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.