Since the news broke almost ten days ago, I've read many lovely tributes from fans and close friends, musicians and industry people. There's a sad consensus in all of the eulogies: Peart was a professional in every sense, not necessarily a person who chased fame but acknowledged that much of what he had came from it. Even that wasn't enough to stop death. Rush fans grudgingly accepted the band was done as far as records and tours, but that didn't mean the actual end. I had known there were hopes to see film adaptations of some of Neil's books. Ghost Rider had been optioned at one point, and members of a fan board had Tom Hanks cast in the lead. That was years ago, though. Colin Hanks would be a more logical pick now.
Neil was not as public as his bandmates, and that's okay. In life he slipped away from us after shows; a quick wave and off to the nearest exit to ride away while the rest of us stayed for the outro video. He kept it up until the very last day.
There's a passage in his last travelogue, Far and Wide, that talks a bit of other drummers to whom Peart is compared and listed among best of the best - Dennis Wilson, John Bonham, Keith Moon. Each suffered an untimely end due to different excesses, none of them making it to 40. Rush fans, having followed the exploits of "our boys" for decades, wouldn't expect any of them to meet a tragic fate of the rock and roll variety, but I think it's safe to say nobody expected cancer to fell our drummer.
At 67. Three years after retirement. In the brain. We call him The Professor for a reason, and for cancer to strike him there has quite a cruel edge to it. It fucking sucks.
I've read most of Peart's books; not all are reviewed here. Some I've enjoyed, others I've critiqued. If I had to pick a favorite, it would be one of the Far series. I finished Far and Wide recently as part of a book group read, a spontaneous choice following Peart's death. It's an optimistic book, one that's almost painful to read given the context. Wide collects Peart's road essays covering the final tour, and is laced with wistful memories of roads already traveled and the revelation that he will enjoy the time spent with his young daughter more.
I said this fucking sucks, right? It's not entirely clear how long after the tour Peart learned of his illness, but it's safe to say he spent what should have been his well-earned retirement fighting it. Wide appears to have been produced as a work of promise for a new journey, but I worry it may be looked on more as a bittersweet coda. Like when Charles Schulz died after drawing his last strip.
It also happens that my reading this coincides with my own father's declining health. I was fortunate to have him around longer, but the loss is no less painful for me. A lot of memes circulating my social feeds implore us to not feel sad, but to smile for having breathed the same air as Rush, and having the music. I should feel the same way about my own dad, and perhaps the pain will lighten in time.
For young Olivia, too.
I won't rate this book right now, but I do recommend it.
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