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399 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2006
On a tour of fifty-seven shows, in nine countries, I played in front of 544,525 people, and went through 257 pairs of drumsticks, one 20-inch cymbal, three 18-inch cymbals, six 16-inch cymbals, two China cymbals, fifteen drumheads, 21,000 motorcycle miles, nineteen countries, twelve oil changes, five sets of tires, one lost luggage case (including Patek Philippe watch and Cartier engagement ring - as Michael suspected, my fickle Good Samaritan must have found them and changed his mind; he never did call back), thirty-four bottles of The Macallan (my riding partners helped), four cartons of Red Apples (ditto), 18,617 words of journal notes, an immeasurable outpouring of physical and mental energy, and an undetermined amount of hearing loss.Still confounds me that a man who thinks the way he does, reads what he does, appreciates the finer things of life - The Macallan! - can smoke "Red Apples", but it was his life and not mine.
I celebrated my fifty-second birthday, almost forty years of drumming, thirty years of making music with Rush, twenty years of bicycling, ten years and almost 200,000 miles of motorcycling, and four years of marriage.
I laughed, I cried, I ached, I sweated, I despaired, I was joyful, I was miserable, I hated it, I loved it, I made friends, I made enemies, I made music, I made gas money, I made time to live and love.
[...]
I also spent a lot of time working after hours to put my drum solo together. I always preferred to arrange my drum solo, to compose a structure that would be consistent for each night's performance, but still allow room for improvisation and inspiration. Often I would listen to the previous tour's solo and think, "I'm not really finished with that structure - I could keep working on that." But as a matter of principle, I forced my self to change it all around, or at least put the parts I liked in a different order.He talks of the good - the magic - nights, and the less than good as well.
[...and later, when on tour...from his journal]
The show last night so nearly perfect, already felt that autopilot mentality, the pleasant flow of things coming out of me without having to ... be provoked.
Especially the drum solo, finally got everything I wanted in there, in terms of elements and transitions, each of them very spirited, and free-spirited - truly improvised. What I've been trying to get into the waltz section, of interposing the odd times over it, I managed to get a really nice pattern of seven going over the three, and now it's time for five. And the four over three too - got it perfectly together.
...and once I passed a truck with a big sticker on the back showing a waving U.S. flag with a golden Christian cross superimposed over it. In big letters, the caption read, "WE WANT IT BACK." A little shocked at this blatant mixture of symbols - American equals Christian - I made a wry face and shook my helmet sadly, "You already have it."Not my reason either.
[At the Grand Canyon] Transfixed by the sweeping majesty of the setting, we stood before a deep, striated gash cut into the earth, a spectacular creation of erosion and geological upheaval. Multicolored layers of rock were shaped into dendritic canyons, battlements, and deep gorges, all of it on a scale that staggered the sense. I thought of that Tennessee professor teaching that it had been made in three weeks - because "scripture trumps interpretations of physical data." Not my scripture.
Or the church sign, "FAITH IS A HIGHER FACULTY THAN REASON." Not my reason.
In my experience, Florida was the worst state in the Union in which to drive a car, ride a motorcycle, or ride a bicycle. Turn signals seemed to be a deleted option on all vehicles; on multi-lane highways there was no such thing as a passing lane, and the general mood on Florida roads ranged from oblivious to discourteous to downright hostile. Those attitudes often prevailed elsewhere in North America, of course, from coast to coast, but nowhere near as universally as in Florida.Hear! Hear! (Virginia is a close second in my book.)
Somehow Florida was not generally thought of as a "Southern" state, in the ways that Mississippi and Alabama were, but certain regions of central Florida I had passed through, away from the beaches and Disneyfied resorts, were the most abject manifestations of Deep South you could find anywhere. Well away from the Mickey Mouse ears, the Art Deco theme park of South Beach, and the vulgar showplaces of the rich and tasteless, the locals could seem as inbred and xenophobic as those characters in Deliverance. The Confederate flag and gun racks decorated as many pickups and mobile homes as you might expect to see in Alabama or Mississippi, and place names like Yeehaw Junction, Dixie Ranch Acres, and even Suwanee River are all found in Florida.Sad, but true.
...I was so powerfully impressed by it that the poem took over the song. In the end, there was entirely too much "honey dew" in it - too much Coleridge, that is to say - and though musically the song was one of our earliest big "epics," I never cared much for the lyrics.