I know it’s crass to rate such things, but Mr. Peart is the biggest one to die in a while.
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If all you knew about Neil Peart was from the write-ups in online newspapers you would think, oh, a drummer for a band. At least he didn’t overdose. That Peart wasn’t a boozy, druggy mess is one thing.
What’s left out is that Neil Peart was not merely a drummer, but a percussionist admired by none other than master jazz drummer Buddy Rich. Peart was in the top-tier among his fellow instrumentalists, a peer only to Bill Bruford, Carl Palmer, and the late John Bonham. Peart’s drums did more than keep the beat, they spoke their own version of the story in the song.
A story, incidentally, he wrote. Another omission in the obituaries is what put Rush over the top as a band, namely, Peart’s thoughtful and erudite lyrics. Peart was not wailing for love lost in his songs (although I’m sure he turned out one or two among the dozens he helped write). He was a storyteller who knew how to finesse a complex line.
Peart also kept an entertaining blog of his motorcycle adventures taken while the band was on tour. If he wasn’t the last man of music and letters to pass away, he was among the last. Rest in peace, Neil Peart. Sic transit gloria mundi.
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