Rush “Jacob’s Ladder” Permanent Waves Mercury 1980

Permanent Waves (1980) has long been the default favorite Rush platter for devoted fans as well as more casual curiosity-seekers, namely those who realized that the band’s discography extended beyond the 50th daily listen of “Tom Sawyer” on their local classic rock radio station. One of the more frustrating aspects of the group’s massive catalogue is that nearly every full-length is hindered from greatness by the inclusion of at least one god-awful clunker of a tune, a “Closer to the Heart,” if you will, usually buried in the second side somewhere: Moving Pictures (1981) has “Witch Hunt,” Hemispheres (1978) has “The Trees,” the list goes on. The exception, of course, is Permanent Waves, where there arguably isn’t a bad song to be found; some questionable parts, sure, but overall the record holds together remarkably well for a collection of material that’s always seemed to stand in the shadow of its more popular younger sibling. I used to be obsessed with “Jacob’s Ladder” at the height of my Rush fandom years ago, meticulously tapping out the opening 11/4 rhythm in dire anticipation of the explosion of sound that was yet to come minutes later. Speaking strictly in musical terms (i.e. ignoring Peart’s meteorological poetry), this was about as cinematic as the band got, with a pulsing, circular riff in 5/4 conjuring a silver-lined thunderstorm hovering across an open landscape, waiting to strike at any moment. Sure, it may wear out its welcome after a while, but it’s clear that the trio are squarely focused on mood rather than virtuosity here. Halfway through the song Lee begins caressing the keys of his Mini Moog as the clouds suddenly part, revealing “bright, unbroken beams” of sunlight, and yet another knotty time signature is explored, this time a twisting 13/8 that sends Peart into a showboating frenzy. The track concludes with Lee gently thumping out the syncopated rhythm that introduced the song, a nice organic touch to wrap up the first side of the album. Come to think of it, the sequencing of Permanent Waves could be considered one of its few flaws – switch the order of “Jacob’s Ladder” and “Freewill” and listen to how much more improved the pacing and flow of the album is.

Rush “Digital Man” Signals Mercury 1982

In the first 30 seconds of “Digital Man,” Geddy Lee demonstrates why an army of aspiring bassists have been dry-humping the ground he walks on for over three decades now; my jaw was rolling around on the floor the first time I heard this. One of my favorite aspects of Lee’s playing is that despite the overwhelming “slickness” that Rush began to indulge in as the ‘80s wore on – mostly in production values, but also in terms of arranging and songwriting – his bass tone retained this ugly, trenchant presence that lurked around in the mix, bouncing off bar lines, daring Lifeson and Peart to play against it. In regards to pure tone, his closest contemporary that I can come up with is Paul Jackson from Herbie Hancock’s mid-‘70s Headhunters band: fluid and nimble, yet rough around the edges and almost distastefully trebly. I’d like to say that Lee singularly carries the weight of “Digital Man,” such is his dominance here, but the contributions of the guitarist and drummer are critical to the track’s effectiveness. That is, until 2:49, when the group abruptly and quizzically slows the tempo and shifts the key for a blocky, robotic midsection that, lyrics aside, has no business being anywhere near the rest of the song. Otherwise, there’s plenty to like here: Lifeson has a curious phaser-like effect on his guitar that makes it sound almost surreal, Peart gets a chance to throw variously-pitched cowbells into his patterns here and there, and the band clearly enjoys playing the buoyant reggae feel that anchors the song.

“Digital Man” – Rush 6:22 (Signals, Mercury 1982)

Rush “Something for Nothing” 2112 Mercury 1976

I’ve been on a lucky hot streak with these songs since last Wednesday, so it’s inevitable that I would come across a clunker eventually. I’ll swim against the tides and say that I’ve always felt that 2112 (1976) was the most overrated item in the Rush catalogue – groundbreaking as it was for the band then – and “Something for Nothing” only reinforces that opinion. Sure, the album’s title suite is awesome in a ridiculously excessive sort of way, but frankly, the remainder of the record (side B, basically) blows, almost as if the band had exhausted all inspiration during the first side. Critics are swift to point out how derivative the material from Rush’s first couple of records is, but here they are, four albums deep, with a phased acoustic guitar straight out of the Lynyrd Skynyrd playbook and one of the more uninspired chord progressions the trio ever utilized; really, any blues-rock band from the mid-’70s could have written this. Even Peart’s usual lyrical insight called in sick that day, a half-hearted attempt at the “you don’t get anything by sitting around on your ass” working-man philosophy for an album closer. Yeah, I could pretty much live out the rest of my days contentedly without hearing “Something for Nothing” ever again.

Rush “Chain Lightning” Presto Atlantic 1989

At the time of its release, Presto (1989) was heralded with the common critical axiom “a return to form,” although listening back today, it becomes apparent that the band (with producer Rupert Hine) was merely stripping down the synthetic and orchestral excess that Peter Collins had smothered them with on Power Windows (1985) and especially Hold Your Fire (1987). The “form” Rush had been working within had long been established with Signals (1982) (and arguably Moving Pictures [1981]): a strict emphasis on brevity (relatively speaking), ‘traditional’ songwriting structures, and an advanced melodic sensibility light years above the group’s prog-fantasy productions from the ‘70s. Say what you want about the endless layers of shimmering keyboards, the perceptible absence of Lifeson’s guitars, or the lyrical detour from the mystical to the socio-political; most of Rush’s oft-maligned ‘80s material holds up incredibly well in the melody department. And “Chain Lightning” has melody coming out of its ears – I remember as an eleven-year-old continually rewinding my Presto cassette to hear it for the umpteenth time because I couldn’t get enough of it. (It seems odd now that Presto was my first exposure to Rush, but I recall being enamored with the stark black-and-white cover on the day I purchased it from my local Wal-Mart.) Peart’s drums are loud and crisp and rarely sounded better. Lifeson’s guitars blend in seamlessly with the soft colors of keyboards, and Lee’s bass lines are simply stunning, shifting from a firm adherence to root notes to accenting Peart’s fills to harmonizing his own vocal melody. On the surface, the lyrics seem to be cribbed from the notebook margins of a middle-school science-nerd (“Tides respond to lunar gravitation/everything turns in synchronous relation”), but as with most of Peart’s musings, there is a natural phonetic logic to the syllables that’s laugh-out-loud absurd in how impressive they’re assembled (see: “Limelight,” “Subdivisions”). The highlight is undoubtedly Lifeson’s brief solo, which sounds like Sonny Sharrock emulating air-raid sirens. It’s been nearly twenty years since I first heard “Chain Lightning” and dammit, it still rules.

Rush “Xanadu” A Farewell to Kings Mercury 1977

What the hell happened to Alex Lifeson’s guitar tone on A Farewell to Kings (1977)? From Rush (1974) and on through 2112 (1976) he commanded one of the meatiest six-string sounds around, a warm, soupy distortion that blended in marvelously with the rhythm section yet remained its own independent and often lively entity. A Farewell to Kings introduced a thinner, jangly tone (call it “Lifeson-Lite”) that not only didn’t sit well at all in the mix, it somehow managed to dilute the clarity of the other instruments. Yet for some reason, “Xanadu,” the first of the two ten-plus-minute opuses from the record, was able to survive this odd tone disease (albeit likely as a result of heavy multitracking). Undoubtedly the highlight of the record and arguably the trio’s entire ‘70s output, “Xanadu” seems entirely out of place on the selections that comprise A Farewell to Kings, such is its vast superiority to its peers; I was always mildly annoyed that the Powers That Be chose the meandering title track over it for inclusion on Chronicles (1990). This epic (there really isn’t a better word for it) gently opens with an idyllic atmosphere decorated by Lifeson’s guitar swells, bird songs, and Peart’s arsenal of bells and chimes. At 2:03 the blinding rays of heaven’s light suddenly burst forth (I dare you to not get chills here), rocketing the listener into the stratosphere before a cue from the drummer signals an expansive E major section with a spiraling descending riff. Lee’s cheesy synths up the kitsch factor tenfold as he describes searching for the mystical “river Alph” through “caves of ice” and “frozen mountain tops” (the lyrics are adapted from a Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem, if I recall correctly). Not one section here falters in comparison to the others, nor overstays its welcome. Lee’s bass playing is acrobatic-like in his ability to perfectly leap from one chord to the next, and Lifeson rips one of his finest, most warped solos at the conclusion. And for those who have always wondered what the fuss is over Neil Peart’s drumming, “Xanadu” is really all you need; the shit he pulls off here is almost supernatural. The song ends with the clichéd open chord ‘explosion,’ except in this case it’s justified. Even Rush detractors will concede that the band got everything right with this one – “Xanadu” is Rush in its purest form, condensed into an enthralling and unforgettable eleven minutes. It certainly kicks “Closer to the Heart”’s sorry ass.

“Xanadu” – Rush 11:11 (A Farewell to Kings, Mercury 1977)