Farewell to the King

            I’ve been sitting here for the past two hours trying to come up with a cute intro. It’s four o’clock in the morning and I’m getting tired, so screw it:

           

            Neil Peart was the greatest. Drummer, lyricist, musician. Take your pick, he was the best. 

            There. And I’m not being hyperbolic either. He was an artist for whom only superlatives would do. Greatest this, Best that, Finest ever, Most Whatever. Neil Peart was as good as there ever was, as good as there ever will be. Nope, this is not an arguable proposition, we are not going to debate this, I am not taking any counter proposals or alternate candidates at this time.

            Neil Peart was the throbbing, pulsing, living heartbeat of the Creative Colossus - sometimes mistaken for a rock band - known as Rush. As the drummer and lyricist, he was the body and brains of the operation (Geddy and Alex being the shared soul), imbuing each song with physical presence, and a sensitive wisdom unmatched in rock music.

            Nope, I am not joking, as I will prove presently.

            I myself discovered Rush in the 11^th grade (I think). I loved, loud, aggressive rock music, but couldn’t relate to any of it. Certainly not that LA surfer stuff. about picking up chicks. Nor that angsty grunge stuff that was making the rounds. As a timid, bookish nerd spending most of his lunch breaks in the school library, most music felt to me like a party I wasn’t invited to.

            Then, someone pushed Farewell to Kings into My Hands.

            Holy shit. I mean, Good God! Who knew rock music could do this? Even my musically illiterate ears could detect movements, themes, patterns, more in common with a symphony than a rock band. So many moving parts, so many disparate elements demanding my attention, all adding up and telling a story through sound. Untutored, inexperienced, uneducated as I was, I could feel the nuance and intricacy of it all – this couldn’t be the product of the stereotypical Precambrian knuckleheads bashing at their instruments. There was something going on here, and there was intelligence behind it.

            Unlike so many prog bands, nothing in a Rush song felt superfluous or indulgent; there wasn’t one note or beat or time signature change that didn’t need to be there. Every piece was a vital component in complex machine, a thread in tapestry, a passage in a expertly plotted story.

            And the lyrics! A spaceship descending into a black hole? Now there was something a Lord of the Rings and Doctor Who-obsessed nerd could get into! This was music for me.

This one hit me even harder. Instead of prog, it steered me
headlong into Metal

            It was only appropriate that the people who would disparage me would also disparage my new favourite band. Snotty critics, stuck-up hipsters, pusillanimous punksters and trendsuckers of the kind that used to insist “The Clath” were the only band that mattered, couldn’t get their heads around Rush. It didn't matter – Rush weren’t for them. Rush were for me, and people like me.  The profoundly uncool, the proudly untrendy, the slightly unsteady. They shy, the awkward, the alienated , the irredeemably nerdy. . .but also the bright, the creative, the expressive and the literate. You didn’t listen to Rush in order to curry favour with the arbiters of taste, you weren’t trying to be popular, and you sure as hell weren’t going to get laid. You listened to Rush because they spoke to you. They demanded nothing from you – well, your attention spans and your brainpower certainly, but nothing alien to your sense of self. Rush only required you to be what you are, and to celebrate that person, as opposed to whatever other person the world wanted you to be.

Most bands do bring with them, however unintentionally, the demands of subcultural affiliation. Think Country, or Metal, or Punk, or Goth, or indie (whatever the hell that is). But Rush had no standardized uniform. Among the multitudes who attended their shows could be found people of every age, economic situation and educational level, every profession and subcultural preference. Metalheads and hippies, professors, bikers, students, business people, forklift drivers, grandparents, doctors of music, and folks who couldn’t play the triangle. Anyone could listen to Rush, and claim them as their own.

In 2015 I watched with devilish pleasure as Rush were put on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine. It struck me as the mainstream rock press finally capitulating and signing the articles of surrender, having waged war against Rush, and being utterly defeated. You can’t keep Rush down. Dedication to craft, purity of vision, and sheer damn talent make a fearsome combination – sometimes it wins out, and this time did. It didn’t hurt that Peart was such a better writer than the hacks who disparaged him. People heard the music, and felt it resonate, and wouldn’t be steered clear. The world responded. Rush sold a ridiculous amount of records. They played before huge crowds. For a band that appealed so much to misfits, they sure had widespread appeal. I never begrudged them their success; on the contrary, I thought success was rarely more deserved. For once, something I liked was getting its proper due.

Neil Peart played a huge part in this. Rush were an irreducibly complex Triad of  essential components. Alex and Geddy showed signs of giftedness right from the beginning. But Peart was the missing piece of the puzzle. Together, they scaled Olympus. And did it with grace and humility. His shadow is long, his footprint enormous. He will me missed.

It’s tempting to say Rush changed me. This would not be strictly true. Looking back, I think Rush helped me discover the real me, who had always been there. I think Neil Peart, the great individualist, would have preferred that as a tribute.   

So Iran has admitted to “unintentionally” shooting down Flight PS752.

            Baloney. Bollocks. Balderdash. How many synonyms for “Bullshit” are there?

            How does one “unintentionally” shoot down a civilian aircraft in one’s own airspace, just taken off from one’s own central airport in the capital? How does one mistake a big civilian plane just taken off from Tehran airport as “enemy aircraft”.

            “Well the pilot swerved off course when his engine caught fire and into the missile defense, path and one thing followed the other, and you know. . .”

            I’ll give you a better explanation: you make this kind of error when you’re the kind of trigger happy goon who joins the Revolutionary Guard.

            I’ll offer you another theory, that verges on the conspiratorial, but makes a shit-ton of sense to me all the same:

            Sixty three of the 176 innocents aboard were Canadian citizens of Iranian origin. From what we can gather, they seemed the cream of society’s crop. Students, doctors, intellectuals, children. . . people far too good for Theocracy. Didn’t it drive the Ayatollah crazy that all these bright people chose to be Canadian rather than stay behind and serve their rat-bag regime?

            I can’t prove it. But it definitely makes sense to me.

            (And this doesn’t let that orange slug down south off the hook either: that petulant little boy who loves his big, long, thick missiles, and doesn’t give a moment’s thought to the consequences of his actions. What cans? What worms?)


At the very least, I can copy and paste some of their names:

Ardalan Ebnoddin Hamidi | Kamyar Ebnoddin Hamidi | Niloofar Razzaghi | Hossein (Daniel) Saket | Fatemeh (Faye) Kazerani | Naser Pourshaban Oshibi | Firouzeh Madani | Ayeshe Pourghaderi | Fatemah Pasavand | Delaram Dadashnejad | Mehran Abtahi | Roja Omidbakhsh

Mojgan Daneshmand | Pedram Mousavi | Daria Mousavi | Dorina Mousavi | Shekoufeh Choupannejad | Saba Saadat | Sara Saadat | Arash Pourzarabi | Pouneh Gorji | Arshia Arbabbahrami | Nasim Rahmanifar | Kasra Saati | Amir Hossein Saeedinia | Elnaz Nabiyi

Bahareh Hajesfandiari | Mohammad Mahdi Sadeghi | Anisa Sadeghi | Farzaneh Naderi | Nozhan Sadr | Forough Khadem | Amirhossein Ghassemi

Parisa Eghbalian | Reera Esmaeilion | Evin Arsalani | Kurdia Molani | Hiva Molani | Hamid Setareh Kokab | Samira Bashiri | Mohammad Salehe | Zahra Hasani | Mohammadhossein Asadi Lari | Zeynab Asadi Lari | Zahra Naghibi | Mohammad Abbas Pourghaddi | Mahdieh Ghassemi | Arsan Niazi | Arnica Niazi | Iman Ghaderpanah | Parinaz Ghaderpanah | Saharnaz Haghjoo | Elsa Jadidi | Suzan Golbabapour | Faraz Falsafi | Alina Tarbhai | Afifa Tarbhai | Ghanimat Azhdari | Hadis Hayatdavoudi | Mojtaba (Suresh) Abbasnezhad | Asghar Dhirani | Neda Sadighi | Bahareh Karamimoghadam (Karami) | Pedram Jadidi | Maya Zibaie | Shadi Jamshidi | Alireza Pey | Ghazal Nourian | Milad Nahavandi | Sajedeh Saraiean | Mansour Pourjam | Fareed Arasteh | Roja Azadian | Mehraban Badiei | Alma Oladi | Saeed Kashani | Fereshteh Maleki | Amir Moradi | Farhad Niknam | Faraz Falsafi | Arad Zarei | Mahsa Amirliravi | Mohsen Salahi | Sheyda Shadkhoo | Sadaf Hajiaghavand | Sahand Sadeghi | Sophie Emami | Alvand Sadeghi | Milad Ghasemi Ariani | Siavash Maghsoudlou Estarabadi | Mehdi Eshaghian | Iman Aghabali | Mansour Esfahani | Marzieh (Mari) Foroutan

Masoumeh Ghavi | Mandieh Ghavi | Sharieh (Sheri) Faghihi | Fatemeh Mahmoodi | Maryam Malek

Doctor Nhew. . .

Happy New Year. Time for Doctor Who.

The first one was a two-parter. I've seen it and I'm still processing it and I'm still woozy from the drugs they gave me at the clinic, so I won't go into full analysis mode now. Suffice it to say:

a) I think we're back on track. I'm almost afraid to jinx it, but I can confidently say this is the best episode of the Whitaker/Chibnal era so far. Which is faint praise indeed I understand, a lot like: "this is by far the very best toenail fungal infection I've ever had," or "this solitary confinement cell is so much better they stopped piping in Barbara Streisand tunes", but seriously: THIS is more like it. A Who episode to freely enjoy. Menacing aliens, a sense of creeping dread. Better balanced, better paced, less preachy, more Lenny Henry. . .

b) Indeed, Lenny Henry. Marvelous to see him spread his wings and display his acting chops. All the same, it makes me wistful. What a marvelous Doctor he would have made. Or a Master. . . Indeed, imagine what a Master HE would have made. . .

Can't bring myself to speak of it any more. Drugs are taking hold, off to dreamland now. . .