Rush: Power From the People

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As musicians, Lee and Lifeson have done all their growing up in public. They first met in ninth grade and soon became veterans of the local basement-band scene. Together with a friend of Alex', drummer John Rutsey, they cut their teeth at high-school parties and church dances with a repertoire heavy on Cream, Hendrix and Led Zeppelin covers. In the early Seventies, the drinking age in Ontario was lowered from twenty-one to eighteen, enabling Rush to hit the more lucrative bar and club circuit in and around Toronto. "That was really the point where we became professional," says Lifeson, "in the sense that we were all dedicated to doing that and only that."

Dedication, of course, was not enough to make it in Canada. "It was ridiculous," Lee grins, recalling some of the problems Rush ran into. "We played a pub night at a local college, and they kept telling us, 'Don't play too loud, we can't hear the beer orders.'" At one gig in Oakville, Ontario, they were fired after only half a set when neighbors complained about the noise. The band's awesome volume (Lee first developed his Robert Plant-like screech simply so he could be heard over the instruments) and their heavy-metal leanings won them few friends outside the province. "All the years we were playing bars and schools, we never left Ontario," Lee says. "We couldn't even get a club tour of western Canada. All of our prehistory took place in Ontario. We couldn't get gigs anywhere else."

They couldn't get a record deal, either. The band's manager, Ray Danniels – who got his start booking school dances for Rush when he was sixteen – released their self-titled debut album in 1974 on the group's own Moon label after it had been turned down twice by every major record company in Canada. Later that year, though, the album began getting considerable airplay in Midwest heavy-metal capitals like Cleveland and Detroit, and Mercury Records signed Rush in the U.S.

Rush's first American tour almost ended before it began when John Rutsey quit after a falling out with Lee and Lifeson. Neil Peart, another Toronto native who had previously tried his luck as a drummer in England, stepped in at the eleventh hour, and Rush hit the touring trail with the enthusiasm of kids given the run of a candy store.

"The strategy was, 'There's a gig. We'll go play it,'" says Lee. "If you look at our routing plans for those first four years, it was totally nonsensical. One time we went from Gainesville, Florida, straight up to Allentown, Pennsylvania."

"We went everywhere we could," says Danniels. "I was always more concerned with the cities we hadn't played than the ones we had. My philosophy was, if you can drive to it, do it. It was the drive-till-you-die philosophy."

And Rush did just that. Lifeson remembers renting a car in Toronto on the pretense of driving it up north for a few gigs. Instead, the band took it to the States for several weeks of shows opening for Kiss and Aerosmith. "We brought the car back with 11,000 miles on it. It didn't have any hubcaps left, the radio was smashed, the mirror was gone. It was ruined. They were quite surprised."

The pressures of constant touring, overwhelmingly negative reviews and no airplay, and the unspectacular sales of their third LP, Caress of Steel, had taken their toll. "No one could believe it was going so badly," says Lee. "Then we realized how stupid we were. Because of all these people putting pressure on us, we were looking at ourselves through their eyes. From then on, we knew exactly what our direction was going to be, and we were determined to have success strictly on our own terms."

Rush have had their way ever since, although at no small cost. They tour with more than $600,000 worth of stage, sound and lighting gear in a caravan of four trucks, two buses and a camper. Lifeson says last year's Permanent Waves tour was the first time the band came off the road with a profit. More recently, Rush had to foot the bill for the cover art for Moving Pictures – estimated by designer Hugh Syme at $9500 – because, according to Ray Danniels, their record company refused to pay the full cost.

"We are not excessive," insists Neil Peart. "If something has our name on it, we try to make it as good as we can. We always think of the ideal Rush fan. When I'm writing lyrics or when I'm playing onstage, this ideal fan is watching every move I make to see if I make a mistake or if something is not as good as it should be. You just can't escape that judgment."

As Peart pulls his Mercedes behind the Ottawa Civic Center, where a sea of denim and Rush insignias is forming almost three hours before the doors will open, Geddy Lee tries to find a few kind words for rock critics.

"You'd have to be a fool to ignore constructive criticism," he says. "We've changed things in our music that were pointed out to us some years ago, things about feel or a tendency to sometimes sound forced. But a lot of critics believe they are the resident experts and they make the decision on what's valid and what isn't. I think that's horseshit."

So, apparently, do the fans, who have made Rush and fellow heavy-metal whipping boys REO Speed-wagon, Styx and AC/DC the rulers of the charts. And, as Ray Danniels points out, "when it came to concert reviews, critics almost always made the mistake of also criticizing the audience. If an eighteen-year-old reads a review that says, 'Rush were puke, they were shit, they were garbage, they have no talent' and ends with something like, 'The audiences were foolish enough to buy it,' that person thinks, 'Yeah? Well, fuck you.' And that's what's saved us in most cases."

"We know we're doing well when we can sit back and say, 'That's a good record; the audience applauds for it, they like it,'" concludes Lee as he heads for the arena's dressing room. "To make records people enjoy and that we enjoy playing – that's our measure of success."

This story appeared in the May 28th, 1981 issue of Rolling Stone.

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