David Spates "Therefore I Am" Published Aug. 20, 2002

Meeting those guys was a Rush

Take a good look at my picture. I was a tender 6 years old then, but in four years things would change, and change well. I didn't simply get older, I got better.

I heard Rush's "Moving Pictures" record when I was 10, going on 32. Before Rush, my musical preferences had been limited to whatever filled the grooves of my latest K-Tel record purchase. I could always count on K-Tel to introduce me to edgy performers like Eddie Rabbit, Hall and Oates, Glen Campbell, Air Supply and the Bee Gees. Is there anything less thought-provoking than an Air Supply song?

In early 1981, things deviated when a kid sitting next to me on the school bus was playing a "Moving Pictures" tape on his portable cassette player.

Though I only caught a minute or two, I liked what I heard.

Curious, I purchased a copy with my hard-earned allowance -- a buck a week for taking kitchen trash to the big can in the garage. Not too shabby, eh?

From the opening explosion of "Tom Sawyer," I knew I had made a righteous purchase. I was amazed. I didn't know music could DO things. It didn't just lie there covered in nauseatingly sweet syrup. It bounded out of the speakers and resonated in my skull. Music could shimmer. Music could explore issues beyond "I miss you" and "Golly, you're a nifty gal." Music could soar with crystal highs and rumble with thunderous lows. Music could paint pictures as vivid and detailed as anything in the Louvre. Music could leave its mark.

Fast-forward 22 years -- there I was last week, shaking hands with the musicians who had left their mark on me. A well-connected friend of mine was able to secure backstage meet-and-greet passes for himself, me and my wife.

For weeks we knew we had the passes, but we dared not speak of them too much for fear that the gods of cruel and unusual irony would strike us down.

What would I say? This was Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson, two-thirds of a music group that had, in one way or another, found its way into my brain, via my ears or memory or both, every single day since that fateful moment on the school bus. Their work is in me. My brain has assessed and archived 140 Rush songs which span 17 studio albums, four official live albums and a handful of, shall we say, devious concert recordings. To put it another way, "I can name that tune in one note, Tom."

And there they stood, with me in the same room, but it quickly became apparent there wouldn't be time for extended chit-chat. There were 30 or so other "special guests" who wanted a few moments of face time, too. I had to make it quick, and at the same time express feelings that had been building for a couple of decades, all without sounding like hero-worshipping dork. It was no small task, particularly for me.

"Thanks for the music." That's what I said. That's what it all boils down to for me. I don't know them personally -- all I have is the music they've sold me and concerts I've attended. I've never been to Geddy's nor Alex's houses, and they've never been to mine. I don't know their children's names, and they don't know my daughter's is Anna. We're not friends. I know OF them, but I don't know them. We share the music. They made it, and I've liked it since I was 10.

Given the opportunity to express one thought to them, "Thanks for the music" fit the bill, for me at least.

After I extended my gratitude, Geddy smiled and said, "Oh, you're welcome." Alex also grinned and said, "You're welcome." We took a quick photo with them, I shook their hands again and added, "Have a good show." Both nodded, smiled again and said, "Thanks."

Alex, who plays guitar, and Geddy, who sings and plays keyboards and bass, were extremely welcoming and cordial. They returned firm, attentive handshakes and smiled sincerely when I spoke to them. Come to think of it, that's all I expect of anyone I meet. Incidentally, the other one-third, drummer and lyricist Neil Peart, was a no-show at the meet-and-greet. From what little I know of him, he's a solitary guy who doesn't enjoy that sort of thing. That's fine. He doesn't owe the world anything more than his best effort, as do we all.

So that was it -- eight words, four handshakes and one photograph. It was your basic milestone moment. The entire meeting lasted less than 90 seconds, but if I live to be 100 I'll never forget the day I met Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson. When I tell people I met the guys in Rush, most folks say, "Who's Rush?" That's fine. I didn't meet them so I could "name drop" at parties. That's not what it's about. Most people could care less about Rush. Some even think I'm talking about the conservative guy on the radio. I prefer it that way. It's kind of fun to think that I'm aware of a great musical resource that most people don't know about.

It was a moment for me. I wanted to meet them because they have affected me in a profoundly positive way. Not many strangers can do that.

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David Spates is a Knoxville resident and Crossville Chronicle contributor whose column is published each Tuesday. He can be reached at davespates@chartertn.net.