When I was about 10 years old and my life revolved around soccer, the coolest place to be was in my father’s Kentucky Wildcat blue pick-up truck listening in the patriarchs of rock ‘n roll with my cleated feet on the dash. He’d drum his thumbs on the steering wheeling as he sang; humming through the parts he didn’t know.
Last night him, my brother, and I went to the Rush “Time Machine” concert in Lousivillle. Wiggling his middle-age butt and tapping his feet along to the rhythm, I thought back to those pre-practice moments alone in the truck with him.
In front of us—I really do have the best luck with this at concerts—were two drunken brothers, there with their wives and daughters. They nodded their heads to the beat, holding up their beer cups whenever Neil Peart started drumming away like a mad man. Rush took what they called “an old man intermission since they’re not spring chicks anymore,” and during this time the brothers turned around, offered us some profound words.
“Here’s some philosophy from a drunk Rush fan,” one said. “Enjoy the little things. We live in a great country and this is a great concert.”
For instance, I appreciate the correct literary allegories in “Tom Sawyer,” something you don’t see today. . . ahem—T. Swift. I appreciate the love of music Rush still exudes on stage after 40 years of performing. And I appreciate Dad for sharing something like this with my brother and me.