On Jan. 10, 2020, my Facebook feed exploded as friend after friend shared the shocking news that Rush drummer Neil Peart had died at the age of 67. This moment of collective grief not only afflicted my circle of lifelong prog rock geeks, with whom I’d been friends for decades, but many other GenXers and younger acquaintances who, unbeknownst to me, were fond of the supremely uncool Toronto trio. Among Rush’s loyal fanbase, it hit as hard as the deaths of David Bowie, Prince, or even Kurt Cobain.
We were still in the first Trump presidency, and the COVID lockdowns were just around the corner. It was a dark time, and some of us even harboured the notion that Peart — the “ Professor” or “Bubba,” as he was known to his intimates — had chosen the perfect time to shuffle off this mortal coil. What we didn’t know was that he had battled glioblastoma for three and a half years — the same aggressive brain cancer that took the life of The Tragically Hip frontman Gord Downie. The two men took radically different approaches to living with the illness: Downie publicly shared his terminal diagnosis and took his band on the road, while Peart retreated to his Los Angeles home, sharing the news o only with his family, closest friends, and select musical comrades.
Five years earlier, after the band had played the final show of its R40 tour, Peart stepped out from behind his massive kit to take a bow — the first time he’d done so in four decades — a solemn and silent gesture signalling his retirement from drumming and the end of Rush. It was obvious to long-time fans like me that the dream was over for the foreseeable future, perhaps forever.
I grew up on Rush. I was a pimply, air-drumming teenager who rode his bike everywhere and prefaced every high-school and CÉGEP essay with a Neil Peart lyric. I am now a grey-haired, bass-playing writer who rides whenever he can. And I can still mime every stroke and drumfill of “Tom Sawyer” with invisible sticks and pedals on an imaginary Tama Artstar double bass drum kit. (It’s candy apple red, just like the one Neil played for a good chunk of the 80s.)
My first Rush concert was on April 9, 1983, at the Montreal Forum, during the Signals tour. I was 17 and “Subdivisions,” a synth-driven song about suburban alienation, felt like the story of my life. I even looked like the video-gaming nerd in the music video. There were projections, a flurry of chords and notes from guitarist Alex Lifeson, and a frenzy of movement as Geddy Lee bounced around the stage, singing, playing bass, and noodling with keyboards. Most importantly, there was a thunderous drum solo. The performance sealed the deal on a lifelong love affair.
Fast-forward to this summer: Quebec’s Angine de Poitrine is the hottest band in the world. Weirdos playing complex music in odd time signatures are back in style, and the impossible has happened: Rush is back on the road. In 2025, Geddy and Alex recruited drummer Anika Niles — a YouTube phenom who parlayed her chops into a gig with guitar legend Jeff Beck — to sit in for Neil. For the first time, they’ve added a touring keyboardist, Loren Gold, who previously toured with The Who.
It’s a glorious time to be a Rush fan. The band’s Fifty Something tour was announced last October, while I was in Tokyo, and friends in Montreal made sure I had a ticket to one of the Toronto shows. Friends and family from B.C., Detroit, and Cleveland also bought tickets to the Scotiabank Arena shows (partly to see the band on its home turf and partly because the initial run of 22 North American dates didn’t include their cities).
We had nine months to dream and speculate about the shows as the tour added cities and expanded into Europe. News trickled out that the band was rehearsing 40 songs. That meant multiple set lists, a first in Rush history, and a welcome development given the band’s multiple two- and four-night stands. What tracks would make the cut? How would they sound? How were they getting along with Anika? Could she fill Neil’s shoes? Would Loren play Geddy’s iconic synth riffs and solos, or was he just there to add colour?
Another shocker came on March 29, when the band opened the 2026 Juno Awards in Hamilton before an audience of industry insiders, music fans, and select Rush nerds. It was a “surprise” appearance; the news “leaked” to its fan club the previous day, and they reserved a block of discounted tickets for those “in the know.” A flurry of messages hit my phone, so I grabbed a general admission seat on the floor, booked an Airbnb, and drove to Hamilton. I was living the dream, and my friends were living it through me. I’d be part of Rush history and in the audience when the reformed band hit the stage for its very first performance.
When Alex Lifeson ripped into the opening riff of “Working Man” — the first track on the band’s debut album — I let out a roar. What I didn’t know then was that those opening notes signalled the start of what I came to call my “Summer of Rush.”
That single song performance was pure adrenaline and rock-and-roll magic. Geddy hit notes that had eluded him since the 1990s, and Anika brought technique and ferocity to the performance . She was fast, skilled, and had groove. As the kids say, she understood the assignment; here was someone who could honour the “Professor” and breathe new life into a catalogue that spans decades, while Loren helped flesh out the band’s studio sound on the road. Most importantly, the quartet was having fun. Lifeson and Lee were jumping and clowning around as if decades had melted off their 70-something bodies. I was floating for the rest of the night, and my summer became a countdown to the hometown shows.
The tour began in earnest on July 7 at the Kia Forum in Los Angeles, the same venue where Neil had stepped to the front of the stage to bid his fans adieu eleven years earlier. The eyes of a world substantially changed — darker in many ways — were suddenly on Rush. Technology was front and centre; some fans livestreamed the show on TikTok and Facebook, while others recorded it, uploading high-quality video to YouTube in the days that followed.
I spent three nights watching pixelated phone footage with stuttering sound, but what I saw brought tears of joy as I texted friends in other cities who were doing the same. When better footage hit YouTube, I started following the tour virtually as show after show was posted online
The collective experience was remarkable. I would laugh and cry, sing along, fist-pump, and air-drum to smartphone footage as if I were there, all the while texting friends in other cities. Then I’d hit Facebook to interact with folks who had witnessed the shows in person. It was a new experience for me, mostly because Rush had always been that nerd band that other people liked. Suddenly, my friends and I were cool because Rush had finally gone viral.
I originally had a ticket for the August 11 show, thanks to my buddies in Montreal, but I scored a last-minute seat for the 9th. Having followed the tour’s progression, I knew that the earlier show — the second of four in Toronto — would feature a complete performance of the sci-fi epic “2112.” The latter show would include a full performance of Moving Pictures, the 1981 album largely hailed as the band’s most accomplished work, as well as “La Villa Strangiato,” a multipart instrumental with what I consider the greatest guitar solo of all time. Needless to say, I was chuffed.
I went solo the first night. I had a delightful pre-show chat with prog rocker Kevin Comeau of Crown Lands and band’s drum tech and occasional second drummer Graham Shaw, and I bonded with a young man next to me who had flown in from Italy. We sang and danced, chatted with the couple behind us, and hugged at the end of the show. I swore a lot; I express myself in expletives—and many “fuck yeahs” were uttered. There were too many highlights to share here, but I remember thinking, at the explosive conclusion of “2112,” that this was the first night of the rest of my life — though not in a clichéd manner. Seeing my lifelong heroes rock out so energetically at their age had me thinking,“Growing old is not so bad. I’m good with this.” I had come full circle. The overly serious, philosophical teen who had discovered the band decades ago was now a lighthearted but philosophical old fart.
The second show was a gathering of out-of-town friends. I dined with my American friends and their prog-obsessed buddies, danced and sang with my Montreal crew of 30-odd years, and had a nightcap with my partner’s West Coast niece and her husband. There was a lot of talk about Neil. Although he was absent, his presence was keenly felt. The Toronto concerts — indeed, the whole tour — are a testament to his legacy, both through the performance of his lyrics and through explicit, heartfelt tributes; we were all there to honour and remember him.
Again, the performance was dazzling, with a varied setlist including “Red Sector A,” a synth-driven song about the liberation of a concentration camp. Although the lyrics are Neil’s, they are made more potent when sung by Geddy, whose mother survived Auschwitz and was liberated from Bergen-Belsen. This is part of the lore Rush fans have shared for decades, borne of hours spent scrutinizing lyrics, album liner notes, and band interviews. It is our collective unconscious — to borrow a term from Swiss psychoanalyst Carl Jung — and its public manifestation is legions of air-drummers in concert shirts.
I thought that was the end of my Summer of Rush, but there was one last item on my agenda — and it came as a surprise because I hadn’t been paying attention. On Sept. 16, the documentary Neil Peart: No One’s Disciple had its world premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival. The brainchild of directors Scot McFadyen and Sam Dunn (whose 2010 Rush: Beyond the Lighted Stage is canon for fans of the band), the film opens with Geddy and Alex in a wine cellar reminiscing about their dearly departed bandmate over steak dinners, with a glass of The Macallan 12 (Peart’s favourite whiskey) standing in for the drummer.
It then segues into the film’s central premise: Lifeson and Lee have invited four legendary drummers — Tool’s Danny Carey, Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Chad Smith, Stewart Copeland of The Police, and Gavin Harrison of Porcupine Tree and King Crimson — to jam with them on iconic Rush songs, including “Tom Sawyer,” “New World Man,” and “2112 Overture.” Watching these men, all real-life friends of Peart, tackle his intricate drum parts is wondrous to behold. Seeing them grapple with the complexity of his rhythmic constructions shows how gifted he was. Although fans recognize his talent, having professionals confirm our beliefs lends credence to our admiration.
These sessions provide a framework for exploring Neil’s life, cutting back and forth between archival footage and interviews; however, they mostly focus on his musical rather than personal affairs. The notoriously private drummer shied away from the limelight (even penning a song about it). Nevertheless, the film draws on Ghost Riders: Travels on the Healing Road, the 2002 memoir about taking to the road on his BMW R1100GS motorcycle after losing his 19-year-old daughter, Serena, in 1997, and his common-law wife, Jackie, shortly thereafter.
Peart remarried in 2009, but his second wife, Carrie Nuttall, and daughter Olivia do not appear in the doc. Their absence comes as no surprise to fans of the publicity-shy drummer who kept quiet about his home life. However, Geddy and Alex, alongside the “brotherhood of drummers,” Vertical Horizon frontman Matt Scannell, and lifelong friend Brad French provide insight into Neil’s final years, touchingly recalling that Bubba knew something was wrong when he started having trouble solving crossword puzzles.
The film expands on stories fans have heard a thousand times, including Peart’s audition to replace outgoing drummer John Rutsey and his decision to take lessons with jazz musician Freddie Gruber in the 1990s to reinvent his technique. One of the most touching sequences comprises footage of the drummer walking through the ruins of Le Studio, the Morin-Heights facility where the band recorded some of its most iconic albums from the late ’70s to the mid-’80s.
The audience at the Princess of Wales Theatre premiere was a sea of Rush concert shirts. Anika and Loren were in attendance, and the crowd roared as Geddy, Alex, and Chad Smith took the stage to introduce the film, alongside its directors. When the lights came up, the assembly rose, cheering and clapping along to “The Spirit of Radio,” ” a fan favourite and concert staple inspired by Toronto station CFNY-FM.
The film ends with the opening night of the current tour. Anika has the last word, reflecting on her role in the band’s renewal and on carrying Neil’s legacy into the future. If the Fifty Something tour is a public memorial for the drummer, then Neil Peart: No One’s Disciple is the wake none of us expected but so desperately needed.
It was a cathartic experience and a grace note that ended a summer of making memories. To riff on the lyrics of “Limelight,” The Princess of Wales became a room of long-awaited strangers who were friends for the running time of this heartfelt tribute to our musical hero.
Postscript: I wrote a chunk of this essay while listening to a fan recording of the Aug. 11 show. At the same time, one of my Montreal buddies was streaming the film on Gem and texting me his reactions. These interactions brought to mind another Peart lyric from the song “Countdown.” He described the first Space Shuttle launch as “This magic day when super science mingles with the bright stuff of dreams.” His words still resonate as I marvel at the telecommunications technology that allows me to connect with fellow Rush fans around the world, and I continue to be inspired by his optimism. As a side note, I did my final edits while listening to Angine de Poitrine and concluded that it is humanly impossible to air-drum to Klek.
