It was 1987. We took the Long Island Railroad to Penn Station, hopped off, and ambled over to Beefsteak Charlie’s for sirloins, all-you-can-eat salad and all-you-can-drink Pabst Blue Ribbons. Once we were buzzed, we walked into Madison Square Garden and suffered through the opening act by smoking low-quality weed.
We didn’t care about much. We were high school seniors and we were about to see our favorite band, Rush.
We liked the crunching bass and soaring keyboards of singer Geddy Lee, the tonal landscapes of guitarist Alex LIfeson, and the metronomic, mathematical exactitude of the best drummer on the planet, Neil Peart.
We loved the songs — the Ayn Rand-inspired “Freewill,” the apocalyptic future pictured so vividly in the 20 minute, 37 second-long epic “2112,” our favorite new track, “Time Stand Still,” with guest vocals from Aimee Mann, and the space-age good-vs.-evil prog-rock duel known as “By-Tor and the Snowdog.”
After ripping through crowd favorites “The Big Money,” “Subdivisions,” “Limelight,” “Marathon,” and a handful of tunes from the then-new album, “Hold Your Fire,” the Canadian power trio, as they where known by the magazines , were blowing our minds.
Even though the best tickets we could afford from our jobs — at the deli, the cineplex, the seafood restaurant called The Skipper and the Mexican joint called El Mariachi — had us in the blue seats at the very top of the Garden, we were high enough to rise above it all, taking in the massive video screen that showed us the fast fingers of Lee and Lifeson flying on fretboards along Peart’s clockwork precision.
From all the way up there, we could see a show of hands, many of them banging out the drum solos of their dreams in the air. We laughed and high-fived and smoked more, reveling in acting like adults. They played the absolute classics: “YYZ,” with Peart’s long-awaited drum solo. “Tom Sawyer.” “The Spirit of Radio.” “La Villa Strangiato.” This was one of those nights we’d always remember.
It got even more interesting on the way home. More beers were consumed on the way from the Garden seats to Track Number 17, and a curious look from a similarly aged passerby agitated two of my friends. In a flash, two of my 17-year-old friends from the South Shore of the Island were squaring off against two scumbags from the North Shore. Punches flew. One hit my friend Walt in his chin. One punch from Walt hit the other guy on the side of the head, immediately creating a sizable knot. One punch from my friend Matt inexplicably went straight up into the ceiling, busting out a light.
The rest of the night and year was hazy. Summer and our futures were coming fast. We held on to those moments as tightly as they could, but they disappeared like fog from a smoke machine at an arena rock show.
***
It was 2010. We were all turning 40 and decided to have a reunion blowout, renting a house near a lake, playing golf and gambling at the nearby racetrack. A week before we were set to meet, we were all amazed to find out that Rush would be in town.
Our buddy Juan, a millionaire Wall Street trader, scored tickets through a friend of a friend who works on the band’s road crew. We had been napping all afternoon, resting up our tired bones after an early-morning 18-hole workout in 90-degree heat and 90-percent humidity.
Scott had just come off his third knee surgery, and I was still feeling the effects of a stiff neck from sleeping at a weird angle on my Tempur-Pedic pillow the week before. J-Man was complaining of a “summer cold” and Juan had strained a hamstring climbing subway stairs. Fortunately, our buddy Dan had smartly brought along a top-rated organic sunscreen that used zinc oxide instead of chemicals, so none of us was too red from the long day in the sun.
We got to the parking lot a bit late, but Juan blew by the teenage attendant and weaseled us into a VIP spot. As we waited in the line to pick up our tickets, we heard Lifeson’s unmistakable guitar riff to kick off “The Spirit of Radio,” followed by the roar of the sold-out crowd. “Time Stand Still” was next, and Lee, almost 57 years old, couldn’t hit the high notes. We walked to our seats. J-Man cringed and turned to me. “He sounds terrible,” he said.
We bought beers and dutifully poured them into cups during “Presto” and were then led to our seats –- fifth row, right in front of Lifeson and not far from the massive, all-consuming speakers. Once we could see the stage, we noticed that it was designed in the theme of the “Time Machine” tour. We looked around the venue and noticed we were in a time machine of our own. Almost every person in the audience was a 40-ish-year-old dude. Almost all were playing air drums, as usual. Almost all were having a great time.
And aside from Lee’s struggles with the higher register of his falsetto, the band was still brilliant, making some of the most ridiculous chord progressions, tempo changes and solos in rock history look just as easy –- and maybe easier –- than ever before. From “Freewill” to “Subdivisions” to their bold undertaking of the entire “Moving Pictures” album in order and onward to the well-received set closers “Closer to the Heart,” “La Villa Strangiato” and “Working Man,”
But there was a slight problem. The music was too loud. Way too loud. And despite the fact that we all eventually managed to get earplugs from the vendors on the concourse, we still could barely hear each other above the ringing in our ears as we drove back into town to close down a few of the bars.
We went into the first place, a local college haunt packed to the gills in fire-hazard fashion. We didn’t even make it to the bar before opting to leave and avoid claustrophobia and/or heat exhaustion. We found a more mellow place with a jazz guitarist and watched the ESPN highlights while drinking Miller Lite.
The next morning, three of us woke up with what we determined would be minor but temporary hearing loss in our left ears. We decided not to play golf. Too hot, and it would probably be more fun to just sit around by the pool, play a backyard shuffleboard-type game called Cornhole, and have a nice sushi dinner in town.
While the beanbags were flying the diving board was rocking up and down and the beer started to flow again, I figured out how to get the iPod to play on the rental house’s stereo system and be heard outside.
I put on Rush’s “Time Stand Still” and cranked it up. For a minute, I didn’t consider it insane to think we could all do this again when we turn 60.
***
Today’s Tom Dinard, mean, mean pride …
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I am going backward in time through the Tom Dinard archive, and I have to say it: Whoa. I mean, THIS IS the actual Tom Dinard. This is autobiography. Shit. “Cast Again” read like fiction, and that was cool, but this is even better. One has to wonder: Was the South Shore vs. North Shore fray what sealed Dinard’s fate as a sportswriter? Jesus, that one kid literally punched a light out. You talk about freewill.
whaaa?????