by Smitty
Returning home, I sat down with a cuppa tea and took in Rush: Beyond The Lighted Stage. As an unrepentant fanboi, it was a full-on treat, except the part which was a pleasure. I’ll definitely catch them on the Time Machine Tour.
Somewhat cheesily, the movie ends with an exit question of why Rush never made it big in the mainstream. The movie proffers a couple of reasons; Geddy’s tenor voice, the band’s general weirdness. I wonder to what degree the ‘N’ word might have played a part. Allow me to offer a quotation from Roadshow, by Neil Peart, pp83-84, and then explain. Emphasis original.
Now that we were getting close to opening night, Alex, Geddy, and I played through that show with earnest dedication to getting everything right. I was giving it everything that I had, straining and sweating, and in fact, I was already playing for an audience, though they were imaginary. It is a defining trait in my character and attitude toward performing that no audience is more unforgivingly critical than that imaginary one. They knew exactly how well I was supposed to play, and whether I had or not.
People sometimes misunderstand the difference between doing something for fun and doing it at the highest possible level. With memories of Little League, or just a necessary fantasy to hold onto, people like to imagine that it must be fun to be a professional athlete or performer, not realizing the difference between a pastime and a profession. It is probably safe to say that any job done professionally is never going to be fun, exactly–because it’s a job.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my work as much as anyone ever could, but it is still work. As the great American journalist Ernie Pyle use to say, after describing someone’s difficult job, “Try it sometime.” Late in his life, Buddy Rich was asked if he considered himself the world’s greatest drummer, and he gave an inspiring reply: “Let’s put it this way: I have that ambition. You don’t really attain greatness. You attain a certain amount of goodness, and if you’re really serious about your goodness, you’ll keep trying to be great. I have never reached a point in my career where I was totally satisfied with anything I’ve ever done, but I keep trying.”
Amen. And it’s the trying that’s so hard, especially in live performance. Every night you push yourself to your absolute limits, mentally and physically, and as the standards rise, you’re like a high-jumper continually raising the bar. On a good day, you might clear it, but the rest of the time you just fall on your ass.
All this is context for a crucial idea:
And trying, the philosophy of Tryism, is the key to much about me, my attitude toward fans, other artists, and my own self-image. If I am uncomfortable with strangers making a fuss about me, and feel embarrassed by any show of admiration, people sometimes accuse me of thinking I am “too good”. In fact, the opposite is true–I don’t believe I deserve that kind of attention. I have never thought I was very good at anything; I just tried hard. And nothing came easily. Having one’s childhood personality shaped by being inept at every sport is a cliché, but it had its effect on me. What else do people judge you by at that age?
This un-pretentious concern for excellence as its own reward shines through Rush’s catalogue, and is crucial to their status as possibly the biggest cult band of all time. While that interest in rugged, individual purity of expression resonates with fans, it’s a standing affront to critics and executives, so admirably skewered as the Priests of the Temples of Syrinx. While Rush are less political than most, and may in fact be raging Trotskyites in real life, such a revelation would come as a shock.
Rush will always be labeled pariah dogs and wandering madmen by critics, until the precious mainstream narrative lies shattered by the weight of critical projection.
This post’s title is the opening line to “Far Cry”:
Bonus, full Colbert appearance:
