Fifty years of Rush. Let that sink in. Half a century of unparalleled musicianship, thought-provoking lyrics, and a fanbase that spans generations. For me, this milestone isn’t just about the band—it’s about a lifelong journey with their music that started when I was just eight years old.

It all began in a restaurant in Woodbridge, sitting with my grandfather. I had just finished devouring Mark Twain’s classics, and as I scanned the jukebox, one song title caught my attention—Tom Sawyer. I played it, eager to see if it had anything to do with the character I had come to love. My grandfather was unimpressed, but I was completely transfixed. The electrifying synth, the intricate drumming, Geddy Lee’s unmistakable voice—something clicked.

From that day forward, Rush became more than just a band to me. I spent hours air-drumming like Neil Peart, air-guitaring like Alex Lifeson, air-bassing like Geddy Lee—even air-keyboarding. Whether in my bedroom, on the back deck, in the car, or at their concerts, I lost myself in the music. Their songs weren’t just entertainment; they were intellectual and emotional anchors. The blend of technical mastery and profound storytelling made them more than rock musicians—they were philosophers in their own right.

“‘And the men who hold high places must be the ones who start / To mold a new reality, closer to the heart.’”

Like many, I followed Neil Peart’s deep dive into philosophy, including his early admiration of Ayn Rand. Over time, my own perspectives shifted—I came to believe that having a good heart matters more than individual self-success. But that’s the beauty of Rush: they encouraged intellectual exploration, critical thinking, and self-discovery.

When Neil Peart passed away in 2020 from glioblastoma, I was on a GO train heading home from Toronto. The news hit like a gut punch. It felt like losing a mentor I had never met, a guiding voice that had shaped my youth and adulthood. His drumming, his lyrics, his stories—they were immortal, but he was not.

There have been so many personal highlights in my Rush journey. When Geddy Lee released his solo album in 2000, I submitted a fan question—and it was answered! That meant I won a VHS copy of The Making of My Favorite Headache. The idea that something I wrote was in Geddy’s thoughts, even briefly, was beyond thrilling.

My first-ever album purchase with my own money? A Show of Hands. And when I got my first CD player, I committed to buying Rush’s albums only in the order they were originally released. Friends thought I was crazy, but to me, it was a sacred fan experience—an unfolding musical story, one album at a time.

“Hold your fire / Keep it burning bright / Hold the flame ’til the dream ignites.” (Mission)

Fifty years later, Rush’s music still speaks to me. The intricate drumming, soaring guitar solos, complex bass lines, and poetic lyrics never fade. They remind me of the boy who sat in that Woodbridge restaurant, mesmerized by Tom Sawyer, embarking on a lifelong musical adventure.

Thank you, Geddy, Alex, and Neil, for the soundtrack of my life. Here’s to the next 50 years of inspiring new generations of fans.