The recent news of a Rush reunion struck like a cymbal crash echoing across two continents.
For some, this is a wonderful development, while for others, it feels like a sacrilege. Rush has always stirred division, particularly in America. On one side, there’s admiration that tips into devotion; on the other, there’s disdain marked by terms like “soulless” and “pretentious.”
Rush has persisted not because they sought to be trendy. Trends fade, but artistry endures.
Very few influential bands manage to evoke such strong feelings—both loyalty and frustration—while remaining true to their essence changed only minimally over time.
Farewell to Kings
Rush, the iconic power trio, emerged from Toronto in 1974, fueled by youthful ambition beyond the scope of local rock gigs. They were loud and fast, eager to learn. Gradually, they evolved to become more cohesive and disciplined, unlike many others who succumbed to burnout or commercialism.
This dedication led them through four decades of consistent output—albums, tours, you name it. By 2015, when they disbanded, Rush had solidified its status as a dependable live act in rock history, free from scandal (despite some well-known escapades). With drummer Neil Peart’s passing in 2020, the closure felt rather definitive.
So, the idea of a reunion is quite heartening. It doesn’t seem forced or desperate; rather, it has a natural quality. Picture two old friends picking up guitars and laughing while jamming, realizing that their music still resonates with millions.
Yet, for some, this connection feels more like the annoyances of a neighbor’s incessant power drill—irritating and probably headachy.
Working Man
Rush never quite conformed to the American rock narrative. They were not entrenched in blues or fueled by Southern rock clichés. Geddy Lee’s voice was frenetic, while Alex Lifeson balanced power with precision. Neil Peart, irreplaceable as the drummer, approached his craft as if it were an Olympic event.
This was odd for rock traditionalists. For them, rock should be raw and reckless—think Black Sabbath or AC/DC. Some performances produced confusion both for the band and the audience. Hotel rooms were, well… chaotic. Just look at Ozzy Osbourne—his antics are almost legendary. If one were to follow that lifestyle, they’d likely find themselves checked into a mental health facility.
Rush, however, dismissed that expectation, which raised eyebrows among certain American critics.
Rock wasn’t meant to feel so organized. It shouldn’t give the impression of having been thoroughly discussed. Criticism arose: too polished, too basic, with descriptors like “cheesy” or “cliché” serving as shorthand for dismissing what makes one uncomfortable.
Limelight
Take “Tom Sawyer,” for instance—it’s a personal favorite of mine. Some purists argue about its synth-heavy sound and serious lyrics, claiming the chorus is just too uplifting. But here’s the thing: “Tom Sawyer” isn’t intended to be menacing. It promotes forward motion, confidence, and energy—qualities that rock critics too often misinterpret as superficial. Strip away the childish details, and you’re left with something powerful. It continues to fill arenas and evokes a sense of invincibility.
For a certain group of fans—those who meticulously checked their homework—Rush was their go-to band. They weren’t rebels; they were diligent students of their craft. Yet, in rock culture, such earnestness is often seen as a faux pas.
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And it’s not just Rush. Look at Steely Dan—they crafted some of the keenest songs, yet were often dismissed and derided as music for those alphabetizing files or organizing spice racks. Yes, even bands like Genesis faced sneers, especially post-Peter Gabriel.
America has a complex relationship with true excellence. We laud brilliance, but only when it appears accidental. Genius is better received when it’s a little late, perhaps inebriated, and slightly out of control.
The trend is unmistakable. Adam Sandler has been a punchline for years, even while his movies rake in cash and evoke uncontrollable laughter. Jim Carrey wasn’t taken seriously until he shifted away from comedy, facing personal struggles. Rush, on the other hand, paid a cultural toll for refusing to conform.
Flying Head Over Heels
This reunion serves as a reminder, particularly in our current age of irony fatigue, that Rush endured because they never tried to be “cool.” Coolness is transient; art is lasting. When Lee and Lifeson discuss laughing and jamming together, they highlight how music can simply be enjoyable. It doesn’t always have to carry a heavy philosophical burden.
The irony is that Rush’s biggest offense might have been their optimism. They held on to ideals of improvement in music, life, and society at a time when such positivity felt out of fashion.
Cynicism thrives. Rage Against the Machine built a brand on endless anger, enjoying monetary success while criticizing the status quo. Nine Inch Nails embraced self-loathing, and Nirvana captured a pervasive disillusionment. Misery is often perceived as a hallmark of authenticity; anger, a sign of depth. Conversely, joy can seem disingenuous.
But why is that? We’re having fun, after all. Rush recognized early on that music doesn’t have to flagellate the human condition. Sometimes, it’s all about the rhythm, the groove, and hitting it right in the feels. After 50 years, they’re back—not to sway skeptics who weren’t looking to be swayed anyway, but to reward devoted fans and humbly remind everyone that enjoying oneself isn’t a crime.
