
closer to being like family–he felt very close to DW and
spent a lot of time with myself and Don [Lombardi], and
especially Don due to Neil using the Drum Channel
facility as a rehearsal place. We spent really good quality
time together, talking about the philosophy of drums–
he was a great philosopher–and from that, I asked him
one day, if he would write the forward for my book, “The
Book Of Plies,” to which he informed me that he was
in the midst of writing another book, but he would see
what he could do. I thought, “Okay, I better just leave
him alone.” Twenty minutes later, he sent this forward,
that would have taken any mortal man a year to write, let
alone even imagine those thoughts.
One of the really great things about our relationship
was that I could actually bounce things off him and he
was totally game for most everything I wanted to do.
For example, he was the first guy who wanted to try my
idea of a 23-inch bass drum. So, I made one and sent it
to Toronto, and Lorne Wheaton, Neil’s drum tech, slid
it underneath him. He played it and said, “Now I can’t
live without this.” He then started playing only 23-inch
bass drums and for a lot of the followers of him and his
work, they started to play 23-inch bass drums too, which
was gratifying for me because that’s my favorite size bass
drum–they’re just beautiful.
We often would discuss sonically, the sound(s) that he
was looking for and what he wanted to achieve. After we
would speak, he would then go over to see Louis Garcia
and they would discuss the fantastic visual designs, that
I must say, I’m so proud of my crew for being able to
pull off. And each new tour became more epic than the
previous one, so it was one of those situations where
all of us here wanted to be a part of what Neil wanted
the world to know and realize–and not just for himself,
but also for my company and for what Neil was really all
about in the world of drumming.
Anyway, time goes by, we do some things together
video-wise and we’re now feeling really comfortable with
each other. He would always come and rehearse at DW
for about three weeks before every rush tour. Lorne would
show up and they’d work together on the whole blown-out
kit, the riser, everything. Then an eighteen-wheeler
would arrive, and they’d pack up the whole thing and off
it would go to Toronto, where they’d rehearse as a band
for their next tour. Seeing that, I admired the fact that
he loved the routine. He’d drive his Aston Martin in from
Santa Monica, and we’d wind up at the Drum Channel,
and then go off to lunch when he’d say, “Let’s go have
a ‘three Arnold Palmer lunch’ at the Olive Garden”–he
loved the simplicity of life. As much as I would love to say
he was not a complicated man–because he really was–
he really appreciated the simple, wholesome and good
things of every day.
As time went by, I found that after the last couple of
tours, which weren’t really that long-lasting, he said he
really didn’t want to do that anymore; he wanted to be
around for his family–he’d given forty years of his life to
the road. He had a great way of putting it by saying, “I
think I gave at the office.” But for this last tour, he agreed
to thirty-five shows, and of course, for a production of
that size, it takes probably thirty shows to even start to
earn money back, but they did it, and it came off great.
There’s a DVD of it, which I haven’t had the guts to watch
yet, but as that all ended, he just wanted to retire. He
had a place that he called his Man Cave, which was this
room full of cars, where we would go every now and then
to hang out.
I knew for the last two and half years, what was going
on–that he had some serious health issues–and we all
agreed to keep it very close to the vest, because that
would have been a media frenzy that no one wanted to
bear. And it was tough to shoulder that, through some
dark times, because you really cared about this man–
all you wanted was for it to get better, and it didn’t get
better; it just got worse.
It was just before last Thanksgiving that I wrote him
an email. He had been responding less and less, but he
wrote me back and asked if I wanted to come visit. So,
Don and I went together and met Neil at the Man Cave.
Neil was moving slow, shuffling around a bit, not really
walking around too much. Words were coming slow and
he couldn’t really write much anymore. We sat down and
talked for a while and he said, “I’m not in pain guys, I’m
okay.” When it was lunch time, Don offered to go across
the street to get us some food, so I was there alone with
Neil and asked, “Is there anything you want? Anything
at all.” He said, “No, nothing at all.” So, I said, “Well, I
want to do something. I want to take your R40 kit and
put it in our showroom, behind plexiglass, where people
can come in and check it out.” He just smiled and said,
“That’s what I want.” He then said, “I have my driver that
takes me from my house to the Man Cave every day,
and on the way to, I listen to three songs. Then when
he picks me up to go home, I listen to three more.” I
said, “Really? What songs?” Neil said, “Rush songs!”
Then he said, “I spent a life time concentrating on my
parts. All I could think about was my parts, rehearsing my
parts, and trying to be the best possible drummer that I
could be for that music. But I never really listened to the
embodiment of the music as a whole.” He took a minute
as I was taking that in, and then he said, “You know John,
we were pretty good.”
As we finished our lunch, we got up to leave and give
him a hug–and when you hug Neil Peart, you’re hugging
a man of great stature–I said, “I hope I see you again
soon,” and as I turned to walk away, he grabbed my
hand, and just gave me a long stare, and a smile.
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