Mountains Come Out of the Sky

by Will Romano

  As soon as the initial shock wore off, some began questioning the band’s next move. Rush had been out of the record-making game for years—an eternity by pop music standards. “I’d say [to these people] that it was hard for me to explain ... but I can’t think about that now. I think of it as a guy I’ve known for most of my life who’s gone through this awful thing,” Lee said. “We were worried about him.”

  Peart took some time to find himself again, get away from Canada and see the U.S. He didn’t let his grief destroy him. “With what [Peart] went through, I am surprised the man got out of bed for two years,” Danniels said.

  “It was a tough road for him: I don’t know how he survived it,” Lee said.

  CLOSER TO THE HEART

  I caught up with Lee when he had finished his solo debut, 2000’s My Favorite Headache, a record Lee called a “recuperative” project, and after we spoke, an announcement was made that Peart had rejoined Rush. The band was formulating plans to write material for a new studio album, soon to be titled Vapor Trails.

  “Neil is feeling more positive these days,” Lee said at that time. “I think he’s ready for work.... I would say that it’s a very positive time at the moment.”

  But it was slow going at first. Lee said the first few months of writing for the then-upcoming studio record was difficult. Lee and Lifeson had been apart for years, and the first experiments in collaborating “we were not thrilled about,” Lee said. “We worked very hard for about four months, and then we took a break.”

  When Lee and Lifeson reconvened, they immediately went to work on some of the problem areas of their writing approach. In blister-breaking moments of discovery, the pair jammed in July 2001. A good portion of the record was based on those jams. “Then everybody was more confident and everyone was more focused and more determined [to write and record], and we had a clear picture of what the job was,” Lee said.

  “You have to go through certain motions to get to the point where you are confident in your hands and in your head an in your heart, and [that] takes a while,” said Lifeson.

  Lifeson and Lee had been jamming for the better part of a week without discussing song structure or arrangements—just playing—when they called old trusted friend Paul Northfield to seek his opinion as an “objective sounding board” and ask him to report on the progress of the boys’ work.

  Northfield also assisted Lee and Lifeson with arrangements, slugged it out with Lifeson to achieve appropriate (read: extra-aggressive) guitar tones, and created an environment in which Peart could rehearse his drum parts. “[Northfield] was a busy boy,” Lee said.

  “It was an emotional record for them to do,” says coproducer Northfield. “Neil’s trauma and drama of losing his daughter and wife within the space of a year ... [H]e may never have recorded or played again.... When he started that record, he hadn’t played drums for about two years. He certainly didn’t pick up a pair of drumsticks for eighteen months after his daughter died.”

  “It was important to create an atmosphere around him that was gentle [and] private, and one that allowed him to be nurtured,” Lee said. “A lot of the early stages of the project were about that: Alex and I trying to find each other as playing partners and [the] three of us trying to develop a comfortable environment where we [could] get beyond our emotions and get beyond the past and get into what we love doing, which is making music.”

  Vapor Trails exposed the band’s raw musical nerve. Lee called the record “rich and quite a meal. It’s the longest Rush record by far we have ever done, and a certain level of intensity seems to exist from song to song that, I think, we set out to do.”

  Rush (1974)

  Fly By Night (1975)

  2112 (1976)

  Permanent Waves (1980)

  Signals (1982)

  Grace Under Pressure (1984)

  “There’s still a tension there,” Lifeson chimed in.

  “On past records we had a tendency to focus on intense sound and not intense performance, and that was something Alex was tuned in on very early,” Lee said. “I think he was the first one who mentioned there should be more life playing.”

  Given the circumstances, it’s amazing the band recorded such a coherent record. Songs include “Ghost Rider” (a commentary on the road winding out in front of Peart—and away from his old life), “Ceiling Unlimited” (about madness masked by grief, hope as an eternal spring), “Sweet Miracle” (on finding love), “Nocturne” (a poignant song about working through the day’s problems on a subconscious level, in your sleep: “In a way, [Peart’s] nightmares were helping him sort out his situation,” Lee said. “At the end of this incredible night of dreams, he woke up and realized what he had to do next”), and opener “One Little Victory” (about not taking life for granted).

  “[‘One Little Victory’] makes a statement about being back, at the same time dealing with every little success you have and how you measure it,” Lifeson offered.

  Arguably, without Vapor Trails, the band couldn’t have written 2007’s studio effort, Snakes & Arrows (produced by Nick Raskulinecz)—a tighter, more cohesive record. By 2007, Peart (seemingly) had time to decipher what the hell his life meant as well as focus on the events unfolding on the global stage—everything from war to religious radicalism.

  Songs such as “Far Cry,” “The Larger Bowl,” “The Way the Wind Blows,” and “Faithless” recall themes from earlier Rush lyrics but benefit from a new perspective. Peart isn’t repudiating his former beliefs: He’s simply presenting a clearer, stronger case for them (e.g., “Faithless,” a biting critique of organized faith, stresses individualism and the power of love).

  Despite the deep subject matter, the lyrics are generally life-affirming, not bleak or desolate. “[They’re] sometimes just telling it like it is,” Lee said in 2007.

  “Some people say we never left progressive rock, and some people lament the fact that we don’t write any more twenty-minute songs,” Lee said. “It’s hard to look backward, but if we find ourselves at a point where we think it is appropriate to do a twenty-minute song again, I certainly wouldn’t discount it.”

  As of this writing Rush are on a new high. After spending time on the road, motorcycling through America to clear his mind, Peart remarried and appears to have turned a page in his life. The band has been touring regularly since 2002, releasing live albums and concert DVDs filmed in places from Germany to the U.S. to Brazil. It seems fans and critics alike have taken notice.

  As the years have gone by (and particularly in the 2000s), with the global reach of the Internet, Rush’s stature has grown in the music community. Incredibly, Rolling Stone magazine, not always the friendliest to prog bands, featured Rush in a multipage article in 2008; hip political spoofster Stephen Colbert of Comedy Central’s The Colbert Report interviewed the band and surrendered the television studio floor to them (twice); Jason Segel and Paul Rudd develop bromantic feelings when they discover a common love of Rush in the comedy flick I Love You, Man (Rush even make a cameo appearance in the film); a children’s choir sings “The Spirit of Radio” for a climactic scene in the supernatural thriller White Noise 2; bands from Dream Theater, Savatage, and Queensryche, to Fates Warning, King’s X, Metallica, Megadeth, and Foo Fighters are unabashed in claims of being influenced by Rush. Rush are even featured in the popular video game Guitar Hero 5.

  Either the band has recruited new fans over the last decade, or decision makers at major publications, gaming manufacturers, and Hollywood production studios were raised on “Tom Sawyer.”

  “As we age, the ratio of bad press to good has gone up in our favor substantially,” Lee said. “There is a definite school that says rock should be pure and be approached in a particular way, and because we mixed everything up, we are fusion artists [we were criticized]. We mix up all kinds of stuff: Sometimes we get very technical—maybe that’s not in the same spirit that some critics believe in, which is fine for them. [But] there’s a place for bombast in the world, and it’
s fun to do.”

  Power Windows (1985)

  Hold Your Fire (1987)

  A Show of Hands (1989)

  Presto (1989)

  Time to Roll (1992, bootleg)

  Snakes & Arrows (2007)

  Courtesy of Naoju Nakamura)

  U.K.

  Sunset on the Empire?

  IT WAS A STRANGE TIME FOR THE progressive rocker: The music press in America—and Europe—launched an all-out offensive to eradicate prog from the planet. If you played a Moog, you were Public Enemy Number One; diddled your guitar strings for more than a few seconds, you were a wanker; left time in your set for a drum solo, you were predictable, boring, and self-indulgent.

  Yet despite the open hostility, the “twilight years” of the genre (or so the history books might describe them), comprising roughly 1977 through 1980—an era in which the classic progressive bands were changing their M.O. and the ascendancy of a new form of popular music was unavoidable and inevitable—produced some of the genre’s most potent, enduring, and stellar outings.

  Peruse some of the titles that appeared when the genre was said to be in decline: Songs from the Wood (by Jethro Tull); A Farewell to Kings and Hemispheres (Rush); Going for the One (Yes); Animals (Pink Floyd); Wind & Wuthering (released at the end of ’76) and the double live Seconds Out (Genesis); the Homeric The Odyssey, a Peter Jenner—produced effort featuring Mike Oldfield and future Police guitarist Andy Summers (David Bedford); World Record (Van der Graaf Generator); Forse le Lucciole Non Si Amano Più, one of the finest late-70s Italian progressive rock records, largely the work of keyboardist Michele Conta and guitarist Alberto Gaviglio (Locanda delle Fate); the ELP-ESQUE Symphonic Pictures, Sunburst, and Ticket to Everywhere (Schicke, Führs & Fröhling); Live, Listen Now!, and KScope (Phil Manzanera and Phil Manzanera’s 801); National Health’s self-titled debut; Somewhere I’ve Never Traveled (Ambrosia); Atlantis-inspired concept record Ocean (Eloy); fantasy-based Rockpommel’s Land (Grobschnitt); and Hungarian band Omega’s Idrabló (English version: Time Robber) and Csillagok útján (English version: Skyrover).

  “Punk was just starting to happen, but it was still a great time for progressive rock,” says Eloy guitarist, vocalist, and founder Frank Bornemann. Britain did prog rock bigger and arguably better than anyone. So it’s no surprise that in the genre’s supposed darkest hours, the northern island held its ground and produced a leading light of visionary music: the briefly burning but brilliant band U.K.

  If ELP were the first prog rock supergroup, then U.K. were the last great one, culling the talents of drummer Bill Bruford, bassist/vocalist John Wetton, keyboardist/violinist Eddie Jobson (Roxy Music, Zappa, Curved Air), and soon-to-be jazz-rock guitar god Allan Holdsworth (Soft Machine, Tempest, Tony Williams Lifetime). Quite rightly and shrewdly, these stalwarts ignored the punk revolution and partied like it was 1969.

  The band was separated into two camps: Bruford and Holdsworth on one side and Wetton and Jobson on the other—four musicians embracing rock, hard rock, pop, jazz-fusion, ambient, European art music, classical, and something else entirely.

  “You had these two jazz guys [Bruford and Holdsworth], and then you had these glamour pop and rock guys [Eddie Jobson and John Wetton],” says Stephen W Tayler, a former Trident Studios engineer who got the call to engineer the U.K. debut. (Tayler had worked with producer/Brand X keyboardist Robin Lumley on the 1978 Bruford record, Feels Good to Me, featuring Holdsworth). “The band was split down the middle.”

  Looking at the writing credits, this would appear to be the case. Wetton and Jobson wrote or cowrote nearly all of the material. “It was always really Eddie’s project and mine, and we were the two protagonists,” Wetton told the author in 1995.

  While this was the case, allowing the “pop” side of the quartet to lead the way was sure to cause controversy. “There wasn’t a lot of compromise on that first record,” says Jobson. “We all did what we did and somehow it came together. Everybody had a strong identity and had been doing what they did for so long that difficulties arose when there was a call for compromise. I think in those early days, just getting together and fighting for what you wanted in the rehearsal and just going in for a fairly short time and recording it yielded a pretty good result.”

  “U.K. didn’t really want a producer for the project,” adds Tayler. “To be honest, it was a lot of responsibility for me.... Often I felt I was in the middle of all of this stuff and I was just having to get on with the work. A lot of the record was done individually, unlike [with] Brand X. This was very much bass and drum going down with a bit of a token keyboard or guitar. Allan ... was a very solitary character. He was very sensitive to people around him during that time. He liked to work on his own, just with me a lot of the time. Even on Bill’s records he did [this]....I loved working with him, but it felt like he .

  .. didn’t like being tied down to the structure of the music and wanted to just play. I think he felt he was required to play riffs on parts ... which he certainly didn’t like.

  “Then [Holdsworth] would argue with Bill, even though they were kind of coming from the same side,” Tayler continues. “They were very much looking out for themselves. This is what produced a brilliant album, but I wouldn’t say they were really pulling together. It is an unusual record because it does seem to walk that line between the real progressive rock side and jazz. I can tell you that the record was cut in winter, 1977 into 1978,” says Tayler. “It was dark outside, it was dark in the studio, and the mood surrounding the project was quite dark.”

  This darkness is reflected in the music. From the thirteen-minute opening suite (“In the Dead of Night/By the Light of Day/Presto Vivace and Reprise”) through to “Thirty Years,” “Alaska” (the side-two opener), “Time to Kill,” “Nevermore,” and “Mental Medication,” the band complements themes of despair, lucidity (or lack thereof), denial, illusion, and the ravages of time with musical moments of luminescence and shadow.

  U.K.: Danger Money (1979)

  U.K.: s/t (1978)

  U.K.: Live:

  Night After Night (1980)

  Roxy Music: Stranded (1973)

  Roxy Music: Siren (1975)

  Eddie Jobson: Zinc (The Green Album) (1983)

  U.K., 79. Left to right: Eddie Jobson, John Wetton, and Terry Bozzio. The emotional arc of guitarist Allan Holdsworth’s solos was missed. (Courtesy of EG and Polydor)

  “My writing is often inspired by a great sound, and in the case of U.K., most of the writing was done on the Yamaha CS-80,” says Jobson, who also dazzles with his Plexiglas electric violin throughout the U.K. debut. “I was lucky enough to buy the first one in England—right before the beginning of the U.K. project. I usually find a sound and then it makes me want to write something around it. That could be a synthesizer sound like [on] ‘Alaska,’ an instrumental song that came about because I found the sound I liked on the CS-80 synthesizer.”

  When the record was completed, U.K. had achieved a true fusion of musical styles and had produced, arguably, one of the last groundbreaking progressive rock albums of the 1970s. Yet even this confirmed musical success couldn’t motivate the quartet to remain a unit. Wetton asked Bruford to leave at the close of the band’s first world tour, Holdsworth bolted to rejoin the drummer’s jazz-rock band, and the Wetton-Jobson writing team was free to pursue poppier pastures. The band would continue through the end of the decade as a three-piece with Jobson, Wetton, and Zappa alumnus and percussion phenom Terry Bozzio handling drum duties.

  “When you get people together of such varying backgrounds, and there is such a great divide between those backgrounds, everybody feels, ‘Well, I don’t need to make that much effort to accommodate a person on the other end of the spectrum,’” Jobson reasons. “Just doing that one record, or at least the touring afterward, I think everybody, particularly the people on the outside edges, which was probably John on the one side and Allan on the other, the differences start to really become exaggerated. Those tensions tend to man
ifest themselves in a more pronounced way, I think. That’s why the original band did not last very long.”

  U.K. never recaptured the original lineup’s odd chemistry and creativity, although the band’s sophomore effort, Danger Money, and the live recording from Japan, Night After Night, have their moments.

  “I’ve found that every record that I’ve ever done has impacted somebody somewhere,” says Jobson. “For whatever reason, listeners have that one record for which it all comes together. That’s one of the more fulfilling aspects [of] recording. You usually don’t find out about it for twenty years. Someone comes up to you and says, ‘You know, that one record you made changed my life.’”

  (Ebet Roberts/Getty Images)

  THE RETURN OF THE KING (CRIMSON)

  ROBERT FRIPP’S WITHDRAWAL FROM HIS MUSICAL LIFE IN general, his life apart from England in New York City, his spiritual self-discipline to effect change, and his application of the philosophical concept of “small independent mobile intelligent unit” were filtered and translated into the schizophrenic 1980s Crimson edition—lineups composed of tiny units, or two halves, completing the whole.

  “King Crimson lives in different bodies at different times, and the particular form [that] the group takes changes,” Fripp once said. “When music which only King Crimson can play, then, sooner or later, King Crimson appears to play the music.”