Rush “Vital Signs” Moving Pictures Mercury 1981

I’d like to say that “Vital Signs” represents the culmination of four weeks of intense, detailed Rush song examinations, but in all reality, it was the only track name from their ’74-’89 era that served well as a title for this site’s whole overindulgent mess of an experiment. Some would argue that the song concludes one of the group’s more mediocre second halves of a record, but while “Vital Signs” may not conform to that every-track-is-a-hit quality so characteristic of the first side of Moving Pictures (1981), it’s not without its curiosities. Lifeson takes a page (or in this case, an entire chapter) from Andy Summers’ technique and guitar tone and is oddly shoved to the far left of the stereo field, Peart uses the opportunity to try out one of his brand-new electric snare pads (his first instance, if I’m not mistaken), and Lee alternates between his choppy arpeggiated synth and an almost distorted bass, climaxing in one of his finest four-string solos on record. It’s probably most notable as the band’s first blatant flirtation with reggae, but arguably more than any other song in the group’s catalogue, “Vital Signs” hovers unsteadily between their ‘classic rock’ heritage and the electronics-dominated material of their ‘80s work. On a more personal level, the song contains my favorite of Peart’s lyrics, with lines like “Everybody need a sub-filter” and “Warm memory chip, random sample hold the one you need,” but that’s only because I’m a closet tech-geek who eats shit like that up without a trace of shame. Rush had a tendency to place a good deal of emotional emphasis on their album closers starting with 1977’s A Farewell to Kings, and “Vital Signs” follows in that tradition quite nicely.

“Vital Signs” – Rush 4:47 (Moving Pictures, Mercury 1981)

And so concludes my month-long analysis of one of the most equally revered and maligned bands of the past half-century. We’ve laughed, we’ve cried, but mostly the majority of you cried (myself included at times), which is why I can announce with pleasure and a generous heaping of relief that regular posting will resume next week. As for my collection of Rush discs, I’ll be filing them away for an extended yet undetermined length of time, so to anyone reading this, formulating that email or comment on my pedestrian interpretations of Neil Peart’s lyrics or wanting to spark discussions regarding the unrecognized brilliance of albums like Caress of Steel (1975) or Hold Your Fire (1987): I’m all set for now, thanks.

Rush “Kid Gloves” Grace Under Pressure Mercury 1984

The more I return to Grace Under Pressure (1984), the more I regret those years of ignoring it and wishing I had grabbed my copy of Signals (1982) instead during the few occurrences when it actually got play time on my stereo. If one album has retroactively benefited from this ridiculous month-long overindulgence on All Things Rush it’s this one, which I’d always unfairly considered the first installment of the band’s mid-‘80s trilogy of digital sterility, completed by Power Windows (1985) and Hold Your Fire (1987). Not that the record is without its flaws (”Red Lenses”), but tracks like “Kid Gloves” make me wonder why the hell fans were so quick to lament the loss of Lifeson’s guitar playing upon its release. From the chunky 5/4 riff he uses to introduce the song through the dense open chords during the chorus, the guitarist is ripping through the mix here with some of his most visceral playing on tape; sadly, it would be quite some time after this that we’d hear it again. Unsurprisingly, Peart’s lyrics are probably best ignored (“Then you learn the lesson that it’s tough to be so cool”), although a minor note could be added that they follow in the theme of schoolyard peer pressure introduced on Signals’ “Subdivisions” and followed by “The Pass” from Presto (1989). I never gave “Kid Gloves” the time of day when fellow Rush diehards suggested it upon my uninformed opinion that Grace Under Pressure was “the beginning of the band’s Dark Age,” but my folly will haunt me for weeks on this one. Maybe not “weeks,” but certainly for days. Hours, really. Anyone seen my copy of Signals?

Rush “Natural Science” Permanent Waves Mercury 1980

Permanent Waves’ (1980) closing opus “Natural Science” has famously topped many a Rush fan’s list of Favorite Songs Ever by the band, and upon first listen it’s not too difficult to understand why, as it presents in nine minutes the distillation of why listeners shit themselves silly at the mere mention of the Canadian power trio. Checklist, please: pastoral acoustic bits, warped riffage in odd time signatures, synthesizer parts that complement rather than dominate, instrumental showcases for each member, brief but electrifying Lifeson solos, environmentally-conscious “thinking man” lyrics, polyrhythmic drumming – I could go on for hours. I’ve probably heard this track hundreds of times over the years of my Rush appreciation, yet in researching it I discovered that it’s actually divided into three sub-sections: “Tide Pools,” “Hyperspace,” and “Permanent Waves.” Which probably means little to the novice listener but it does help to make sense of Peart’s lyrics, which somehow manage to connect the birth of the universe, the honest man’s place in the world, and Intro to Marine Science into one semi-coherent narrative, even if it borders on preachy at times. Frankly, I’d rather marvel at how the cheesy reverse-reverb and astromech-droid effects on Lee’s vocals still sound awesome, and how Peart’s muscular, almost inhuman drumming seems unstoppable at times. Critics who have commented on “Natural Science”’s seemingly awkward musical structure and non-interlocking parts obviously never reached the 7:18 mark, where the six-note motif that holds the entire song together reveals itself like the last crucial piece of the puzzle that had been missing all along. And yet another reason is uncovered as to why Permanent Waves finds itself as the Desert Island disc of choice among hardcore Rush geeks.

“Natural Science” – Rush 9:16 (Permanent Waves, Mercury 1980)

Rush “Madrigal” A Farewell to Kings Mercury 1977

When the dragons grow too mighty
To slay with pen or sword,
I grow weary of the battle
And the storm I walk toward.

And the world was introduced to “Madrigal,” the brief interlude that divides “Cinderella Man” and “Cygnus X-1” on the second half of A Farewell to Kings (1977).  The track’s two-and-a-half-minute runtime is its greatest asset, long enough to be rightly considered a ‘composition’ yet its brevity deterring anyone from taking the needle off the record and reaching for their copy of 2112 (1976).  Other than a nice chorus effect on Lee’s bass, there’s nothing too noteworthy here, although Peart’s entrance halfway through almost sounds like a drum machine, such is his minimal timekeeping.  I can’t see “Madrigal” as a show highlight on the band’s tour in the fall of ’77, but it’s an interesting little relic from the group’s swords-and-sorcery phase, even if few other items in the Rush catalogue better embody the concept of ‘album filler’ than this.

Rush “Superconductor” Presto Atlantic 1989

One of the features that made Presto (1989) so enthralling upon its release – other than Rush’s near-disposal of the glittery synths that stifled their previous three records, and which I’ve already digressed upon ad nauseam – was a return to the unconventional time signatures and stop-start patterns that the trio used to execute flawlessly during their ‘70s heyday. “Superconductor” opens side two with a bang, jumping right into a blues-like 7/8 (or as close as one could get) that the band handles effortlessly, almost as if the robotic pulses of Power Windows (1985) never existed. The spotlight is on Lifeson for this one: his slinky melodic line during the pre-chorus probably would have been played by one of Lee’s dozen keyboards a few years earlier, but he clearly relishes his role here, adding some thick, reverberating delay to his chords during the chorus. By the second verse, Peart is already bored with the 7/8 and begins playing other counts against it, first a standard 4/4 then a waltz-like 3/4; the effect is dizzying but naturally, Lee and Lifeson are unfazed in the least. Peart’s drumming during the remainder of the track is phenomenal, in fact, and would normally be the focus here, but it’s such a breath of fresh air to hear Lifeson in this context without an army of synthesizers threatening to silence him should he distinguish himself too much. I can’t help but exhale a loud, restless sign by the time the band changes the key for a third time at 3:55, but otherwise, “Superconductor” is one of the group’s better late-‘80s outings.