FogBlueInSanFran
Well-Known Member
Rush is the most pretentious band that has ever existed, and I write this knowing full well that Emerson, Lake & Palmer were also once a band. Even worse, Rush drummer Neil Peart was an Ayn Rand fan, which should be an instant disqualifier for a rock musician.
Each Rush band member either independently or collectively decided that demonstration of dominant mastery over his instrument was the primary goal for creating music, rather than having important, funny or even interesting things to say about the state of the world or other people. I often wonder whether they never wrote love songs because no women would get within 20 feet of them before they got rich; certainly, no women like Rush and no women like Rush fans.
At the time of Moving Pictures, and of Permanent Waves that came before it, Rush was belatedly realizing that fewer and fewer humans were interested in 23-minute long epic songs about a Dungeons and Dragons character. Or a spaceship. Or a Dungeons and Dragons character piloting a spaceship. Into a black hole. I refer you all to “Cygnus X-1 Book II” -- nice title, you fucking geeks -- on side one of Hemispheres, which actually also IS the entirety OF side one of Hemispheres.
Even the nerds dwelling in the nerdery which was any concert hall in which Rush took up residency were starting to get a little bored, if not confused.
As such, to retain some level of popularity as disco and punk began to pound away at either edges of rock music, in the late 70s and early 80s, Rush embarked upon yet another epic journey: one of minimizing time signature changes to only once or twice per song, instead of 27, and cutting down compositions to 11 minutes or fewer. Permanent Waves was their first go, and an uneven one, but Moving Pictures perfected the transition from musical uber-dork-dom to whatever what they thought ”new wave” was.
This transition is as ham-handed as it is misguided.
Side one kicks off with “Tom Sawyer”, AKA the Song That All Drummers Say Is Very Difficult To Play, and if familiar with Rush’s earlier work, one is suddenly struck by the fact that the lyrics bear no resemblance to the sci fi and fantasy schlock of old Rush nor the insipid deep philosophy of new Rush (e.g. from Waves: “I will choooo-se . . . {dramatic pause} . . . freeeeewill”!). This is good until you look at the liner notes and learn Neil Peart didn’t write the lyrics, but some friend of his did, which is why they are not terrible.
Next comes “Red Barchetta”, an interesting song about a time when cars are banned, nearly ruined by Geddy Lee’s castrato vocals in which it appears his testicles disappear up his scrotum, into his abdomen and gradually make their way out his body entirely. Seriously, this is as close as a man has come to imitating the frequency of a dog whistle. “YYZ” follows, and is an instrumental about Toronto’s airport (I guess), blessed in that Geddy Lee’s high-octave shriek is nowhere to be heard.
And then there’s “Limelight”, a song that carries with it probably my greatest pet peeve of any in popular music -- millionaire rock stars incessantly bitching and moaning about how tough life is on the road. Nothing is preventing you from becoming Steely Dan, fellows -- just hide in the studio and collect your checks.
Side two begins with “The Camera Eye”, a song with some poetic observations about New York and London (Wait. What happened to how much they hate the road???) in which it seems the big reveal is that New York is busy and London has fog. Well, then.
Next comes “Witch Hunt” (subtitled “Part III of Fear”, which is odd given that Parts II and I come on later records by the way, and, yeah, the Roman numerals means This Is Important) which appears to reach the brilliant conclusion that ignorance and prejudice and fear are connected in some way. I am pleased we have Rush to point out this nuanced and unexplored perspective.
Finally we have “Vital Signs”, which is a particularly unusual closer, largely because hearing three white Canadians trying to perform reggae is equal parts sad and hilarious, especially when classic lines about one love and jammin’ and joints being smoked in the morning are replaced by lines about “feverish flux” and “reverse polarity”, whatever the fuck these mean.
Despite all of this, there still remains a singular, nagging, impenetrable problem about Rush and Moving Pictures.
And here it is:
While I honestly believe that (almost) everything I wrote above is true . . . this is one of my top six favo(u)rite records of all time.
It’s a record I cherish; a record I know every single note and word to; a record I still play air drums, guitar and bass to in my 50s(!); a record that reminds me of how blissful youth was; a record that still amazes me with the virtuosity and dexterity of the players no matter the lyrics, the vocals, the song length or the lack of theme.
The best way to put it?
This is the record I lost my aural virginity to. It was my very first “favo(u)rite” record.
And you never forget your first.
I know I can’t ever, ever quit it. I’ll always be hopelessly, desperately in love with it.
God fucking dammit.
10/10.
Each Rush band member either independently or collectively decided that demonstration of dominant mastery over his instrument was the primary goal for creating music, rather than having important, funny or even interesting things to say about the state of the world or other people. I often wonder whether they never wrote love songs because no women would get within 20 feet of them before they got rich; certainly, no women like Rush and no women like Rush fans.
At the time of Moving Pictures, and of Permanent Waves that came before it, Rush was belatedly realizing that fewer and fewer humans were interested in 23-minute long epic songs about a Dungeons and Dragons character. Or a spaceship. Or a Dungeons and Dragons character piloting a spaceship. Into a black hole. I refer you all to “Cygnus X-1 Book II” -- nice title, you fucking geeks -- on side one of Hemispheres, which actually also IS the entirety OF side one of Hemispheres.
Even the nerds dwelling in the nerdery which was any concert hall in which Rush took up residency were starting to get a little bored, if not confused.
As such, to retain some level of popularity as disco and punk began to pound away at either edges of rock music, in the late 70s and early 80s, Rush embarked upon yet another epic journey: one of minimizing time signature changes to only once or twice per song, instead of 27, and cutting down compositions to 11 minutes or fewer. Permanent Waves was their first go, and an uneven one, but Moving Pictures perfected the transition from musical uber-dork-dom to whatever what they thought ”new wave” was.
This transition is as ham-handed as it is misguided.
Side one kicks off with “Tom Sawyer”, AKA the Song That All Drummers Say Is Very Difficult To Play, and if familiar with Rush’s earlier work, one is suddenly struck by the fact that the lyrics bear no resemblance to the sci fi and fantasy schlock of old Rush nor the insipid deep philosophy of new Rush (e.g. from Waves: “I will choooo-se . . . {dramatic pause} . . . freeeeewill”!). This is good until you look at the liner notes and learn Neil Peart didn’t write the lyrics, but some friend of his did, which is why they are not terrible.
Next comes “Red Barchetta”, an interesting song about a time when cars are banned, nearly ruined by Geddy Lee’s castrato vocals in which it appears his testicles disappear up his scrotum, into his abdomen and gradually make their way out his body entirely. Seriously, this is as close as a man has come to imitating the frequency of a dog whistle. “YYZ” follows, and is an instrumental about Toronto’s airport (I guess), blessed in that Geddy Lee’s high-octave shriek is nowhere to be heard.
And then there’s “Limelight”, a song that carries with it probably my greatest pet peeve of any in popular music -- millionaire rock stars incessantly bitching and moaning about how tough life is on the road. Nothing is preventing you from becoming Steely Dan, fellows -- just hide in the studio and collect your checks.
Side two begins with “The Camera Eye”, a song with some poetic observations about New York and London (Wait. What happened to how much they hate the road???) in which it seems the big reveal is that New York is busy and London has fog. Well, then.
Next comes “Witch Hunt” (subtitled “Part III of Fear”, which is odd given that Parts II and I come on later records by the way, and, yeah, the Roman numerals means This Is Important) which appears to reach the brilliant conclusion that ignorance and prejudice and fear are connected in some way. I am pleased we have Rush to point out this nuanced and unexplored perspective.
Finally we have “Vital Signs”, which is a particularly unusual closer, largely because hearing three white Canadians trying to perform reggae is equal parts sad and hilarious, especially when classic lines about one love and jammin’ and joints being smoked in the morning are replaced by lines about “feverish flux” and “reverse polarity”, whatever the fuck these mean.
Despite all of this, there still remains a singular, nagging, impenetrable problem about Rush and Moving Pictures.
And here it is:
While I honestly believe that (almost) everything I wrote above is true . . . this is one of my top six favo(u)rite records of all time.
It’s a record I cherish; a record I know every single note and word to; a record I still play air drums, guitar and bass to in my 50s(!); a record that reminds me of how blissful youth was; a record that still amazes me with the virtuosity and dexterity of the players no matter the lyrics, the vocals, the song length or the lack of theme.
The best way to put it?
This is the record I lost my aural virginity to. It was my very first “favo(u)rite” record.
And you never forget your first.
I know I can’t ever, ever quit it. I’ll always be hopelessly, desperately in love with it.
God fucking dammit.
10/10.
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