Muffster
08-05-2008, 04:22 PM
Just got done reading the latest news from Neil Peart on his web site at neilpeart.net.
This section about playing in Atlantic City last month is particularly tasty, so I thought I'd share it here:
The arena in Atlantic City was inside a garish casino, where the management held back (denied us and our fans) the front section of seats. Those were “comped” to the “high rollers” (by definition, big losers), and thus we looked out from the stage at the first few rows (the ones we could see most) filled with people who had no idea why they were there except that it was free.
In contrast to our real fans farther back, who would mortgage their Hemispheres picture discs, and perhaps internal organs, to get closer to the stage, we were confronted by mild curiosity at best, and at worst, rude indifference. As the show went on, we started to see empty seats where bored big losers had slipped away, a woman looking down and texting through whole songs, and a pair of slack-jawed, sulking teens (the Beavis and Butthead of the Guitar Hero generation—as Cartman from “South Park” says in the hilarious sample that Geddy uses in “The Trees,” “Real guitars are for old people”) actually yawning. Anyone would agree that yawning is not appropriate behavior at a rock concert. (Vomiting, yes, but not yawning.)
These casino specimens are only noteworthy because they represent such an utter contrast to the audience around them, and to the front rows every other night—smiling, singing, dancing, and cheering people pressed along the barricade and stretching to the far distance. Several nights this summer, during the opening song, “Limelight” (“Living on a lighted stage, approaches the unreal”—still so true!), especially when we were playing outdoors and I could see everybody, I couldn’t help shaking my head in disbelief at the sheer numbers of people out there. “Unbelievable,” I thought, “All of those people spent their money and their time, on this night in this place, to come and see us.”
That realization is somehow humbling—you feel you have to try to earn that, because it’s obvious that those people deserve the best you can give them.
A couple of years ago my father sent me an anecdote about baseball great Joe DiMaggio, telling how a journalist asked The Yankee Clipper why he went out and played so hard every day. Joltin’ Joe replied, “There is always some kid who may be seeing me for the first or last time, I owe him my best.” Dad added that this attitude reminded him of someone else he knew, which made me feel good.
Man, I absolutely love this guy... Always have, always will.
This section about playing in Atlantic City last month is particularly tasty, so I thought I'd share it here:
The arena in Atlantic City was inside a garish casino, where the management held back (denied us and our fans) the front section of seats. Those were “comped” to the “high rollers” (by definition, big losers), and thus we looked out from the stage at the first few rows (the ones we could see most) filled with people who had no idea why they were there except that it was free.
In contrast to our real fans farther back, who would mortgage their Hemispheres picture discs, and perhaps internal organs, to get closer to the stage, we were confronted by mild curiosity at best, and at worst, rude indifference. As the show went on, we started to see empty seats where bored big losers had slipped away, a woman looking down and texting through whole songs, and a pair of slack-jawed, sulking teens (the Beavis and Butthead of the Guitar Hero generation—as Cartman from “South Park” says in the hilarious sample that Geddy uses in “The Trees,” “Real guitars are for old people”) actually yawning. Anyone would agree that yawning is not appropriate behavior at a rock concert. (Vomiting, yes, but not yawning.)
These casino specimens are only noteworthy because they represent such an utter contrast to the audience around them, and to the front rows every other night—smiling, singing, dancing, and cheering people pressed along the barricade and stretching to the far distance. Several nights this summer, during the opening song, “Limelight” (“Living on a lighted stage, approaches the unreal”—still so true!), especially when we were playing outdoors and I could see everybody, I couldn’t help shaking my head in disbelief at the sheer numbers of people out there. “Unbelievable,” I thought, “All of those people spent their money and their time, on this night in this place, to come and see us.”
That realization is somehow humbling—you feel you have to try to earn that, because it’s obvious that those people deserve the best you can give them.
A couple of years ago my father sent me an anecdote about baseball great Joe DiMaggio, telling how a journalist asked The Yankee Clipper why he went out and played so hard every day. Joltin’ Joe replied, “There is always some kid who may be seeing me for the first or last time, I owe him my best.” Dad added that this attitude reminded him of someone else he knew, which made me feel good.
Man, I absolutely love this guy... Always have, always will.
