Happy Birthday, Professor Ellwood

Dearest, Professor Ellwood

Happy (belated) birthday! Might I add; it's your big seven-o too! Of course, you never really cared for such trivial labeling; like the course of human growth and development is really observed in such clean, machine-printed terms as those universally perceived and perpetuated throughout society. And, that you, most likely, will never read this letter in the first place as you were wrongfully (in my humble outsider view) plucked from this one of many possible worlds in January of 2020 and dropped– well, nobody really knows with any tangible degree of certainty as death, arguably, provokes humanity's most spectacular questions. In any case, I wanted to take a moment and thank you, mister Neil Ellwood Peart, a.k.a. The Professor or Pratt, for all that you've done to help me navigate and make sense of this wild, oft-confusing world as a fellow immersive introverted extrovert, even though we've never met.

I began my own far less prolific journey on the drums at thirteen years old (sound familiar?). After years of reluctantly putting up with my tapping of beats and patterns on tabletops, desks, chairs, my own thighs, and just about anything I could reach with pencils, pens, or even my own fingertips to whatever music was playing in my mental jukebox, my dad caved to my odd (and increasingly annoying) behavior and bought me my first real drum set; a used silver Pearl Export 5-piece kit (which I still have today, just spray-painted to a wine-red shade similar to that of your classic Tama Superstar set from Permanent Waves and Moving Pictures). He then introduced me to the other-worldly drumming of Keith Moon, and, like you, I was totally blown away! His bewildering combination of chaotic, almost violent technique with a somehow graceful fluidity made the instrument not only look cool but also like an absolute blast to play. I was too neurotic for lessons, so I secretly studied the percussion sections throughout my years of middle and high school symphony bands, taking copious mental notes with my French horn in hand– yes, I played the French horn in those days– then running home after school to practice rudiments and fundamental mechanics on the kit.

Later, thanks to the unstoppable tide of the internet, I then regularly found myself wandering down rabbit holes of classic rock's finest drummers, immersing myself into the rhythmic worlds of guys like Mitch Mitchell, Alex Van Halen, Roger Taylor, John Bonham, and Stewart Copeland. As my musical palate grew to appreciate more progressive styles of rock, diving into bands like Yes and Emerson, Lake, & Palmer, I stumbled upon a humble little Canadian trio called Rush, featuring some weird genius drummer with a massive kit and a cold social reputation, as was essentially voiced throughout the rock zeitgeist of the early 2000s. Well, I didn't give a damn about the critics because I immediately fell in love with the symphonic drum parts coming from the mind and limbs of that very weirdo. I suddenly became thirsty for all things drums and drumming as if I were crumbling in the Kalahari; I wanted nothing more than to get lost in the waves of rhythm and musicality surprisingly made possible by such a seemingly humble instrument hit with wooden sticks.

So, I did. I feverishly built up a collection of albums and concert DVDs and invested whatever cash I could scrape up off the teenage financial floor into a double-bass pedal, roto-toms, and China cymbals to make my kit bigger, more musical, and just more fun! Then, the real work began. I spent countless hours around academia behind the kit and studying your drum parts; reverse engineering licks and patterns and working on my mechanics, but never with the hollow intention of merely covering Rush songs. For it was your innovative fusing of world beat percussion into progressive rock that fueled my own curiosity toward what I could create on the drums; toward finding my own musical voice.

It was through this immersion that I began to peel away the layers of the real Neil Peart; to slowly uncover the heart and soul driving not only some of the most incredible drum parts in rock music, but arguably some of the most thought-provoking and, dare I say, emotional lyrics ever to be voiced throughout the modern music ethos. For I soon learned that you wrote nearly all of the band's lyrics, from your Rush debut of Fly by Night in 1975 to the 2012 tour de force finale of Clockwork Angels. Of course, such a unique approach to lyricism brings out droves of fanatics and haters, Rolling Stone magazine famously joining the latter as they once rated you as one of rock's worst lyricists. I'll never forget your discussion about this on CBC's "Strombo" (formerly "The Hour with George Stroumboulopoulos"), riffing about the harsh criticism with a refreshingly humble, good-humored, and essentially Taoist approach of ignoring good reviews as much as the bad ones, as they can both just as easily mess with your mind and throw you off course.

And, after finally reading your life-changing 2002 book, Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road, in 2020, it became as clear as those crystal-blue Quebecois winter skies that you are a genuine humanitarian; a man who truly finds love in lending a hand to anyone within arms' reach treading treacherous water, even as you pick up the pieces of your own life shattered by incomprehensible tragedy. Hell, I still cry whenever I think about that horrible scene when the news of Selena's fatal accident fell upon you and Jackie that fateful August night in 1997; you in a frantic traumatic state trying to console her while uncharacteristically fighting off your dog, Nicky, who was only trying to help. Not that I want to bring up such somber moments, but it's one that immediately etched itself into my brain as a reminder of the colossal challenge you were able to overcome, one little victory at a time.

Naturally, it's just as clear that you would likely squirm a little from all the praise pouring out of such a letter from a total stranger, but hopefully only before finding comfort and gratitude in the genuine love underlying my words. For even though we have obviously never physically crossed paths, ne'er a day goes by in which I fail to gratuitously think about all the ways in which your music, lyrics, books, and interviews have helped me grow into the man I am today– a socially awkward, introverted extrovert with a deep love for not only drumming, but writing, reading, nature, adventure, and, really, my own human experience. And, most importantly, a good human being through your "remote" teachings and wisdom.

To close this rambling tribute to a man I truly feel to be a close uncle whom I never met, I will leave you with one of my favorite Rush lyrics, a nod to the death of Ernest Hemingway from the 1982 Signals deep-cut, "Losing It:"

Some are born to move the world; to live their fantasies.

But most of us just dream about the things we'd like to be.

Sadder still to watch it die than never to have known it.

For you, the blind who once could see

The bell tolls for thee...

Much love,

Keegan

P.S. May our paths cross one day in another of these many possible worlds. I will have a bottle of the Macallan ready.