Goodnight, Neil...

I copied this picture from a Twitter post. I have no idea who posted it first, or to whom should get the photo credit. And I apologize for not securing permission before I posted it here, but it is a time for reflection, a time for mourning.

I remember seeing a bumper sticker in 1981. It's a memory I can distinctly recall. The bumper sticker said simply, "John Lennon Lives," and my fifteen-year old self thought, "No he doesn't--get over it."

Of course I never told the owner of the car that--I was too sky, and to be honest, it would have been an incredibly rude and inconsiderate thing to say to anyone, let alone someone who loved John Lennon and felt that terrible loss so personally. I don't know who owned that particular car, but I suspect it was a person who grew up and had their formative years in the late 1960s. It wasn't just the man they mourned, but the way the music affected their life.

Those who are left behind, after an artist dies, are left to ponder what that person and their art means to them. And when an artist creates art--or in this case, music--for more than four decades, generations of fans feel the pain.

Neil Peart was more than just one of the best drummers who ever lived. He was a poet, an author, a philosopher--as important and prolific as any author of books, or professor at a university. If he were just a drummer, that would be one thing, but it was all the other things that made him elite, a true genius. And in speaking with friends who actually knew the man personally, Neil was one of the nicest gentlemen ever to lay down a track, or pen a song, or rip a ten-minute drum solo that few if any could best.

Years ago, I was in a band. I played bass. My job was to keep a beat, but not like the drummer. The drummer's job is as important to a song as the heart is to a living organism. Today, the fans lost the heart of what we love, and we'll never be the same. Goodnight, Neil. And thank you for everything.