The Bobby Rock Newsletter #65 (7-2-22) - The "Rush" of Fame

The Bobby Rock Newsletter #65 (7-2-22) - The "Rush" of Fame

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My Friends - 

Welcome back for another one this week. I appreciate you guys taking a peek. I’m in Mason City, Iowa this weekend, playing a show with Lita Ford tonight. All is a groove. Let’s jump!

In This Issue:
  • In Search of Neil Peart… and the regrettable actions of a 17-year-old me. Good God! Recounting the unfortunate (but amusing) story from my upcoming book, Will Drum For Food.

  • Speaking of Rush, redemption wins out in the end! This three-minute video is among my favorites on all of YouTube. A must-see, if ever there was one…

  • Soul-Food: A heavy quote for your contemplation from Mr. Self-Actualization himself, Abraham Maslow

The “new guy” and I, heading out to
another show. Yes, friends, new Lita Ford bassist,
Marten Andersson, is killing it out here!


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Here’s another excerpt from my upcoming book, which is a follow-up to The Boy Is Gonna Rock:

Will Drum For Food: 
Surviving the Nineties with Clubs, Campgrounds, Clinics, and Credit Cards

This memoir focuses on the Nelson hey-day, on through a decade-plus of my pursuits as a drumming educator and solo artist. It delves deep into the creative, philosophical, and business aspects of surviving and thriving in both of those very different musical/cultural worlds and, as you might imagine, there are plenty of stories to tell!

The book also explores the wide-ranging nuances of success and fame as a desirable cultural directive and, of course, my varying vantage points of it through the years… starting with an embarrassingly naive attempt to meet a hero at 17.

And again, this is an unedited, first-draft preview. Enjoy…

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

The “Rush” of Fame

There are certain things in life that are impossible to understand, and unlikely for one to become fully empathetic about, until you actually live them yourself. And until then, they can become a festering wedge between you—the experiencer of how it actually is—and those who remain mere perceivers of the experience. 

One of the most glaring on this topic is that of fame, and all the residual aspects that go along with it. Western culture has always attributed enormous cache to fame, particularly to entertainers and athletes. To be recognizable, well-known, talked about in the media, adored by fans and followers… this has always been a coveted thing for many because, on a certain level, I suppose, it’s an extreme validation of being successful, or admired, or respected, or loved, or desired, or envied, or some combination thereof. Who wouldn’t want to be fussed over in public, showered with praise, and asked for their autograph? Who wouldn’t want to be part of a mob scene or some sort of public disruption, causing heads to crank in your direction, admirably, either recognizing you or wondering who you must be?

For me, all of these desires went without the need for saying when I was growing up, as I dreamt large of being a rock star. This is the kind of thing I observed going on with the musicians I most admired, so I figured when and if I might encounter even a sliver of fame, it would be a benchmark that I was on the right path. And it would also be a blast, right? Wow… to be recognized in public! Asked for my autograph! Hell, yes! That would never get old. And, by the way, how in the hell can any celebrity, on any level, refuse a fan’s request for a photo… or not take to the time to engage in a little conversation… or, at the very least, not stop to sign an autograph? We’ve all heard those stories. That’s nuts! What the fuck is wrong with these people? It was unthinkable to me… although I would be forced to imagine it first-hand on the Rush Moving Pictures tour of 1981.

+ + + + + + +

In 12th grade, I spent the night in line at Evolution Records in Houston, to score Rush tickets. That was a thing back then. If a big tour was rolling through town, you or someone in your tribe would have to bite the bullet and camp out in line at a parking lot somewhere to get tickets. If you waited until they already went on sale, you would wind up in the nosebleeds, presuming you didn’t miss out altogether. But that was not going to happen this year. Moving Pictures had come out and blown us all the fuck away, and I needed to be front and center to watch "the professor,” Neil Peart, in action. So I wound up with kick-ass tickets for both shows and waited impatiently for concert night.



As usual, the show was everything we could’ve hoped for and more. At some point during the evening of show #1, don’t ask me how, we managed to procure not only the name of the hotel where Rush was staying but, supposedly, Mr. Peart’s actual room number. No joke. And we received this info from such reputable authority (or so we thought), that we made plans to drop in on the professor after the show. I was sure he would have no issue sitting down with a promising young drummer like me, a rabid admirer of his work, and chit-chat for a while. After all, I had been a die-hard Rush fan for years. Knew all of his shit. Had copped much of it. I was sure if we had a chance to visit, we would become fast friends. And besides, as a long-time, faithful consumer of Rush albums, concert tix, and merchandise, I had contributed to Mr. Peart’s staggering net worth… to the monthly mortgages of his many mansions. Didn’t this entitle me to a bit of the professor’s time? I was sure he would connect all those dots and agree to converse with me for a mere twenty or thirty minutes post-show, no problem. (Aahhh, the callow mind of a youngster.)


At seventeen...

After the show and beyond the parking lot gridlock, we headed over to the hotel. It was me, my bassist Gary Pinkstaff and, if memory serves, our friend John. Once we got there and cruised up to the 11th floor, my boys thought it would be “less intrusive” if I went up to Mr. Peart’s room alone, at least to start, so they hung back by the elevators. I was a little nervous, of course, but I agreed, then headed down the hallway. Super cool! I thought. I was about to meet one of my heroes.

I could feel an escalation in my pulse as I stood in front of that magic door, took a deep breath, then knocked. Moments later, the door opened, and a very confused, road crew-looking guy with a ball cap, beard, and mustache squinted at me and said, “Yes?” Clearly, this guy was part of the Rush entourage but, for some reason, it didn’t occur to me that I may have had the wrong room. I was thinking he just happened to be in Mr. Peart’s room, and Neil was likely a mere fifteen feet beyond the other side of the door, kicking back on a sofa, watching TV or something.

“Hey! Is Neil around?” I asked casually.

He let out an exasperated sigh. “Man… just go away. Neil does not want to be bothered after a show.”

I was taken aback.

“Well, I just wanted to hang for…”

"I’m telling you. Just go home. He will hate you forever if you bother him.” 

I was stunned by the sheer curtness of this guy’s delivery. Perhaps this was his standard rap for all of the “normal” Rush fans. But me? I was a drummer… pretty damn good, too. I could play 2112 note-for-note. But he just stood there. Adamant.

“Uhh… okay, well… could you just get Neil to sign my ticket stub real quick then?” I said, as I pulled the stub from my front pocket and extended it forward. Again, I was envisioning Neil just beyond the door, ready, willing, and able to sign that ticket, no problem.

“No!” my boy barked back, patience wearing thin. “I’m telling you… he will hate you forever! Just go home.”

And with that, the door closed, and I headed back to the elevator.

Of course, for all that we now know about Mr. Peart’s well-documented reclusiveness, the story is all the more hilarious. But back then, it was pretty devastating. The he will hate you forever thing kept looping in my mind. Damn. What an asshole that guy was, I thought. I’m sure Neil would not be happy to hear about his rudeness to a loyal Rush fan. (Cue the laugh track here.)

I think most of us would agree that knocking on someone’s hotel room door is pretty fucking brazen and terribly intrusive. That said, I think many fans have their own idea about what is reasonable to ask for and, by extension, what the celeb should be willing to do for them. But from the outside looking in, one thing was sure to me that night: if I ever “made it,” I personally would never shun a fan like that, ever. I would talk to anyone, anytime. I would sign anything, anywhere. Furthermore, I would be happy and grateful to be able to do it, and would never fall into this ridiculous temperamental or jaded rock star thing that we often hear about with celebs. I will always remember what it’s like to be a fan and go out of my way to respond accordingly, I told myself.

+ + + + + + +

Precisely one decade later, however, I would be in the throes of an extensive tour at the height of the Nelson era where, indeed: Fans abounded! In hotel lobbies, outside the venues, at truckstops… always there, with vinyl and magazines to sign and Instamatic cameras at the ready… and my philosophy of "unlimited availability always” would be put to the test. 

Part 2 coming at you in the next issue or so.

Which leads us to...

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A Favorite YouTube Vid:
The Crowd Goes Apeshit!




Rush has always been to the music world what Star Trek is to the sci-fi world. Perhaps not everyone’s cup of tea, but those who love them, LOVE them with an unparalleled devotion and reverence. That’s why Rush fans the world over suffered for well over two decades as their heroes were perpetually overlooked by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame committee.

Every year, it was… What the fuck? Run DMC? The Hollies? The motherfuckin’ Beastie Boys? But no Rush? Man, fuck the Rock and Roll Hall of Shame!

But as the old saying goes, every dog has his day, and in 2013, the time had come for that beloved trio from Toronto to enter rock and roll infamy.

Personally, I never paid much attention to the RRHOF happenings, although I was happy to hear about Rush finally getting inducted. These guys worked hard for decades, touring constantly, putting out quality records, playing their ass off every show, and allowing different technologies and trends to influence them while always, unapologetically, staying in their lane and remaining true to their roots and sound. Again, love 'em or hate 'em, you gotta respect ‘em.

And respect never tasted so sweet as the night of their induction.

The video in question is simply the opening three minutes of the RRHOF induction ceremony, where the announcer guy is introducing the year’s inductees. Heavy-hitters, to be sure: “Heart”… applause.  "Albert King"… applause. "Quincy Jones”… applause. Etc. And then, around the 1:30 mark, “And from Toronto…” Boom. The place goes absolutely fucking haywire, and for the next 60 seconds, every Rush fan on the planet is treated to a full orgasmic minute of redemption, as the festivities are put on pause, and our boys from Toronto are “forced” to stand and acknowledge the unprecedented accolades. What a compelling scene. 

And yes, I’ll admit that my eyes get a little misty sometimes when I see this clip because it’s just such a moment… such a lesson in perseverance, in chasing excellence, in embracing one’s true calling, and in living the Hero’s Journey, perpetually. 

Anyway, take a quick peek. It’s really something to behold:

Quote of the Day

Today, I leave you with one of my favorite quotes to contemplate.



"What one can be, one must be.”

Abraham Maslow

Abraham Maslow was a psychologist who specialized in the study of “self-actualization” via a theory he referred to as the Hierarchy of Needs. This quote, to me, best encapsulates his work, as it steers us in the direction of becoming the best version of ourselves, and how and why this is important for both the individual, and the collective.

This is something I think about every day...

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Thanks again, everybody. Connect next week!

Until then,
BR

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