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Half a Lifetime in Pursuit of Rush by Andy Faulkner Released: December 10th, 2024 (Preview) |
Finding My Way, a new book from Jump bassist Andy Faulkner, avoids retelling the well worn Rush story and instead traces the author’s own interactions as a fan of the band following them on multiple tours, focussing on the places he saw, the adventures he had, and the countless new connections and friendships made along the way.
A heartfelt homage to the world’s greatest rock band, a captivating travelogue, and a riveting exploration of one man’s enduring obsession…
From the electrifying energy of Hammersmith Odeon in 1980 to the poignant last notes at Rush’s final show in Los Angeles in 2015, and every thrilling stop in between.
Discover how the music of one band sparked a lifetime of travel, adventure, and lasting friendships.
About the author: Andy Faulkner has been a regular on the UK Prog scene for many years. Inspired by Geddy Lee, Andy has played bass for over forty years, writing and performing in multiple bands. Currently a member of Jump and Marquee Square Heroes, he's also previously played with Agnieszka Swita and Walking On Ice as well as an unforgettable stint with 80’s prog legends Twelfth Night. For nearly a decade, he was also one of the driving forces behind the UK's Classic Rock Society.
CONTENTS
Dedication
The Point of the Journey...
A Boy Alone So Far From Home: Lessons
Time Stand Still
A Shadow on the Road Ahead
Headlong Into Mystery: R30
Wandering Madmen: Snakes & Arrows
Going Somewhere? Snakes & Arrows Part Two
Here Again: The Time Machine Tour
Freeze This Moment: The Time Machine Tour Part Two
Spread Their Wings and Sing: Clockwork Angels Part One
The Caravan Thunders Onward: Clockwork Angels Part Two
Look Into the Eye of the Stome: Clockwork Angesl Part Three
Run With Wind and Weather: R40 Part One
In The End: R40 Part Two
The Future Disappears Into Memory
Acknowledgements
All The World's a Stage: The Gigs
The Point of the Journey...
“What on earth am I doing?” That was all that was going through my mind
sitting in the departure lounge at Stanstead airport. At 32 years of age, I
was not what anybody would consider a seasoned traveller. My nine-year-
old passport had just one stamp in it from a long weekend in Parts to see
Pink Floyd back in 1988, apart than that the only other “overseas” trip I
had taken was the Isle of Wight, yet here I was about to step on a plane to
cross the Atlantic. The longest flight I had been on was an hour from
Luton to Aberdeen, I had never driven on the “wrong” side of the road
before, I had never even taken a holiday on my own, but somehow here I
was about to fly to Toronto with just a rental car booked and a hotel room
for the first night only; two weeks ahead of me with a vague plan of
needing to be in the right place at the right time for four gigs and a Lonely
Planet guide to Canada as my only companion.
Rush. The Holy Triumvirate. The Greatest Rock band on the planet. Geddy Lee, Alex Lifeson, Neil Peart. It’s entirely their fault.
Every journey must have a starting point and I suppose in this case that
point was the staircase in my childhood home. The staircase shared a wall
with my older brother’s bedroom and when I was around 13 or so every
time I walked up or down those stairs I was hearing either strange spacey
sounds or a disembodied voice informing all planets of the Solar
Federation that “we”, whoever “we” might be, had assumed control. At
that age I was already an avid reader and my genre of choice at the time
was the space operas of Arthur C Clarke. “Hmm”, I thought, “that sounds
a bit sci-fi” so after a while I ventured into my brother’s room clutching a
TDK C90 and asked him to tape whatever it was I kept hearing.
I told him I was only interested in side one and I filled the remainder of
the tape with some stuff from the radio. The next track I recorded was The Cars latest single and I played that cassette so much that to this day
whenever I heat the end of “Grand Finale” my brain kicks in with “I don't
mind you coming here and wasting all my time”. What came next? I have
no idea, I rarely got that far before rewinding and listening to “21 12” again.
I must have driven my brother crazy because after a while he handed me
a copy of All the World’s a Stage hoping to introduce me to different
material with the promise of a live version of “2112”. It worked; I was
entranced. Something about the raw power of the music and Geddy’s
vocals took a hold of my musical soul and still has a firm grip after more
than four decades. “2112” was sublime of course, but what was this? “By-
Tor and the Snowdog’? “In the End”?? “Working Man’??? There was
indeed something here as strong as life.
From there I only went deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole.
Hemispheres, A Farewell to Kings and the legendary triple album set
Archives all arrived during the manic eight-day celebration that spans my
birthday and Christmas. Then just a few weeks later with my brother laid up after a motorbike accident, I was sent into town on a Saturday
afternoon with his statutory sick pay and strict instructions to come home
with the new Rush album released that week. Permanent Waves had
arrived, and things would never be the same again. Listening to the
glorious opening of “The Spirit of Radio” right through to the lapping
waves of the end of “Natural Science” on constant repeat I knew I was on
to something magical, but there was one more piece to slot into place; I
had to see this band live.
I long ago stopped counting the number of people who have asked me
what is so special about Rush as I have always struggled to explain it. I
could wax lyrical about the musicianship, talk about how so many of Neil
Peart’s lyrics spoke to me personally and helped me through various stages
of my life. I could talk about the never diminishing thrill of hearing certain
songs no matter how many times I’ve listened to them before, or the joy
of travelling along with the band as they explored new sounds and
directions with each new album. I could try to convey how much of an
influence the magical trio of Lee, Lifeson and Peart have had on me both
as musicians and as human beings, but I honestly don’t believe that anyone
will ever understand just how much this band has meant to me. There has
been plenty of other music over the years, but none of it has ever come
close to affecting me this way. Rush changed my life and has been my life.
If truth be told, life changing moments happen to us all more frequently
than you might imagine, we just don’t always recognise them at the time.
‘his one was a no-doubter. Saturday, 7th June 1980. The venue? You can
rename and rebrand it as much as you like but to a certain generation it
will always be Hammersmith Odeon. ‘The penultimate night of five sold
out shows and a date that will be forever seared into my brain.
Looking back now I must have been unbearable in the days leading up to
the gig and probably, if ’m honest, in the days after it too. The anticipation
was all consuming, the show exceeded all expectations, and it was all I
could think about for at least a couple of weeks afterwards. If I didn’t
know before, then those two and a quarter hours confirmed to me that I
had found “my band” and I was going to follow them to the ends of the
earth (although if I knew then just how many times and over how many
years I would be seeing them, just how far I would be travelling and just
how much I would be spending then I might have raised an eyebrow or
two!)
It was an amazing time to catch them, they really were at the top of their
game (but then again, when were they ever not?) and reading the set list
now makes it clear just how much they had already achieved by then. I remember being apprehensive about the fact “2112” was already four
years old so there was a strong possibility that it might not get played, a
laughable concern with hindsight, and of course they opened with it. From
there into “Freewill”, “By-Tor’, “Xanadu” and “The Spirit of Radio”;
barely a chance to draw breath in the first hour.
After all these years much of the detail has faded, but I can still see Geddy
standing at the back, dry ice around his feet at the start of “Cygnus X-1”
and I can still hear that thunderous Rickenbacker riff. I can still see the
spotlights streaming down “in bright unbroken beams” for “Jacob’s
Ladder”. I can still feel the, ahem, rush that went through me at the start
of “Hemispheres”.
Still only fifteen, obsessed with rock music but close to the beginning of
my concert-going career that has led to hundreds, 1f not thousands of gigs
over the years, this gig made an indelible impression on me. When I get
round to inventing that time machine Saturday 7th June 1980 1s going to
be the first and possibly only stop. Oh, how I wish that I could live it all
again.
The Permanent Waves Tour was one of the earliest gigs I saw, but it wasn’t
long before live music consumed my life. Within a very short time every
Friday and Saturday was earmarked and there was the occasional midweek
outing so long as all my homework was completed...yes, 1 was still at
school and it’s a ringing endorsement of the times that I was able to see
so many concerts on a budget that consisted almost entirely of somewhere
around a tenner a week pocket money. I was lucky enough to have several
circuit venues within spitting distance, be close enough to London to make
trips to the Odeon viable and, along with a small group of friends, have
parents who would happily ferry us around. Getting my driving licence in
1982 and having a brother who would lend me his car on condition that
I’d be his chauffeur when he wanted to drink made gigs even more
accessible.
Even in those days though it was clear to me that the Rush show had been
something special and stood head and shoulders above all the other gigs I
was seeing. I was now on a mission to see them again, and this idea was
only solidified one day in February 1981 when I came home from school
to find my Mum had picked up the new Rush vinyl for me. As I reverently
placed the shiny new disk on my Ferguson music centre, I had no idea of
the impact that Moving Pictures would have on the rest of my life. “Tom
Sawyer” sounded strange and alien at first, I really wasn’t expecting those
odd synth sounds to open the album, but then that instrumental break
kicked in and I was hooked. The bass sound at the beginning of “Red
Barchetta” was probably the best thing I had ever heard and when Geddy
started shredding during Alex’s solo I thought I might have died and gone
to heaven. If this was the future of Rush, then I was along for the ride.
All these years later Moving Pictures is of course recognised as a bona fide
classic and is regularly cited as the fans favourite and the album that
changed everything for the band. I count myself very lucky that I was there
on day one and was able to discover the beauty of every track without any
preconceived notions of genius. I could name maybe half a dozen albums
in my collection that I consider to be perfect from start to finish and
Moving Pictures 1s right up there. Over forty years since the release and I
still love every second of it.
A new album could only mean one thing though, a new tour. I scoured
the music press every week for the most anticipated event of the year but
every week I came up blank. Slowly it dawned on me that the UK was
going to miss out. The frustration was indescribable, but I had always been told patience was a virtue, I would wait. Then a glimmer of hope, a live
album to be released in October with a possible tour to follow. Back to
the papers until finally with November dates announced and tickets
secured, I would be seeing my heroes again.
Wednesday, 4th November 1981. The first of three sold out nights at
London’s Wembley Arena. The old Empire Pool has never been a
favourite for audiences, it’s basically a cattle shed with the acoustic
qualities you would expect, but it was a sure sign of how much had
changed for Rush in just over a year. Hammersmith Odeon has a capacity
of around three and a half thousand, the Arena holds somewhere near ten
thousand. My seat wasn’t great, halfway up the side and a fair way towards
the back, but this was Rush, and I was ecstatic just to be there, and the gig
was everything I hoped it would be.
Remember my concerns for “2112”? The show opened with “Overture”
and “The Temples of Syrinx” and closed with “Grand Finale”. Looking
back at the set list now with a few decades of clear space, it really is
incredible just how many classics were packed into the two plus hours,
and there were some brilliant left field choices too; ““Beneath Between &
Behind” made an appearance and as far as I recall that was the only time
I ever heard that track live, and I was overjoyed to hear an excerpt from
“In The End” during the final medley, a track that I’d been in love with
ever since I heard the live version on All the World’s a Stage. To this day
Geddy’s voice swamped in delay when he sings “it just makes you stronger
yeah yeah” during the closing section sends shivers down my spine.
Around the time of this tour Neil Peart was asked about the UK fans 1n
particular. He explained that he thought there were a number of
sociological reasons why the response over here was so enthusiastic and
mentioned how life was somewhat smaller for people here than in the US
(probably very true at the time), reasoning that this was one of the factors
behind the fanaticism towards many North American bands. “Whenever
people like a band here, they really like them” he said. I don’t know if his
logic was true or not, but after two concerts I knew that I rea/ly liked this
band.
Two tours within eighteen months, things were looking good. I would
have been happier with a Rush concert every week to be honest, but I
could live with one every year if 1 had to. However, the huge success of
Moving Pictures and the release of Exit Stape Left had given the band some breathing space which meant they could take a step back from the
treadmill they had been on since 1974. Consequently, it was September
1982 before Signals was released and another eight months before the
touring machine hit the UK again.
I'll admit that when I first heard Signals I was a little perplexed; still only
seventeen and only just beginning to move out of the “rock and roll should
be guitars not keyboards” camp, I was one of the many fans who were a
little dubious about the new sound. They were still “my band” and I was
willing to die on any hill defending them from anyone who dared to make
any negative comments in my presence, but privately I had my doubts.
Bizarrely that all changed when the London Planetarium announced, of
all things, a “laser show set to the latest Rush album’. I went along not
knowing quite what to expect and came away with a new found love for
this awesome record, how could I have not seen it before?
Another step up the ladder for the band and four nights at Wembley this
time instead of three, all of them sold out. Another step up for me too,
though still at school (in fact right at the start of my A-Levels) my financial
situation had obviously improved as I had tickets for two nights;
Wednesday, 18th May and Friday, 20th. This was probably the first time I
ever saw a band more than once on the same tour and it set a precedent
for the years ahead, causing untold damage to my wallet forever more.
At that first Hammersmith Odeon gig “The Spirit of Radio” was still a
new song and appeared midway through the set, three years later it was
enough of an anthem to have become the opening number. This was
followed by “Tom Sawyer” and “Freewill”. Just read that opening salvo
again, “The Spirit of Radio”, “Tom Sawyer” and “Freewill”; if the
audience wasn’t completely in the palm of your hand by the end of that
then they never would be. Once again nearly all of Moving Pictures was
performed, with the notable exception again of probably my favourite
track “Witch Hunt”, and it was supplemented by almost the entirety of
Signals too. That shows confidence in your new material! Not a bad
closing thirty minutes or so either with “Overture” and “The Temples of
Syrinx” rolling into an excerpt from “Xanadu”, “La Villa Strangiato” and
a raucous “In the Mood” before encoring with “YYZ” and the much
anticipated and rapturously received Neil Peart solo. Two astonishing
shows and driving home from the second night I was in a state of bliss
but already anticipating the next tour.
And that is when things started to go south for the European Rush fans.
A combination of logistical problems, cost and a stunning lack of record
company support meant that neither Grace Under Pressure nor Power
Windows saw the band touring the UK. Unlike some Rush fans, ] am a
big fan of the 80s keyboard orientated albums (I had abandoned the
guitars or nothing attitude to music a long time ago!) and I was hugely
disappointed not to hear them live. Deploying hindsight once again I can
now see that without these long absences, I may well have not had the
motivation to set off on all those amazing trips that lay in the future but
at the time the lack of live Rush was a tough cross to bear.
After five long years the drought was over when the release of Hold Your
lire finally saw the announcement I’d been waiting so long for. Just the
three nights at Wembley this time around, maybe a bit cautious after so
long away, but they all sold out and as I was now a working man, I bought
tickets for them all. And oh boy did I luck out with this time around;
fourth row dead centre for the first night, ninth row centre for the second
and slightly further back but still a great floor seat for the third. I was
elated, this would be the first time I’d seen my heroes up close and
personal.
Thursday, 28th April 1988. Four rows back and almost bouncing off the
walls with excitement. Rush was on a whole new level compared to five
years ago and this was evident from the first note; “The Big Money”
opened, with Geddy and Alex hammering that riff front and centre just a
few metres away, I was transfixed. “Subdivisions” followed, with the
keyboard and bass pedals seeming to shake the very floor beneath my feet,
and then “Limelight” and Alex’s glorious emotional solo. Once again I
was in heaven, seeing everything right in front of my eyes was fabulous
and watching the interactions between the three of them alongside the
unbelievable musical prowess on display was an experience of a
lifetime...or so I thought that night anyway!
The set list drew heavily from the latest three albums, and it seemed as if
they had picked my personal choice of songs from each; “Time Stand
still’, “Mission”, “Territories”, “Distant Early Warning”, they just kept
coming. Both “The Spirit of Radio” and “Tom Sawyer” were now firmly
established as crowd pleasers so took up their rightful place closing the
show but no sign of “2112” still, could this be the tour where it had been
put out to pasture? ear not, the familiar synth echoed through the p.a. as
the band encored with “Overture”, “The Temples of Syrinx”, “La Villa Strangiato” and “In the Mood”. During the last track hundreds of red
balloons with “Hold Your Fire” printed on them fell from the ceiling and
obviously being the obsessive I am I rescued one, nursing it all the way
home. I’ve still got it somewhere, although I suspect it’s looking the worse
for wear these days.
This tour marked the first time I was asked the question “why are you
going to see the same band so many times?”, a question that I would be
hearing over and over for the next thirty years or so. Yes, I saw the same
concert three nights in a row. Yes, it was the same songs and the same
production. Was each night the same though? Of course not. Every night
you see or hear something different, on a show of this scale there is simply
too much to take in on one viewing and that feeling would only intensify
as the band became more and more successful and the productions
became more and more elaborate. Sixty-five gigs in total over a period of
thirty-five years and I was never bored for a millisecond, another hundred
wouldn’t have been enough, that’s how much Rush has meant to me.
I often wonder just how many times I would have seen Rush through the
years if circumstances had been different. If I had had the self-confidence,
and more pertinently the finance, then there is no doubt in my mind that
I would have started my travels earlier, maybe not for Grace Under
Pressure or Power Windows as I would have still been too young to rent
a cat in the US, but certainly by the time Presto came and went without a
UK tour I really should have been on a plane. That was a missed
opportunity as I came to realise on that first visit to Canada (don’t lose
sight of that...we’re getting there!) when I met up with the people running
the Spirit of Rush fanzine, Mick, Andy, and Janet, and heard their stories.
Presto was Andy’s first venture abroad to see the band and incredibly he
ended up staying with a young Mike Portnoy, who was at the time in the
very early stages of creating the monster that would become Dream Theater.
In the meantime, there was another four year wait for the next European
tour; Roll the Bones came calling in April 1992. Back to just two nights at
Wembley this time around but once again I was very pleased with the
tickets I had. Block A2, right in front of Geddy, Row 14 Seat 14 on the
first night and Row 13 Seat 17 on the second.
Anyone who has ever been to a Rush concert with me knows how
completely obsessed J am with the timings. If ’'m not at the venue well
before doors open or if I'm not settled in my scat clutching my newly bought swag a good thirty minutes before showtime then I’m panicking
and becoming a major PITA to all around me. I think I can trace this trait
back to these particular gigs, especially the first one on Friday, 17th April.
six days earlier the IRA had detonated a bomb at Staples Corner.
Thankfully no one was injured but there was some serious damage caused
to buildings and infrastructure in the area. For those who don’t know,
Staples Corner is the interchange between the M1 motorway and the
North Circular Road and was absolutely critical to my route to Wembley.
This was pre-internet of course and by the Friday was last week’s news so
finding any information on the current state of the road was very difficult.
Consequently, I did the only thing sensible in my mind and allowed myself
an extra two hours or more on what would normally be a drive of around
an hour.
How was the journey? A breeze, obviously, and I found myself parked up
and waiting around outside the venue ridiculously early. I was about to
wander off to find a drink and something to eat when I suddenly heard
familiar music, here was my first experience of a Rush sound check albeit
through the thick walls of a closed arena. In all my years of playing in
bands and promoting concerts while working with the Classic Rock
society I have attended hundreds, if not thousands of sound checks and I
am well aware that there is nothing duller in the world of rock and roll... but this was Rush! Even so, after hearing two or three songs I realised how
ridiculous I was being and went off to get that drink after all. You would
think that would have been a lesson learned, but no, at the very last gig in Los Angeles in 2015 I was nervous of the crazy traffic in and around the city and set off from my hotel three hours before doors...
The Roll the Bones Tour marked the first time I had ever seen Rush with a support act. Primus opened the evening and I think it’s fair to say they divided the audience in a way I had not seen since Marillion invited Cardiacs to play with them. Maybe Primus was a little too different for the London crowd, but weird as they were I have to say I enjoyed them.
In the four years since Rush had last visited Europe the selection of material had obviously moved on. There were now so many albums to choose from that there were some notable absences from the set, however this was our first chance to hear songs from both Presto and Roll the Bones and it was particularly good to hear tracks that, unbeknown to us at the time, were destined to become future staples; “Dreamline”, “Bravado”, “Roll the Bones”, “the Pass” and many others were all represented. There was still plenty for the old school fans to get their teeth
into though, “The Trees” and “Closer to the Heart” were performed and
even an excerpt from “Xanadu”, although I’m not sure that segueing from
that into “Superconductor” was the smartest decision the band ever made!
The encore dug even further back into the catalogue; “The Spirit of
Radio” sandwiching a medley consisting of “Overture”, “Finding My
Way”, “La Villa Strangiato”, “Anthem” and “Red Barchetta’, with a tiny
teaser of “Cygnus X-1” to close the show. Fabulous stuff!
Nine Rush concerts in twelve years. Not a bad tally but how I wished it
were more. Hope springs eternal though, the band were still active if not
quite as full on as the early years and there was still the promise of more
albums and mote tours. Counterparts came along in 1993 and bought with
it possibly the greatest opening to an album ever, that astonishing drum
explosion, but no UK tour. Another three years passed before Test for
Echo in 1996...but no UK tour. Part two of the Test for Echo tour was
announced for 1997...but no UK dates.
The Spirit of Rush fanzine published the set list for the tour and my life
was about to change once again. “An evening with...” format meant two
sets with a twenty-minute interval which allowed for an almost three-hour
performance. And the clincher? Set one closed with the complete “2112”
for the first time ever, every section in all its glory. That was when I knew,
if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed then...
So where was I? Oh yes, sitting in the departure lounge still revelling in
the thrill of seeing the YYZ luggage tag being attached to my case and
about to take off to the Great White North. The first Grand Adventure
was about to begin.
A Boy Alone So Far From Home: Lessons
“What on earth am I doing? You know what? Stop worrying, it will be
fine”.
Making the decision to travel was the easy bit, I took one look at that set
list and it was a done deal. The logistics of the whole thing were a little
harder to work out.
At this point I feel I should issue an apology to all of my many American
friends; I was young, inexperienced, and nervous. I took a long look at the
tour itinerary and saw names like Chicago, New York, Boston. My entire
knowledge of these exotic and faraway places came from television and
the movies, and I thought they were probably far too dangerous for
someone to be travelling to on their own. That is almost certainly my own
fault, I saw “Taxi Driver” on late night TV when I was eleven or twelve
and supposed to be in bed and fast asleep. That was enough to scare
anyone off the mean streets of America for life! Happily, within a few years
I had seen the error of my ways, I have since travelled extensively through
large parts of the US and only ever felt at risk once (more of that later!)
But at the time the memory of De Niro and “you talking to me?” was still
putting the fear of God into me! Then I noticed the last few dates...
Canada is nice and friendly and safe, isn’t it? Montreal, Toronto, and
Ottawa, here I come!
OK, venues decided, all I needed then was tickets.
This was 1997, the internet was in its infancy and online ticket agencies
were some way away still, I didn’t even own a computer anyway so the
only option was the telephone...and by that I mean land line of course!
Obviously, this whole process was completely new to me and I didn’t have a clue where to begin. Eventually I decided to go right to the nerve centre of the whole organisation and managed to locate a phone number for
SRO, Rush’s management company from International Directory
Enquiries. Once she had recovered from the surprise of being called by
some random English guy asking stupid questions about sourcing tickets,
the lady who answered the phone in Toronto couldn’t have been more
helpful or friendly, my first encounter with a Canadian and she fitted the
national stereotype perfectly. After a few minutes I was armed with
contact details, on sale dates and times and a whole host of “good luck”
and “have a great time” messages. A week or two later I discovered she
had even arranged for a Rush press package to be sent to me, first class
service SRO!
As it turned out buying the tickets was reasonably straight forward on the
day, nothing like the stress we all had to endure once online sales became
the norm. The only real difficulty I had, once the person on the other end
of the line had deciphered my accent, was in fooling their system into
accepting a UK postcode in a different format to the expected Canadian
one. Oh, that and the fact that I had never heard the expression “will call”
and needed a patient explanation of where my tickets would be!
The last piece of the puzzle couldn’t have been more 20" century if it tried;
I walked into my local travel agent on a Saturday morning. Once again, I
was met with surprise, no I don’t want a package holiday, no I don’t want
to see any brochures, yes I am travelling alone... it took a while but I
practically floated out of the shop when everything was finally in place.
Flights booked, car hire sorted and a hotel for the first night in Toronto,
after that I was on my own!
And this is where we came in, about to undertake my first long haul flight
and head off into the unknown. I was flying with the long defunct Canada
3000 airline; I knew no different in those days but after many flights across
the Atlantic in the years since I now realise that Canada 3000 had
reinvented Economy Class, and not with the aim of improving it. I am
most definitely not built for flying anything other than First Class (I
wish!!), my legs are far too long and I detest sitting in one place for any
length of time, but this was the very definition of Cattle Class. No space,
uncomfortable seats, and terrible food — my first experience of the
universal phrase “chicken or pasta?” — seven hours of purgatory.
All this was forgotten in an instant though with my first sight of Canada. For so long a distant and unobtainable dream and now spread out beneath me. We flew in over Newfoundland and Labrador, and I looked down on
a landscape which fitted my expectations exactly; my notebook from the time has the simple entry “it’s all lakes and wilderness — fabulous”.
A quick stop off in Montreal before the short hop to Toronto and landing
it Pearson International, here I was at YYZ.
Soon after came the first reminder that I was facing a steep learning curve
if I wanted to be an international jetsetter. Immigration was a breeze, as it
tended to be in that more relaxed time, but then I stood at the edge of the
conveyor belt in baggage reclaim and it occurred to me that all I
remembered about the suitcase I had borrowed was that it was blue, as
were ninety percent of the rest of the cases coming off the flight. Lesson
one has been implemented ever since, whenever I fly now my case has a
long strip of silver gaffa tape on the side to make it stand out. Ten minutes
later I was starting to panic as the luggage hall emptied and nothing new
Was appearing on the belt, surely my first ever trip wasn’t going to start
with a lost case? As a last resort I walked the length of the belt to see if
anything was stuck and discovered that some helpful soul had taken it upon themselves to stack any leftover luggage on the floor rather than let
it po round the loop again. Relieved but agitated I headed through the
“nothing to declare” channel, convinced that security was going to SWOOP
down on me and find the non-existent stash of contraband, and then on
too the car rental centre.
In the years since that first Canadian excursion I have driven tens of
thousands of miles in North America without any problems, but I have to admit to feeling more than a little nervous sitting behind the wheel on the
wrong side of the car for the first time and facing a drive right into the
heart of Toronto. Shattered now from all the travelling and armed only
with verbal instructions from the man who handed me the keys (“take the
(27S, the Gardiner Expressway and then exit onto Sherbourne”) I was
thrown into the deep end straight away. At the first junction I had to make
a right turn on a red light, something totally alien to someone who had
only ever driven in the UK, and then I was in the middle of the late evening
rush hour. A baptism of fire for sure, but I was pleased to note how quickly
and casually I adapted; by the time I arrived at the hotel some twenty miles later I felt as if I was driving like a native. It was now somewhere around 10pm, having left home early morning and having lost five hours somewhere across the Atlantic the hotel room was a very welcome sight.
I took a quick look out of the 12" floor window, endless rooftops indeed,
and then crashed, exhaustion beating any thoughts of homesickness.
The next morning, I found a universal truth that has been with me ever
since, travelling west is easy, travelling back east is the killer. I woke up
early feeling completely refreshed. Thoughts of the first gig were already
filling my head but in the meantime I was ready to explore this strange
new land. I knew I would have time to investigate Toronto properly after
Montreal, and I had two clear days to get there so the most obvious thing
to do was drive west out of the city and travel down to Niagara
Falls...when in Rome!
I found my way out of Toronto more by luck than judgement but then it
was an easy drive on one road. I immediately discovered one of the
greatest joys of road trips in North America, thirty seconds of playing with
the tuner on the radio and I landed on a station playing Rush. Q107, The
Rock, became my constant unobtrusive companion for the next two
weeks apart from when I was out of range in Quebec, and it was a
revelation for someone used to a couple of hours of rock per week hidden
away on a Friday night or a Sunday afternoon. Last year, back in Canada
for the first time in twenty years, it was a joy to find that the station is still
very much alive and kicking.
There was an early morning mist but it was clear that the day was going to
turn out just fine and by the time I pulled into the town of Niagara Falls
it was hot and sunny with the temperature outside already creeping into
the 80s. In fact I was blessed with the weather for the entire two weeks
and this was just the first day of wall-to-wall sunshine.
Stopping at a red light I glanced across to the left and I remember being
distinctly underwhelmed by my first sight of the falls. In fairness I was
concentrating more on searching for a parking spot and this was only a
cursory glimpse of the American Falls, but all admit I was a little
disappointed. But then I found a parking lot, locked up the car (being very
conscious that everything I needed for the next two weeks was all in a
suitcase in the boot) and wandered across the road towards the ubiquitous
visitor centre.
It was at this point I was able to take in the full panorama of all three falls,
Horseshoe, Bridal Veil and American, and my jaw dropped in awe and
wonder. Nothing prepares you for the volume and power of the water
flowing over the precipice and I was astonished at just how close you are
able to get to the edge. Standing against the guardrail I was maybe two feet
away from a sheer drop into the gorge. I was transfixed by the scene in
front of my eyes and stood for some time trying to commit it to memory.
When I was planning the whole trip I allowed for a complete day at the
falls and wondered if that might be too much, but standing in front of
them I knew I had made the right decision.
I was here as a tourist and I was going to act like one, so the first stop was
the “Journey Behind the Falls”. This is a short elevator ride a hundred and
twenty-five feet down to a tunnel dug into the rock, as the name suggests,
behind the falls. Two viewing points allow you within ten feet or so of a
solid wall of water. Incredibly noisy and totally compelling, you find
yourself staring into the deluge searching for faces as you would with an
open fire. Access is also provided to another platform that feels almost as
if it’s at the very base of the falls and once again the sheer power and
volume of water is almost overwhelming.
The other essential activity for any self-respecting tourist is the Maid of
the Mist boat ride. Boarding for this is a jetty around a kilometre from the
visitor centre but the walk to it is along the Niagara River Parkway which
hugs the edge of the gorge. What should have been a ten-minute walk took
me nearly half an hour as every time I glanced over my shoulder I was located to a slightly different but equally stunning view of the falls, and I
kept stopping to take more photographs or just to stand and stare for a
while. It's an odd paradox that the violence and force of the water
cascading over the edge can somehow create such peaceful and relaxing
emotions.
Eventually I made it onto the boat and that was when I truly began to appreciate the scale and the power of the falls. The ride takes you past the
American Falls and then right up to the base of the Horseshoe Falls where,
standing at the front of the boat, you are battered by the spray and the
strong winds generated by the force of the water hitting the rocks. Close
enough so that all you can see are the falls and a tiny sliver of the sky above, the experience is awe-inspiring.
My first day and already I had seen one of the wonders of the world. I was
beginning to enjoy this travelling lark and wondering why I hadn’t tried it
before! There was another lesson to be learned before the day was out
though. After the luxury of a decent hotel the night before, today I was on
my road trip so went off to find a cheap motel to check in to. Mission
accomplished, and ignoring the tacky unmatched wallpaper everywhere, I
dropped my case off then headed out for some mote sightseeing. When I
came back an hour or two later, I found the room door wide open, a hose
pipe running from the bathroom and the toilet itself lying on its side while
a maintenance man unblocked the drains. I understand that sometimes
this kind of thing is unavoidable but maybe it should have been dealt with
before the room was booked out again! Thirty minutes later all was fixed
and cleaned up, so I thought I’d take a quick shower before looking for
somewhere to eat. I turned the taps and... nothing. Another thirty minutes
before that was dealt with and I could go in search of a restaurant. This
was when I discovered that the magnificence of the falls is only matched
by the tackiness of the tourist trap that is the town centre, although in
fairness I found a superb steak house tucked between the waxworks and
Ripley’s Believe it or Not. The area was certainly a draw for many people,
but it did nothing for me so after the meal I strolled down to the falls
again. As night began to close in, the Horseshoe Falls were lit from behind
by searchlights of ever-changing colours, a captivating spectacle to finish
off the day and I spent another hour or two ambling along the Parkway.
The next morning, after a restless night, caused mostly by the distractingly
noisy yet totally ineffective air conditioner, I rose early in preparation for
the long drive to Montreal. As a parting gift from what I was beginning to
think of as the Bates Motel I stepped out of the shower and hung my towel
on the rail...which then collapsed to the floor taking chunks of plaster
with it. Lesson Two: maybe put a bit more thought into your choice of
motel each night!
If the spectacle of Niagara Falls hadn’t made me realise, then the drive to
Montreal hammered home the point; I wasn’t in little old England
anymore. I unfolded my map of Canada (once again, this was an age long
before Sat-Nav!) and planned my route. It could not have been simpler,
take the QEW to the 401 then drive for seven hours. Seven hours? On
one road? If you tried that in England you would be getting wet feet before
too long. Two minutes into the journey the Travel Gods sent me one more sign just in case I hadn’t got the message yet. I was about to make a right
turn over some railroad tracks when in my mirror I saw a freight train
approaching. Unsure of its speed I decided to play safe so stopped the car.
Glancing in my mirror again I saw the driver behind throw her arms up in
despair. “Probleme” I thought, then waited ten minutes as the seemingly
endless train trundled past at approximately zero miles per hour and I sank
deeper into my seat with every passing second. Oops.
The drive itself was easy, I was on the road by around eight thirty, was
slowed by the traffic around Toronto but out the other side and having
breakfast well before eleven. I had the slight embarrassment of having to
ask a local if “regular” was the equivalent of “unleaded” at the first pit stop
but at fifty-four cents a litre I soon got over that and before long I was
racking up the miles again and really starting to appreciate the scenery
passing me by, while being simultaneously astounded at the length and
straightness of the 401. Not a curve in sight for miles at a time.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Lesson Three incoming.
By three o’clock I was twenty miles away from Montreal and at a standstill. After six hours of relatively trouble-free driving, I had run into the perfect storm of Friday afternoon traffic and mile after mile of construction work. The radio station was reporting chaotic scenes all around; they were calling the Ile-aux- Tourtes Bridge “Torture Bridge” and although that wasn’t in my path, several of the bridges I had to cross only had one lane open. Those last twenty miles are forever etched in my memory like a bad dream.
Looking back, I find it incredible to think that in my naïveté I had assumed I could just point the car at Montreal and everything would fall into place. When I reached the city itself, I was already exhausted, and it dawned on me that driving in the middle of a major metropolis wasn’t quite like driving on an open freeway. One-way streets were everywhere, road signs were tiny, traffic lights seemed designed specifically to hide away from sight and then appear from nowhere just as they turned red. So many cars, so many people and I suddenly became acutely aware that I was a dumb tourist flailing around and getting in everybody else’s way.
On the verge of panic, I pulled into a gas station for a top up and a much
needed five-minute break from the madness. I asked for directions to the
venue, the Molson Centre, thinking that if 1 found that I could work out what to do from there. The attendant knew that it was in the city centre
but wasn’t sure exactly where, so all I could do was follow the tiny signs
and hope for the best and in just a few minutes I felt hopelessly lost again.
Over the years I have come to understand that getting lost occasionally 1s
a part of the adventure and the best thing to do is just relax and go with
the flow, but this was at the end of a long day’s driving and was a whole
new, and deeply unpleasant experience for me at the time.
Lesson Three: Plan ahead, know where you’re going and know your route.
Lesson Three learnt? I would love to say yes, but as you'll see in the next
chapter this one took a while to sink in.
People of a certain age will remember the days before real estate became
such a valuable commodity in cities all over the world. Back then you
would often come across a patch of wasteland with a little hut where
someone would be sitting waiting to take a few coins off you in exchange
for a whole day’s parking. There used to be exactly this just outside
Hammersmith Odeon in London for example. I have never been more
relieved than when I came across this particular holy grail in the middle of
Montreal. Stiff from hours of sitting in the car and absolutely exhausted,
even more so when I stepped out of the air conditioned car and into the
blazing sunshine, I limped across to the hut and handed over my five
dollars. In desperation I asked the guy if he had any idea where the Molson
Centre might be. He gave me a strange look as if to say, “what is the
problem with this idiot?”, then without a word he raised his arm and
pointed. I turned in that direction and looked directly at the massive
writing on the building on the other side of the street. I laughed out loud
and followed up with “is there anywhere to stay around here?” With a
slight smirk and still without speaking he pointed in the other direction
straight at a row of hotels. I had driven aimlessly into the centre of
Montreal and somehow parked less than a hundred yards from both the
venue and a choice of accommodation; everything really had just fallen
into place.
Thanking the attendant profusely I set off towards the Molson Centre,
leaving him shaking his head and thinking what a great story about a
numbskull Englishman he had to tell his mates in the pub later. I was
beyond caring though, instantly I was awake and walking with a spring in
my step again. All the stress and anxiety of the last few hours disappeared, the whole point of this crazy trip was back in focus, and I was within
touching distance of my ticket for the first show.
Well, not quite touching distance as it turned out. The Molson Centre was
a labyrinth with very few signposts, and I searched aimlessly for the ticket
office in a scene reminiscent of Spinal Tap. At one point I approached a
window with my ID and credit card ready only to discover that I had
somehow left the venue and was actually at a metro station, a tad
embarrassing but at least the clerk was able to point me in the right
direction. I had forgotten that I was now in Quebec as opposed to
Ontario, so I was initially taken aback when she spoke to me in French,
but luckily my very basic grasp of the language was enough for her to take
pity and immediately switch to English, something that would happen
with alarming regularity over the next couple of days! Another five
minutes through another dozen corridors before finally the ticket was in
my hands. I gazed upon it with awe, this was real and this was happening.
I felt like Charlie Bucket must have done when he unwrapped that Wonka
bar. If the ticket had started to glow with a golden light I wouldn’t have
been in the least surprised. I stood for a few minutes letting the knowledge
sink in, in just twenty-four hours in this very building I would be seeing
the greatest rock band in the world in their own country and for the first
time in over five years. It was a glorious moment.
Getting out of the Molson Centre was easier than finding my way in and just a short time later the car was safely ensconced in an underground parking lot, and I was checked in and crashed out in my base for the next two nights. I am well aware that the Days Inn isn’t exactly considered to be the height of luxury but after the previous night in the Bates Motel it may as well have been the Dorchester to me.
Showered, feeling somewhat human again and suddenly conscious that I
hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast I set off to explore the area. First
stop was just across the road at La Cage aux Sport, a bog-standard sports
bar where I ate too much but didn’t care... hey, I was on holiday! From
there I just went with the flow of people to see where it would take me
and ended up in a large crowd in the middle of a free, open air jazz festival. There was a fantastic vibe to the whole place and, despite my usual practice
of avoiding jazz like the plague, I stayed for some time soaking it all up.
After the day Pd had this was the perfect antidote, relaxed and welcoming.
The fact that I was completely comfortable while in a major city centre
with an expensive camera that screamed “tourist” slung over my shoulder
speaks volumes. It had been a long and difficult day, but the payoff was
worth every second. Montreal was my kind of place!
The next morning, I awoke to the sound of a howling gale. I was already
trying to re-plan my entire day when I pulled the curtains back and was
greeted by another beautiful day with wall-to-wall sunshine. Only then did
it occur to me that I had been so tired last night that I had crashed out and
left the air conditioning unit blasting out on full, goodness only knows
how I slept so well, I could hardly hear myself think until I turned it down.
I switched on the TV and checked the date on the morning news, cross-
referenced this against my ticket and then double checked the news again.
Everything matched up. Saturday, 28th June 1997. Tonight I would be
seeing Rush again at long last. ’That was some hours away though still and
I had plenty to get through before then.
Every so often on these trips I have a day where I cram so much in that if
feels like it must have been forty-eight hours instead of twenty-four, and
today was probably the first of those. After the previous day’s fun and
games, I was adamant that the car was not moving an inch from the
parking lot today, so after a quick consultation with the hotel receptionist
I found my way to the nearest metro station en route to the Olympic Park.
I have some hazy memories of the 1972 German Olympics (and a photo
of a very young me wearing a “Munchen 1972” t-shirt!) but the Montreal
games in 1976 were the first that I really paid any proper attention to, so
it was fascinating for me to visit the actual site.
First stop was the Biodome, originally the Velodrome. Part of the
Canadian natural science museum the complex is split into four areas that
each replicate an eco-system found in the Americas. It was quite surreal
moving from a hot and humid South American rainforest zone into a sub-
polar region, a North American wilderness, and a Canadian estuary habitat
all within one building but it made for an interesting start to the day. I can
genuinely say I saw something I had never seen before and will probably
never forget no matter how hard I try; the absurd slow-motion spectacle
of two tortoises making babies...
After that bizarre encounter I took the elevator to the top of the Olympic
Stadium Tower. The two-minute ride along the curved spine of the forty-
five-degree tower provides some spectacular views but these pale into
insignificance compared to the astonishing panorama of the entire city on
display from the top of the tower itself. If ever I needed confirmation of
the insanity of the previous day’s plan of simply driving towards Montreal
and hoping for the best, here it was laid out before me. ‘The Olympic
complex is on the top of a large hill and Montreal looked to be mostly flat
from this vantage point, so it appeared endless in every direction. I had
never seen anything on this scale before and it was probably not until I
flew into Phoenix some years later that I saw anything quite like it again. I
took a couple of photos (using film back then so the days of digitally
capturing absolutely everything several times were still in the future) and
was drawn into a short conversation with an American couple. This was
the first time I was ever asked what part of Australia I was from, but I’ve
heard it countless times since, for some reason the English and Australian
accents are interchangeable to most North Americans. Of course, ’m in
no position really to pass comment on this; apart from the extremes of
New York, California or the Deep South I struggle to differentiate
between any American accents and in all honesty if this couple hadn’t told
me they were from Wisconsin then I would have assumed they were Canadian!
Having seen the roof of the stadium it was now time to explore inside. I joined a guided tour and was bombarded by interesting facts for the next ninety minutes. The history of the stadium is a litany of disaster that includes delays due to the brutal Canadian winters, incompetence, escalating costs and a definite whiff of corruption here and there. The original budget increased ten-fold and four years after its opening the Quebec government were forced to introduce an extra tobacco tax to recoup some of the costs. When I visited the stadium had been open for twenty-five years but it was still to be another nine before it was paid for. Despite the history there were plenty of positives, once inside it really is an impressive sight. At the time it was being used by both the Montreal Alouettes football team and the Major League baseball Expos. The pitch was in the process of being converted from the recent football game in preparation for the Expos and it was fun to watch the pitcher’s mound raised up on hydraulics from beneath the pitch and the enormous seating structures being repositioned for the new layout. A few years later I was
lucky enough to see the Expos take on the Toronto Blue Jays here, this
was the first of many MLB games I’ve seen and it was a great venue in
which to break my duck.
After a quick delve into the Lonely Planet guide, I decided to take a look
at Montreal Old Town and took the metro back towards downtown. I
must have taken a wrong turn somewhere when I got off the metro though
as there was nothing very old about the huge skyscrapers I was walking
past. By chance I came across the magnificent sculpture “The Illuminated
Crowd”. Over three metres high and stretching for nearly nine this is an
evocative work showing sixty-five people of various ages and ethnicities
apparently representing the fragility of the human species. I willingly admit
that I am no art expert but there was something incredibly moving about
this piece, and I spent some time exploring it from every angle and taking
photos. As I was about to move on another photographer was taking up
position when a random woman walking past decided to start posing for
him, her colourful clothes and demeanour in stark contrast to the
monochrome of the sculpture. She happily took direction from what was
clearly a complete stranger before going about her business. The guy must
have taken some fabulous photos but unfortunately she had disappeared
before I was able to change the roll in my now full camera. Another one
of those times where I wish quality digital cameras had been available a
few years earlier, changing a memory card is a lot quicker and easier than
inserting a new roll of film!
Walking on I found that I was tantalisingly close to the Parc du Mont-
Royal. Another quick consultation with Lonely Planet made visiting this a
tempting prospect but at the next crossroads I was faced with a choice;
turn left and take the forty-five minute “moderately difficult” climb to the
summit in the baking heat or turn right into a street packed with
restaurants. It was now nearly three in the afternoon, and I hadn’t eaten
all day so I’m slightly ashamed to admit that my stomach won this battle.
This turned out to be a good call as when I left the restaurant I was drawn
towards the sound of music a few blocks away. Turning a corner, I found
myself in the midst of a vibrant street carnival that was passing through.
Dozens of trucks trundled past, each with a band or steel drums blasting
out from the back and followed by dancers in all sorts of exotic costumes.
Initially the parade had a South American Mardi Gras vibe to it but as it progressed the outfits evolved into more of a Caribbean style with make-
up and clothing evoking a Haitian voodoo mood. I became completely
caught up in the atmosphere of the carnival and followed along for some
time, taking photos and soaking up the excitement. Once again I was
struck by how safe and friendly everything felt, at one point in the middle
of a large crowd I sat in the shade on the pavement with my camera gear
all laid out before me and changed a roll of film without giving even a
passing thought to any of the unpleasant possibilities that would be
running through my mind had I done this in London. To this day I’m not
sute whether it really was that relaxed or whether I was just being carelessly
naive, but I honestly don’t care, I was having a great time and that was all
that mattered.
Eventually I wound my way back to the hotel, grateful for the blast of air
conditioning as I entered the room. It had been an oppressively hot day
and I had walked miles. I needed a shower, and I needed some time to
relax. My thoughts drifted back to the previous day and forward to the
return trip ahead of me tomorrow. I decided this holiday had had enough
stress, so I picked up the phone and booked a hotel for the next four
nights in Toronto. I’d already had a full-on day and I was quite happy to
just relax in the room for the evening, but wasn’t there something else
planned for tonight? Oh yes, the show...
Finding My Way: Half a Lifetime in Pursuit of Rush