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A quick claim to fame followed by a tragic, premature death.

The 20-year-old superstar, Pop Smoke, full of promise and potential, re-invigorated the New York Drill scene, leaving us to wonder what could have been.

Pop Smoke striking a pose for publicity.

2020 has to be one the worst years in recent memory. From the infamous coronavirus to the civil unrest throughout the country, this year has brought to light a wide range of problems. Among the host of terrible events that have occurred, a variety of influential musicians have passed away, one of which was the rising star, Pop Smoke. As quickly as Pop Smoke rose to fame, was as swiftly as he lost it all. The 20-year-old Brooklyn born hip-hop rapper, Pop Smoke (originally named Bashar Barakah Jackson), was on the verge of making an international breakthrough before his life was mercilessly taken away. On the 19th of February 2020, at around 4:30am, two masked men broke into his house in an attempted robbery but instead ended up fatally shooting Smoke and fleeing the scene. Smoke was quickly rushed to the closest hospital where he was pronounced dead after futile attempts at revival. Shock and anger ripped through the community that had grown so fond of his unique voice and compelling style of music. But how did a 20-year-old out of Brooklyn grow to have such an impact in such a short period of time?

Jackson was born on July 20, 1999 in New York City where he spent his early childhood in the Canarsie section of Brooklyn. To say that Jackson had a rough childhood would be an understatement; in eighth grade he was expelled for bringing a gun to school, shortly after he spent two years under house arrest for illegal possession of weapons. Though there were occasional highlights, an invisible force always seemed to prevent Smoke from achieving sustained success. For example, when he was 15, he won a basketball scholarship to a prep school in Philadelphia, however, was forced to decline the offer after being diagnosed with a heart murmur, a condition that can be exacerbating by playing sports. Despite his early struggles, Smoke’s unfaltering failures would soon lead to unimaginable fame in one of the most competitive and volatile industries.

Smoke only started playing around with the idea of music back in 2018, making his story even more unbelievable. His love for music stems from the time he spent in the studio during recording sessions with other well-established artists; these interactions fostered a deep-seated passion for the art and inspired him to embark on his own musical journey. During the recording sessions he started to attend more regularly, Smoke would secretly record his own vocals, immediately piquing the interest of some producers due to the unique nature of his voice. He began to work with 808Melo, a talented producer from the UK who would soon become one of his close friends and appear on numerous projects. On December 19, 2018, he released ‘MPR’ which created some buzz around his name in the Brooklyn area. The positive response he received urged him to continue fine-tuning his craft and creating music to share with the world. A month later, he followed up his debut single with another captivating piece called ‘Flexing,’ which ended up receiving over one hundred thousand views on YouTube within the first day of its release. With success stirring and the stars aligning, the journey seemed to be going much better than expected for the hopeful teenager, and after everything he had been through, this was a nothing short of extraordinary.

Smoke quickly befriended a producer, Rico Beats, who was well acquainted with the record executive for Victor Victor Worldwide, a subsidiary of Universal Music, known for cultivating the growth of young artists. After a quick introduction and brief interview, Smoke announced that he had signed with the record label and suddenly, everything seemed to have fallen in place, poising the young artist for international fame and triumph. In April 2019, Smoke released the lead single, ‘Welcome to the Party,’ of his debut mixtape— ‘Meet The Woo’ – foreshadowing the incredible celebratory party that would ensue. The record experienced tremendous amount of praise and recognition; the type of attention aspiring artists can only dream of achieving. It made its way around the world and caught the attention of heavyweights in the music industry such as Niki Minaj, Travis Scott, Quavo and many other globally acclaimed rappers, leading to some outstanding collaborations. Though the mixtape did not debut in the top 100 on the billboards, it was placed at 173, an impressive feat considering it was Smoke’s first commercial release. With people around the world echoing their unwavering support for the dynamic mixtape, Smoke and his label were confident that they could generate even more buzz with future releases. After taking a few months to refine and perfect his craft, Smoke announced the release of his second mixtape which would feature major artists such as Quavo, A Boogie wit da Hoodie, Fivio Foreign and Lil Tjay. What would be Smoke’s last project was released on the 7th of February 2020. Unlike his previous release, this mixtape not only cracked the top 100 but ended by debuting at 7 on the US billboards; giving Smoke the confidence to say that he had finally made it, despite his rough start and through all the adversity, he had achieved his biggest dream. Unfortunately, though this tale has elements prosperity and triumph interspersed throughout, it eventually ends in tragedy and heartbreak. Smoke never seemed to escape the demons that haunted him from a young age. Only a week after experiencing nationwide recognition and praise, Smoke was brutally murdered in his own home, putting an end to his short-lived, exceptionally successful life.

Smoke’s success was largely attributed to the connection he drew between the New York and London drill scenes, forming a captivating bond that had once been vilified by the media. Drill was originally a British rap sub-genre that emerged in London; it quickly gained popularity inspiring the creation of other regional scenes. It is characterized by dark, violent, nihilistic lyrical content and ominous trap-influenced beats. The lyrics tend to reflect life on the streets in a violent, gritty and realistic way. The rappers generally use a grim, deadpan delivery with vocals that are slathered in auto tune, a method that was commonly employed by Pop Smoke. Though the sub-genre shares many similarities with trap music, it is generally slower with a moderate tempo of 60 to 70 beats per minute. Drill promptly made its way to the US where a regional style emerged in the south side of Chicago in early 2010 and by 2018 New York had seen its own iteration. Smoke did not stick to the conventional characteristics of the New York Drill scene yet was still was considered one of the biggest artists for the sub-genre due to its audible influence. Smoke often wrote about his environment and ambitions, glamorizing drugs and sexualizing women but never referencing excessively violent events. All of which is a direct result of his rough childhood; only Pop Smoke would be capable of turning something dreadful into something poetic and musical for all to listen to. In an interview Smoke stated that he makes music for the young kids growing up in poverty, like he did.

Many fans and critics attributed the newfound popularity of New York Drill to the catchy melodies and autotuned vocals Pop Smoke offered in his mix tapes. Smoke transformed the sub-genre and put it back on the map, capturing an entirely new audience that never existed before. He was praised for his unique style and stand out musical personality, which distinguished him from other rap artists, ultimately allowing him to experience tremendous amounts of fame and recognition. It was his distinctive approach to the sub-genre that caught the attention of many major recording artists. Upon his untimely death, the music world appeared to let out a unifying cry that echoed the remorse and heartbreak everyone was feeling about the tragic event. Quavo referred to Pop Smoke as a ‘very talented, humble, respectful, and appreciative’ young kid in a post on Instagram. Similar types of statements were shared by artists of similar status, showing the immense amount of appreciation and respect the 20-year-old had cultivated during his short musical journey. Now, all we have is the incomplete legacy that Smoke left behind. We are left to wonder what could have been. To what extent would he transform the genre? How would he grow as an artist? So many pressing questions that will never be answered. 808Melo recounts what Smoke said to him during a studio session – He knew, I need to do something else, I need to be versatile. I’m trying to be that superstar – Smoke was the type of artist that transforms genres and creates trends. There seems to be no limits in sight for what Smoke could have achieved. After all, he was only in the music game for two years before he achieved some top charting songs, who knows where he would have been in the next ten years. To lose him at such a young age and so early on in his career is not only devastating to his friends and family but also to the entire music community.

 

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The Thousand Knives of Ryuichi Sakamoto

Driven by his immutable sense of wonder, the Japanese techno, film and avant-garde musical giant is an indefatigable innovator.

At first glance, the 68-year-old Ryuichi Sakamoto exudes a professorial gravitas. He speaks in a rasping, measured tenor, and carries himself with an urbane reserve. From behind his tortoiseshell glasses, a sense of mystery permeates his steady gaze. Yet this severity and stillness belie his relentless exploration and unceasing sense of wonder which has propelled this pianist, composer and sound artist to the forefront of techno, film and avant-garde music over the course of his 40-year long career. Sakamoto has attained a rare longevity as part of the vaunted circle of maestros who have achieved what so many artists can only aspire to: a lifetime of artistic evolution and excellence. 

The title of his first solo effort, the experimental electronica album The Thousand Knives of Ryuichi Sakamoto (1985), was aptly chosen, for Sakamoto wields his disparate musical identities with aplomb. The movie-going public may most immediately associate him with the elegiac main theme of Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence (1983), in which he nurses a tender, minimalist opening refrain into a crescendo of yearning and emotion. More recently, Sakamoto made waves as the Grammy-nominated composer for Iñárritu’s harrowing 2015 epic, The Revenant. His other collaborations with the renown director Bernado Bertolucci, The Sheltering Sky (1990) and Little Buddha (1993), also earned critical acclaim. The highly decorated composer has won a Grammy, an Academy Award, a BAFTA award, a Grand Bell Award and two Golden Globes, in addition to an honorary Ordre des Arts et des Lettres from the French Ministry of Culture. 

But before he was a greying, even-keeled film scorer, he was the heartthrob keyboardist and vocalist of the hyper-stylized, gleefully experimental and mischievously ironic electropop band, the three-piece Yellow Magic Orchestra (1978). The notoriously private Sakamoto found himself an unwilling celebrity, as YMO grew “bigger than the Beatles” in Japan. YMO was formed to satirise and celebrate the exotica genre popularised by American bandleaders Martin Denny and Les Baxter, subverting the Orientalist gaze to make exotica from a Japanese perspective. They were the original cyberpunks, the trailblazers for early hip hop, Japanese city pop, new wave and house, inspiring a legion of followers whose numbers include Joe Hisaishi of Studio Ghibli fame, hip-hop pioneer Afrikaa Bambaataa, Michael Jackson, Quincy Jones and Eric Clapton. Over eight albums, YMO built lush, technicolour soundscapes with an array of rapidly evolving musical technology and ideas, replete with aesthetically committed music videos. Their music ranged from the sugary kitsch of “Rydeen,” where jittery 8-bit synths outlined melodic ideas from traditional Japanese folk over bouncing syndrum rhythms, to the lush, radio-friendly, 80s synth funk of “You’ve Got To Help Yourself,” to the club-ready acid house hit “Nanga Def.” Till today, we still hear the afterimages of YMO’s path breaking innovation in music as disparate as British techno and J-Pop. 

Sakamoto’s “butterfly punk” aesthetic 

Sakamoto has built a formidable personal brand as a producer, collaborator and solo artist, deftly drawing from the classical, jazz, pop, avant-garde and ambient traditions. David Sylvian, frontman of British New-Romantic act Japan, and Talking Heads and King Crimson guitarist, Adrian Belew, feature in his string of high profile collaborations. He demonstrates facility in the full spectrum of mediums, composing for solo piano, trio, orchestra, opera, multimedia installation, video games and the 1992 Barcelona Olympics to boot, even acting in Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence and The Last Emperor.

A charged moment with Sakamoto as Captain Yonoi and David Bowie as Major Jack Celliers in Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence

The dizzying variety of his discography traces his relentless professional evolution, which stands testament to his unabating curiosity and genuine sense of wonder at the unknown. He describes himself in a 2019 interview as a “hungry man with lots of curiosities.” “I listen to all types of music and all types of music excite me,” he said in a 2020 radio interview. The classically-trained Sakamoto recounted how he had torn through and tired of the classical canon by the end of high school, entering National Tokyo University of Fine Arts and Music for ethnomusicology and composition in hopes of making something new, informed by his diverse influences which ranged from Debussy to krautrock, with emerging musical technologies. 

Despite his mild-mannered conversational tone, Sakamoto does not shy away from taking controversial creative stances. He is a staunch individualist with a self-professed “strange personality” that resists being part of collectives preferring to work alone. Sakamoto rejects monozukuri, the widely revered and exoticised Japanese spirit of craftsmanship, arguing in a 2020 interview with the Financial Times that “true creativity is destructive… monozukuri is just polishing existing thinking” with a rare emotional pungence. He embraces destruction as crucial to creativity: in his radio interview he recounts how his second album B-2 Unit (1980) was born from the “urge to destroy the image I had with YMO” and one-time collaborator Aztec Camera describes Sakamoto as proactively building disruption into his workday, interrupting himself with ten minutes of house or hip hop “to corrupt what he knows… and to discover new things.” 

An expatriate musician writing for global audiences from his Manhattan apartment, Sakamoto is able to sit with cultural difference, describing “positive cultural shock” encountering punks in London in the 1980s in his Financial Times interview. “Shocking, but I really liked it,” he mused, modelling a non-judgemental curiosity and open-mindedness that would serve our multicultural societies well. Exploration is often seen as the province of the young, but Sakamoto has maintained this hunger for disruption, describing the radical, geometric musical approach of his long-time collaborator, alvo noto, with whom he toured in 2019, as “inspiring.”

Not all of Sakamoto’s exploration has landed well with critics. His 2000 performance at the Royal Albert Hall was panned by The Guardian as incomprehensible, a not uncommon criticism of experimental music. Sakamoto seems aware of this, astutely noting in his radio interview, “Just because it’s experimental doesn’t mean it’s good music.”  

The years have seen Sakamoto grow in his artistic maturity. He recalls how as a young upstart in film music, he wrote with single-minded focus on his music. He admitted that the poorer the film, the greater his incentive to write well to seize more of the spotlight. Now, he puts his music at the service of the film. Preferring an ambient, minimal approach in his recent work, Sakamoto seems to have put anthemic themes behind him. For Sakamoto the individualist, his prolific output of 24 soundtracks in the last 20 years represents a step out of his comfort zone, as he sees film music as a fundamentally collaborative act of musical translation. He confesses to the difficulty of satisfying multiple stakeholders in a 2016 interview, chuckling, “Literally every time I work on a film project, I say, this is it. This is it. No more soundtracks.” 

Sakamoto’s wide-ranging experimentation is complimented by his deep capacity for reflexive thought. He is keenly alive to the contradictions and idiosyncrasies of his creative pursuits. Rather than try to eke coherence out of his varied discography, he freely admits “When it comes to music I have a split personality,” comfortably straddling the division between analogue and digital, pop and experimental. Sakamoto counts the natural environment among his key inspirations. His 2017 biopic, Ryuichi Sakamoto: Coda portrays his sensitivity to beauty and joyful experimentation with shots of him rambling through the forest and listening to the patter of rain with a bucket over his head, in search of stories and sounds for his work. “The world is full of sounds,” he insists. “We just don’t hear them as music.” Yet he holds that music is “unnatural.” In the aftermath of the 2011 Fukushima Daiichi nuclear reactor disaster, reflecting on an intact piano he found washed up by the tsunami, he saw parallels between nuclear power plants and pianos, both manipulating natural material into something unnatural. “If you think about it, the piano is a very unnatural instrument that was born from the Industrial Revolution,” Sakamoto puts forth in his radio interview. “There is a large plate of steel inside it… (and) about ten tonnes of force in the piano (from the strings).” The piano, ravaged by the tsunami, was not falling out of tune, as much as its warped wood and metal was trying to return to its natural state, the disaster having liberated it from the artificial imposition of mankind’s understanding of tonality. Music was akin to an abuse of nature. But for all this, Sakamoto declares that he needs to make music. “That’s the true desire. It’s contradictory, but somehow I have to survive through that.” 

Sakamoto’s concern with the natural and the unnatural goes beyond abstruse intellectual preoccupation. It’s a deeply felt, personal dilemma. Sakamoto was diagnosed with Stage III oropharyngeal cancer in 2014, which went into remission after a period of intensive radiotherapy, an excruciating period during which he could not work or even listen to music. He saw a connection between nature, the mangled piano and his own broken body, he shared with Slant Magazine in 2018. “Getting a disease is a process of nature. A tsunami and an earthquake are processes of nature. Being damaged by the force of nature is just another process.” This brought him solace but also doubt, he disclosed in his radio interview, if it was worth taking such extreme measures to prolong his life, to defy the course of nature. “But my desire to stay alive to make more music ended up being stronger.” 

Sakamoto examining a piano washed up by the deadly 2011 tsunami in Coda

In recent years, mortality has undoubtedly become a key creative focus. Pre-empting critics, he candidly offers in a 2018 Guardian interview, “It’s not sad. I just meditate about it.” In Coda he chases a “perpetual sound,” a musical symbol of immorality. Sakamoto may come across as cerebral, but his art, perhaps now more than ever, is grounded in his tender humanity. His latest solo effort, async (2017), is awash with haunting contemplation, the melancholy orchestral instrumentals and sampled textures coalescing into a fragile meditation on mortality. Through the gloom, he offers us the bittersweet, luminous rays of resolution – he quotes poet Arseny Tarkovsky on “Life, Life,” singer David Sylvian intoning “Life is a wonder of wonders, and to wonder / I dedicate myself.”

Sakamoto’s understated humour is a counterpoint to his somber reflections. His austere countenance, once set in motion in convivial conversation, lights up into a twinkling smile, suffused with a gentle warmth and hidden, almost childlike mirth. His humour tends towards wry, self-effacing impishness. Describing his upbringing as the son of an editor, he recounts in his 2018 Guardian interview, “(many) wannabe writers and novelists came to the house and there was a lot of drinking until the morning, and lots of books in the house, which we had to avoid so the piles didn’t collapse on us. Very cultural!” He reminisced about another episode in London, 1979, where he saw a trendy couple in a club dancing to his song, The End of Asia. “I just thought, ‘Wow! They are so fashionable and cool … but we were the ones that made them dance … so, wow, we must be really cool too!’” he recalled with glee in 2009. 

Sakamoto during a lighthearted moment at the 2019 Singapore International Festival of Arts 

Sakamoto has aged gracefully into a musical elder statesman, stepping out of his habitual reticence to employ his celebrity in service of anti-nuclear and copyright law advocacy, amongst other causes. Sakamoto spearheaded the international awareness campaign, Stop Rokkasho, to demand the closure of the Hamaoka Nuclear Power Plant in 2006 and was at the forefront of the anti-nuclear demonstrations after the 2011 Fukushima Daiichi nuclear reactor meltdown. In 2009, in an exclusive with The Guardian, he argued that copyright law was antiquated for the information age and a return to “tribal” attitudes towards music. 

Even after a prolific 40 years, Sakamoto is clearly not done yet. My only quibble with his biopic is that its title, coda, feels premature. His work since his return after his cancer went into remission does not read like a final triumphant recapitulation of his achievements, but the beginning of a new chapter, informed by new creative concerns. He is currently working on a new solo record and an opera, to be announced in 2021. 

Sakamoto is more than the man behind Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence. Throughout a back catalog spanning genres, collaborators and continents, Sakamoto has relentlessly reinvented himself. His artistic metamorphosis is born of an unsentimental, radical willingness to challenge his status quo, but also of his earnest reflection, his willingness to wade into what is most keenly felt and vital, and most of all, his immutable sense of wonder. Sakamoto is not ready to draw his musical odyssey to a close, declaring, “I’m seeking something new, something unknown to my ear.” 

 

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A mixed bag of Baybeats

A Cornellian at home surveys the Singaporean music scene

Many Singaporeans listen to a cosmopolitan mix of music, yet struggle to sing along to local musicians. Events like Baybeats, one of Singapore’s biggest local music festivals, are a sorely needed chance to spotlight our homegrown talent. 

Due to Covid-19, the nine acts of Baybeats Unplugged have been uprooted from their usual location, the Esplanade, Singapore’s premier performance location which resembles an overturned half of a durian, the fifteen minute acoustic sets posted instead on the event Facebook page. Annette Lee, the first act, has perfectly serviceable vocals, but her lyrics are at once bland and oversaturated with saccharine pep. The seasonal metaphor in “Spring Will Always Come” quickly comes unmoored as she warbles how “it’s pretty cold” in the winter of life while I melt in tropical Singapore’s 95F heat.

I want to like Mannequins, a rock band with a 90s sound and goofy humour. But their anthems can’t achieve liftoff and I wince as their frontman unleashes a gem of tautology, “I know I think I thought I knew,” clinching the dubious honour of the festival’s most insipid lyric. 

At this point, I am ready to give up on Baybeats. But the Facebook algorithm gods do me a solid, shepherding me towards Bakers in Space, a refreshingly experimental surprise landing in the ballpark of indie-rock and psychedelia. The chromatic action in “Citrus” strings tension throughout the song with hovering, disoriented harmonies, perfectly describing a bewildering love affair. The post-chorus offers tantalising nuggets of resolution, only to flicker back into confusion as it alternates between two chords. Their second piece, “Autumn,” is mired in self reflection. Lead vocal Eugene Soh pulls the audience into a swirl of doubt, the harmony brooding. He concludes, “my mind is going,” followed by an instrumental breakdown recalling the innocence of a lullaby. The addictive bass line and crunchy guitar riffs on their third piece, “Mindfield,” affirm this is a band with an abundance of ideas who bear repeated listening. 

 

Finally, the long-awaited headline act. Baybeats park their best act in the literal basement, the regionally acclaimed Charlie Lim performing in the Esplanade’s garage. He opens with a personal favourite, “Choices.” His voice simmers with tension and heartache, papered over by a gentle calm as he begins a late-night conversation with an old lover, coaxing “keep your eyes on me darling, I’m not a magic trick.” He lets a plaintive edge bleed into the second verse, imploring “I can take complication, if I can comprehend.” Deftly walking the line between plainspoken and poetic, he unravels what it means to nurse love through differences. He employs the same articulate honesty and understated delivery in “Least of You,” a more forthrightly pining ballad. His final song, “Pedestal,” is the mischievous counterpoint to the previous two, a sarcastic, bluesy anti-love song subverting the trope of elevating lovers. He showcases his versatility, taking his voice a notch more theatrical and playing adroitly with rhythm, even swinging easily into a guitar solo. 

I came into Baybeats looking to survey local music. But what is Singaporean music supposed to sound like? The debate is not new. Singapore’s periodic spasms of identity crisis are particularly afflicted by self-doubt, owing to our short independent history, multicultural constitution and colonial hang-ups, among other factors. It’s telling that one of our most visceral manifestations of identity, Singlish, a creole of English, Malay and Chinese dialects, is seen as out of place in most public and professional settings, explaining the dissonance between the performer’s quasi-American accented singing and speaking voices. 

It is unreasonable to throw the full burden of resolving this interminable debate on local artists. At campus music events, I’ve never asked performers to prove their Cornellian or American credentials. Yet, I held Baybeats to a higher standard of crafting a unique, culturally-specific cool without falling into tacky cliches, on top of music-making’s routine complexity. Perhaps, as musicians already know and I am belatedly realising, rather than trying to make good Singaporean music, it is enough to make good music, unabashed of who we are. 

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Big Gigantic: A Tiny Miniscule Attempt at a COVID-19 Concert

 

Big Gigantic – Artists

Dominic Lalli (saxophonist) and Jeremy Salken (drummer) make up the technofunk duo, Big Gigantic

As I sat in my common room, alone at 2 AM on a Saturday night, watching the 2020 Bonnaroo live stream (a virtual version of the popular Tennessee festival) and trying to mimic the ambiance of a concert with my roommates’ projector complemented by our fairy lights in strobe mode, I was only further reminded of the strangeness of watching a virtual concert. I was no fool, I knew there was no way to replicate a concert by watching a YouTube live stream, no matter how large the screen. Concerts are about the crowd you’re with, the friends you make, and the ability to be present with an artist whom you love. The headliners of the evening, Big Gigantic, are known for their larger-than-life beat drops and unique combination of jazz and EDM elements. The set, which consisted of the jazzy, electropop duo playing for an hour in front of a green screen, was disingenuous and lackluster, delivering a disappointing experience to both fans and Bonnaroo diehards alike.

The failure of Big Gigantic’s set began with the duo’s lack of engagement with the music. Sure, they bopped their heads to their music and Dominic Lalli, on saxophone, did a few little jigs with his feet, but the two of them were so stationary that I felt awkward trying to dance to their music, which on its own is perfectly danceable. Had the duo been playing jazz or folk, I could have excused their stagnation, but as funky, electropop musicians, their performance requires at least a shimmy. Even Jeremy Salken, though restricted by his drum set, could have delivered a little head roll. The duo’s stale performance brought down my energy level and was ill-fitting when paired with their upbeat music.

The visual elements of Big Gigantic’s performance also screamed “we are in a studio and playing this music for an invisible audience.” Various brightly colored kaleidoscopic and neon backgrounds rotated throughout the set and a Vaseline-coated glow arose from behind the two men as they played their instruments, building a wall between the real and the fabricated. Their attempt to replicate a stage experience was so frustratingly different from watching a band playing amongst visual effects on a stage, on screens around them. If the duo had embraced the intimate setting and tailored their performance to it, their set would have worked. Avid music fans know that study sessions and NPR’s Tiny Desk Concerts can highlight artists’ skills through a cozy atmosphere. In Big Gigantic’s set, however, the intense graphics and the green screen only served as a reminder to me that I was in a dorm room, watching a live stream.

Just when I thought “maybe I can envision myself at a concert if I just close my eyes,” Lalli would speak into his poor-quality microphone and draw attention to the fact that the entire experience was virtual. His voice was muffled and radio-like, nothing like the echoing speech of a performer at a stadium. What made it notably worse was when he tried to get a call and response going with his non-existent audience, gesturing to the camera every time viewers were supposed to echo him. If the duo had embraced their virtual space and adapted a set to suit the circumstances, there would be no awkward moments of open-ended calls and responses. CloZee, another EDM artist who had preceded the duo with her set, did a fantastic job tailoring her performance to the virtual sphere. Omitting herself from the screen, CloZee featured psychedelic visuals that changed color and speed based on the music she was performing. By embracing her inability to replicate a stage experience, she allowed attendees to immerse themselves in the artistic vision of her music. The most of CloZee that appeared was her shadow during parts of the set, allowing the focus to be on her music. Had Big Gigantic given their audience to have a chance to be immersed in the music, I may have imagined myself at a concert, with the booming bass and tantalizing treble of their songs. But as soon as Lalli decided to interject, the guise that Bonnaroo was intending to achieve completely crumbled.

While it is uplifting to see artists and music festivals trying to create free virtual concerts during a pandemic, the execution of these events is too often fabricated and condescending. People attend concerts for more than flashy lights and acknowledgment from musicians, we go so that we can hear our favorite artists deliver their creations directly to us. We don’t need all the bells and whistles, just two musicians, instruments in hand, pouring their soulful sounds into our open ears.

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A Pianist Through It All: the Life of Leon Fleisher

A musician who was much more than just his malady. 

A pianist needs only three essential components to play their instrument—a piano, their left hand, and their right hand. The difficulty of playing piano comes from pieces that have vastly different melodies and rhythms for each hand or stanzas where one hand has to cross over the other. However, Leon Fleisher, who died at age 92 on August 2nd, would disagree. The trickiest aspect of piano for him was that he could not use the third ingredient—his right hand.

When Fleisher emerged into the world on July 23rd, 1928 to his Jewish immigrant parents, he had two working hands. In fact, his hands were more than just functional—he was a child prodigy who could fully play by ear at the mere age of four years old. At age nine, the prominent pianist Artur Schnabel took him in, and in 1944 he made his Carnegie Hall debut with the New York Philharmonic at just 16 years old. The Brahms Piano Concerto No. 1 in D minor that he played there became one of his signature pieces. He was praised for this performance by acclaimed musicians and journalists, but he was always motivated to do more, wanting to explore his opportunities outside of the United States. He moved to Europe and became the first American to win the Queen Elisabeth international music competition in 1952. At 23, he was on a path towards further fame and success. He was performing all around the world in renowned concert halls and creating recordings with George Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra. These included a huge repertoire of works by Brahms, Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Grieg, Franck, and Rachmaninov. According to the New York Times, these recordings are “considered among the most vivid and moving accounts of those works.” 

Anyone who heard Fleisher play immediately recognized his talent. He was a music descendant of Beethoven, as Schnabel’s teacher Theodor Leschetisky had studied with Carl Czerny, one of Beethoven’s students. Pierre Monteux, who was the conductor of his performance at Carnegie Hall described him as “the pianistic find of the century,” according to NPR. Everyone around him believed that he was set to do great things.

In this peak of his career, however, Fleisher faced possibly the worst obstacle for a pianist. At 36, he began to feel a sharp cramping in his right hand. It started with his ring and pinky fingers, and then eventually creeped to his entire hand. He told the New York Times in 1996 that this was due to overworking himself—“seven or eight hours a day of pumping ivory.” As his hand started to hurt more, he made up for it by practicing more. He soon could not play with his right hand at all. The night before he was supposed to tour with Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra, he had to cancel because he could not move both hands.

Many pianists in this situation may have given up. Even Fleisher found himself depressed by his unidentifiable injury. However, his pure love for music ultimately shone brighter than his injury or his need to play piano. He began teaching instead at the Peabody Institute of Johns Hopkins University as well as the Tanglewood Music Center, and also spent more time conducting. These classes forced him to think about music in different ways—since he could not just sit down and show his students how to play, he had to learn to explain with his own words and descriptive metaphors. He was even able to find some songs that he could play solely with his left hand. He played songs that were originally composed for Paul Wittgenstein, a pianist who had lost his right arm in World War I. Fleisher also drew on Brahm’s left-hand piano version of Bach’s chaconne as a mainstay of his recital programming. Fleisher’s new signature pieces became this and Maurice Ravel’s Piano Concerto for the Left Hand. He was infinitely grateful that it was his right hand that gave out instead of his left because at least there were some, albeit limited, pieces for his left hand to play. 

Fleisher never ceased to look for a cure for his hand. For the next 30 years, he tried everything from Rolfing to shots of lidocaine to Zen Buddhism. With no promising results, he felt as though he had lost his one passion in life. He depended on his second wife, Riselle Rosenthal, but his condition ended up destroying that relationship as well, crawling into his family life. Growing out his hair and buying a Vespa motorcycle were the types of distractions he would create for himself to forget about his lost purpose in life. He considered suicide at this time.

His life began to turn around in 1991 because of an increasing number of doctors who were experimenting with Botox injections. These injections combined with Rolfing proved to keep his hand in good enough shape where he could play with both hands again. During the next few years, he built up his dexterity and skill again, and was back on the performance scene in 1995. He started small, and by 2005 he was playing at international concerts halls, and at Carnegie Hall where it all started. His fingers were never permanently fixed, and he often felt the same curling, rigid feeling when he played. However, the Botox injections helped keep the pain minimal. 

It seemed that with his mental and musical success also came advances in Fleisher’s personal life. He married again, this time to pianist Katherine Jacobson. With this new relationship, he was not only able to play two-handed piano pieces, but also four-handed ones together with his wife. Ms. Jacobson survives Fleisher along with his children from his first two marriages, Deborah, Richard, Leah, Paula, and Julian, as well as his two grandchildren. His son Julian revealed that his father had passed from cancer. 

In 2007, Fleisher received the Kennedy Center Honor. Although this award was given for his performing and musical talents, his personality and values are what truly came across. He wrote a letter to The Washington Post describing his deep moral disagreement with Bush’s policies regarding the Iraq War. He thought about the connections between art and politics, and was conflicted as to whether he should accept this award at the White House. When he did choose to attend, he said he was “wearing a peace symbol around my neck and a purple ribbon on my lapel, at once showing support for our young men and women in the armed services and calling for their earliest return home,” according to the Guardian. Beyond his music, Fleisher was a sincere person, and a role model for his pupils both in and outside of the classroom. As per the Washington Post, Fleisher believed that music was “a force capable of reconciling us to each other,” an idea that he got from Beethoven’s conceptualization of music. 

In 2006 also came the release of the short documentary film “Two Hands: The Leon Fleisher Story” by Nathaniel Kahn. By this time, medical science had found a name for his neurological disease, focal dystonia. This film about his miraculous recovery is an emotional one, and the title is taken from the 2004 release of his album “Two Hands.” This was the first album in about 40 years that he had released in which he was able to play with both of his hands. He also wrote a memoir in 2010, “My Nine Lives: A Memoir of Many Careers in Music” that took a more positive approach to his illness, detailing how it enabled him to have diverse musical opportunities that he would not have otherwise pursued.

Cornell University’s very own Bailey Hall welcomed Fleisher as well in 2011. He came to Cornell for a residency, in which he taught and performed all five of Beethoven’s concertos to Cornell and Ithaca college students. These concerts featured guest Cornell faculty Xak Bjerken and his wife, Miri Yampolsky, as soloists. Both of these music professors studied with Fleisher at the Peabody Conservatory of Music and they serve as remnants of the talent that Fleisher’s teaching produced and the effect that he had on the Cornell community. Shortly after Fleisher’s passing in August, a live stream by his students paid tribute to Fleisher— Professor Xak Bjerken closed off the video with one of Fleisher’s favorite pieces, Brahms’s Op.119 No.1.

Fleisher continued to create music up until the day that he passed. Ultimately, fans of classical music listened to Fleisher not because of the obstacles that he faced, but because he was Fleisher. No matter how many hands he had, his irrepressible talent came through in every piece from Beethoven’s symphonies to the Left Hand Concerto. The difficulties that came along with his life seemed to be a minor detail when it came to how people felt about his performances. Even when he was not playing, he had a profound effect on people. As his hand condition worsened, his love and dedication to music were only heightened. He adapted and found new ways to influence the world through his music. He is not just known as “the guy who played piano with one hand” because he did so much more. He shows young musicians that overworking themselves will only counteract their goals and that music can be found in many different avenues. Beethoven, one of Fleisher’s inspirations, once said that “to play without passion is inexcusable!” Beethoven would be proud of Fleisher, knowing that this pianist found a way to play with passion without even playing at times. The clarity and emotions in his sound combined with his perseverance and devotion to music created a passion for classical music unlike any other. 

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Singing La Di Da to a Screen

Lennon Stella and Betcha visited students’ screens for Cornell’s StayHomecoming. 

Excited comments flood in on the side of my screen, replacing the usual cheers of a crowd. The Cornell Concert Commission (CCC) introduces the event of the night through Zoom. This reminds me that instead of being a part of a lively performance in Barton Hall, I am sitting on the bed in my room with my laptop screen staring back at me as my only source of interaction. As sad as this might sound, I could not have had a more perfect night, lounging in my PJs with a bowl of popcorn in hand. 

Even as the corona virus plagues many aspects of our lives, Cornell’s flow of music entertainment continues. On October 10th at 8PM, instead of walking into a concert venue, I logged in with my Cornell NetID for a free virtual concert presenting Lennon Stella with special guest Betcha, part of Cornell’s StayHomecoming initiative. With Lennon Stella being one of my favorite artists, I knew I had to tune in. 

Betcha appeared on my screen and I was shocked by the atmosphere, as I was so used to in-person concerts. Usually, there are bright lights that project onto the stage and lots of background dancers, so the band’s creation of a casual ambiance in their basement served as a stark contrast to pre-corona times. Yet, at the same time, I did not mind this difference. I felt as though I was hanging out with the artists on their couch, just having a jam session with them. It almost felt more personal, despite them being miles and miles away from Ithaca. 

I was not familiar with Betcha’s music before watching this concert. Their musical artistry—the command of their instruments and the lead vocalist’s emotion-filled, gritty voice— combined with the genuine chemistry between the four musicians made me question why I had not listened to the band earlier. I found myself swaying to their retro, alternative rock sound and I could imagine how lively the crowd would have been if it had been in person. This feeling was intensified by the fact that their sound was a bit low despite being on the highest volume, making me wish I could hear each lyric better. However, their energy still managed to reach me through the screen. Their first performance “If That’s Alright” had the artists belting the catchy lyrics “Hey, Oh… Say So.” The gentle and insistent acoustic guitar met with the hectoring and proud electric guitar to create a unique sound. This was a mesh of instruments that I had not seen before, and the two distinct sounds blended surprisingly well. While showing their musical talents through other hits such as “Lucy Lucy,” “Deja Vu,” and “July,” the band was also able to connect to the audience and show their personalities. Between songs, they introduced themselves, joked around, and spoke to the audience of Cornell. Their lead vocalist concluded the performance by singing “Falling” while projecting pink lights around the room. By playing just his acoustic guitar, he took a more mellow approach to the original, upbeat tune. This acoustic setting gave off a warm sonority that made the whole performance feel more intimate even through the often arid medium of Zoom. 

After Betcha’s last song came a Q & A, led by a fellow classmate from MUSIC 2311, Miles Greenblatt. Even through Zoom, they could interact with the audience in this way. They were able to answer individual questions, something that an in-person concert rarely does. I found myself absorbed in the band’s words as they spoke about meeting their freshman year of college, the advice they give to young musicians, and their musical inspirations and influences. I loved getting to learn about this band, but I was also anxiously awaiting Lennon Stella to come onto the screen. 

A quick intermission came before the main performance, and photographs of the CCC’s past work were shown on the screen. It was definitely strange to see maskless students at crowded, outdoor concerts. As pictures of the members carrying speakers to the stage came up, I recognized that the members still have a lot of weight to carry on their shoulders because of the new virtual setting. This made me appreciate these Cornell students, and all they have done to flip around how they run their club and bring us this event. 

A CCC member emerged on my screen, from their own bedroom as well, to introduce Lennon Stella. Suddenly, Stella was staring back at me. Her joyous spirit immediately took over as her smile spread from one side of my screen to the other. She began to strum her guitar and the comments quickly streamed in, as fans recognized her hit song “Kissing Other People.” It sounded just like her acoustic recording of the song, stripped down with just her guitar and her soft falsetto. There was also one piano player in the background of her performance who simply accompanied whatever direction Stella went, and let her do the talking. I felt as though I was having a coffee chat with her and that she was playing her music solely to me. I wondered if her performance would have been like this in-person or if it would have been much more extravagant.

After finishing up her other popular song “La Di Da,” Stella said, “even though I can’t hear you, I can feel you.” A few songs later, she also said “it’s so weird to sing to a screen with zero interaction when I know people are there. But I hope everyone is having a good time!” I was glad that she mentioned how bizarre this experience was for her—it would almost feel weird if she had not. Of course, it was a new experience for the audience to be sitting at home watching a virtual concert, but it was just as strange of an event for the performer.

Yet, Stella did an incredible job at still connecting with the audience. She made an effort to look directly at the camera, and talked to us between performances. She explained the meaning behind each song, citing her “very cheating boyfriend” that inspired her song “Bad.” She even had an iPad next to her in order to read the comments coming in. Stella also made a fun production out of her otherwise bland living room scene. Even sitting on her stool, she swayed along to the melody, making me feel like I was truly watching a concert, rather than listening to a recording.

With Stella’s last song “Goodnight,” it was time for her to say goodbye and goodnight to the audience as well. Just like that, with a click of a button, she exited the screen. Concerts that I have attended in the past do not end this abruptly— there is this lingering excitement even after the singer exits, there is merchandise to buy, and conversations with friends as you walk home, reminiscing about the event. Despite this unusual setting, I was pleased by this performance. It could have been my introverted self who liked sitting in my room instead of going out, but I also believe that Betcha and Stella made the best out of the situation. This first virtual concert of mine surpassed my expectations, and my respect towards these musicians grew immensely, even if I had not left my bed the entire evening.

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All Time Low’s Basement Noise, but Make it Virtual

“We’ll See You Next Time for Another Installment of Whatever the F*ck this is,” says Alex Gaskarth at the virtual All Time Low concert on October 23rd.

The flyer for All Time Low’s virtual concert series.

Take a second to reminisce on your last hurrah of a concert before the pandemic hit. Do you remember it more than others? Does it give you a feeling of nostalgia like no other concert has given before? This is how I feel about my own last in-person concert on December 29th of 2019. That end-of-the-year concert also brought an end to the era of jam-packed, obnoxiously loud venues. The concert that I went to was given by All Time Low, a pop punk and rock band that I have been obsessed with since my emo middle school days. I remember buying the ticket as I sat locked in the library during finals season—my only motivation to get through exams was the prospect of being in the same room as my favorite band, screaming the lyrics with them. It seems unreal that I now go from studying for my prelims to watching a virtual All Time Low concert all in the same room. 

Virtual concerts seem reasonable for a performance by an artist with an acoustic guitar, or one who plays soothing classical piano music. However, an All Time Low concert is not meant to calm the soul. The band brings an exhilarating atmosphere to its tours, with risky crowd surfing above heads and screaming fans drinking to the sound of electric guitars and loud drums that pierce everyone’s ears. For this reason,  I was shocked at how jittery and excited I still managed to feel as I sat in bed, logging onto the website for All Time Low’s Basement Noise Concert Series.

I arrived at the “venue” about 15 minutes early out of eagerness, but also curiosity. Would the pre-concert ambience still be the same? Would I feel like I was alone or as if I was watching with other fans? Would I feel the same rush with every change in lighting as I anticipate the lights going down and the band coming out? These were the thoughts that consumed my mind before the page loaded and a rectangle with All Time Low’s logo appeared on my screen. On the side was an influx of comments flooding the screen every second with all caps “WHY AM I SHAKING IT’S A VIRTUAL CONCERT” to a slew of crying emojis. This feature truly created a community amongst us fans who were joining from all around the world. There were people commenting that it was way too early in the morning for them, and it was mind-boggling that in Ithaca it was 6pm. I realized that virtual concerts are significant not only for the times that we live in, but also for people that usually do not have the opportunities to attend a real-life concert. The ticket for this event was inexpensive compared to the in-person one that I had to save up money for. It also required no travel, so is perfect for people who live far away from places that the band generally tours. In this way, I felt connected to even more fans than I would in a small, limited capacity room. 

All the names of the commenters were in yellow, thus confusion arose when a few green names began to pop up. Then, I read those green names—Alex, Jack, Zack, Rian. They were the members of the band, virtually interacting with us! This filled me with happiness, and for a moment I forgot that the band was across the country and not with me in my room. As I sat wondering how they were commenting so close to the start time, the band appeared on my screen right at 6pm. This is when I grasped that the concert was going to be a pre-recorded event, not a live performance. This was one disappointing aspect, but with the band’s comments on the side, I still felt as if they were with us, albeit in a bizarre way. 

The band’s virtual performance was complete with bright lights and colors.

In the introduction, the band explained that they wanted to give a true performance on a stage with colorful, flashing lights surrounding them. This October 23rd concert was a part of a series of concerts that the band prepared. In July, they tested negative for the virus along with their crew, and were able to record the performance for the fans. Each concert in the series had a distinct setlist that was decided by one of the band members. This particular concert was curated by Rian Dawson, the quirky drummer. Everyone in the fandom, from the comment section to Twitter, was commenting that Dawson would likely pick the most obscure songs to play because that is just his personality. 

To my surprise, Dawson had some incredible picks for the setlist. They were unexpected, yet all songs that I had been craving to hear. In about 45 minutes, they were able to cover 12 songs. The majority of these songs came from the 2015 album Future Hearts, which is (objectively) the best All Time Low album. These are songs that I use to jam out to in my bedroom, and still do to this day when I need to get my teen angst out. In the upcoming concerts of the series, the other members will have a lot to live up to after Rian’s setlist. 

The band could not have chosen a more vocally challenging set. I suspect that with the virtual concert, they were able to take more breaks between songs because each song still managed to have crisp vocals and lots of movement without excessive sweating from the members. Starting with “Kicking and Screaming,” I could already tell that this concert was about to be incredible. The band stood on the stage with their usual formation, and as the camera moved between members, I could see each of their faces and movements more than I could on my tippy toes at the back of a concert hall. Instead of hearing screaming fans, I could hear their vocals much more clearly, and Alex Gaskarth’s range did not fail to impress. As the songs came on, one after another, I could not help but smile to myself at how well done this entire production was. 

When “Cinderblock Garden” came on, lead guitarist Jack Barakat commented on the side, “I’m killing this verse” and he was not exaggerating. His guitar solo gave me chills as his roaring sound consumed the stage. I bopped my head along to the rhythm, and squealed out loud when Gaskarth took off his flannel and threw it at the camera and made eye contact with the viewers. For many of the songs, the band changed it up a little by incorporating harmonies or solos from various members. When they sang “Kids in the Dark,” they told us to turn off the lights in whatever room we were in, and they dimmed their blue lights on their stage too. It was evident that they tried their hardest to make the concert feel as “normal” as possible and that thought alone made me love the band even more. 

My favorite part of the All Time Low concert that I went to in December was their commentary in between songs. The band’s music is what initially drew me into the fanbase, but after years of watching interviews with them, I fell in love with their personalities as well. During the short intermission video, the band joked around together, debating the pronunciation of the word “wolf” in the song “Dancing with a Wolf” and making fun of Barakat for being a not-so “Life of the Party.” Gaskarth laughed off the crazy times that we find ourselves in, saying that “You don’t want to be near us anyway. We smell bad.” 

I was honestly having an amazing time at this virtual concert, sitting in bed with my punk eyeliner on. I found myself tearing up as the band announced their last song from the classic Future Hearts album. The white lights shone in every direction and the band jumped up and down, creating the sparkling, energetic atmosphere that any All Time Low concert has to end with. In any other year, I could imagine myself being in the middle of a mosh pit, getting crushed by the crowd. For this concert though, I was satisfied with the idea of moshing in my room alone. It was a different type of rush for sure, and I think for a band like All Time Low, a virtual concert will never live up to its live counterpart that causes deafening of ears and packed bodies. Yet, shutting my computer with an increased love for this breathtaking band was not the worst way to spend my Friday night and I will be forever grateful for “whatever the f*ck” they provided.

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And yet, China sings

In spite of its gimmicks, the 10 year old Chinese reality singing competition, Sing! China, maintains its calling power with its earnest performances.Sing! China - Wikipedia

I am of the dying breed of consumers unable to follow any television series to completion, even with Netflix forcing the next episode on me. I have little patience in particular, for overwrought reality shows driven by needlessly hysterical scripts. And yet, every Friday at 9pm sharp, you’ll find me watching Sing! China, a reality singing competition with a blind audition concept. 

Sing! China is replete with the foibles of reality television. All are welcome, but most contestants have professional training, and everyone on the first episode mysteriously succeeds. Product placement is as subtle as a giant milk bottle mascot dancing in the stands. All media is political; this is no exception. Contestants returning from abroad declare their renewed national pride and the finals begin with a patriotic song. That this season was filmed at all, with an unmasked studio audience no less, declares the Chinese success in managing the coronavirus while other countries grapple with lockdown. 

But despite the show’s affectations, the sincerity of the performances prevail. 

Zhao Zi Hua (赵紫骅), a thirty-three-year-old independent musician, looks utterly unassuming, as he takes the stage to sing his composition, Because You Came By. He does not sing as much as speak in his warm tenor, asking the audience “what hurt do you carry? ”(你带着什么伤) with a forthrightness that cuts to the quick as he sketches the uncertain road through adversity to aspirations. The conversation turns inward into an interrogation, and his answers are devastating in their unflinching truth. Though many have spoken to this subject, he is distinguished by his genuine delivery. When he says he is searching for a path through life’s uncertainties, you believe it, because he sings with his voice so charged with vulnerability and stripped of pretense. He does not belabour the point, but narrates with a calm, unblinking honesty what feels like hard-won truths in a few sparse lines of life-affirming poetry. 

If Zhao’s calling card is his time-weathered wisdom, his competitors, Zebra Forest (斑马森林), a three piece band of twenty-somethings, are the youthful exuberance of big dreams and beginnings. In their composition Lighthouse, they’re easy on the ears with their radio-friendly hooks and guitar-heavy pop sound, if a little generic. Their appeal doesn’t derive from the technical complexity of their performance, but their candour. The lead vocal croons with an uncomplicated belief about summer evenings sprawled on the grass and chasing dreams in a big city far away, and you nod along in spite of yourself. Their writing and delivery needs fine-tuning, but still they moved the most serious judge to grudgingly groove along. I’m hopeful that I’ll hear them on the radio in a few years, topping the charts. 

Like most other televised singing competitions, Sing! China is plagued by advertising spectacles, tacky branding and all the other uncomfortable accoutrements of reality television. But the sincerity of its contestants and their music will keep me coming back, week after week, and for seasons to come. 

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A Man of Many Words and Meters

After his passing, Neil ‘The Professor’ Peart leaves a rich legacy of rhythm and intellect that will have a lasting influence on how musicians approach their craft.

Peart waves farewell to the audience at his last concert with Rush in 2015.

When the spotlight was shining, Neil Peart was an untamed tiger; he showed up to every concert ready to pounce and viciously devour each song with perfect time and execution. But when the spotlight faded and the house lights came up, the tiger quietly retreated back into the wild to search for his next meal. Peart was one third of the famed Canadian prog rock trio, Rush, and his unabashed drumming on his 360 degree kit covered more ground in a single concert than most drummers could in a lifetime. From the small clubs to the massive stadiums, Peart had fans air-drumming his complex and unique drum parts throughout the concerts, and the rhythms he wrote for what have become classic Rush songs are as integral to the tunes as the guitar riffs and melodies. However, the man behind the kit was much more restrained. Peart was a living dichotomy; his private personal life, full of tragic family deaths, was unrecognizable from his demeanor on stage. When Rush completed their R40 tour with their final show in 2015, fans across the world were devastated. But upon hearing the news that Peart had died on January 7, 2020 after suffering from brain cancer, fans were shocked beyond belief.

Rush made its debut in 1974 with their eponymous album, but the lineup on that album is not the band fans have come to know and love over the last forty years. While high school friends Alex Lifeson (guitar) and Geddy Lee (vocals, bass, synth) founded the band and remained in it ever since, the original drummer was John Rutsey, who left the band after the first album as a result of health issues. This first album was unapologetically straight-ahead, and Rutsey’s simpler drumming certainly fit the style. But with Peart’s blazing debut on their second album Fly By Night (1975), right from the intro of the first song “Anthem” the contrast between the two was day and night. And Rush chose to fly by night. Peart’s playing was technically nuanced, and he executed complicated polyrhythms and time signatures with ease. His playing pushed Lifeson and Lee to a new level on this second record, and it was only a taste of what was to come for the next forty years.

Rush digs into a hard-hitting song on their 1975 tour.

A well-read intellectual, Peart also brought immense knowledge about literature and history to the band, and he became Rush’s primary lyricist for the remainder of the band’s career. While the stereotypical drummer of a rock band from the seventies was said to be the least smart of the bunch, Peart ignored the playbook and added more to the band than they could imagine. He wrote about fantasy novels and classics by famous authors such as Ernest Hemingway in the song “Losing It” (1982), as well as The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in their well-known hit “Tom Sawyer” (1981). Peart’s literary contributions brought attention to the importance of lyrics in rock music; his words, in addition to his backbeat, were imperative to Rush’s continued success over the course of their musical trajectory.

Peart’s creativity and curiosity also drove his interest in travel, especially by motorcycle. Peart began riding at age 12, and he was immediately enthralled by the feel and control while navigating uncharted territory. Peart’s obsession with riding became so great that beginning in 1996, he toured with Rush by motorcycle instead of by tour bus. Peart said that for him drumming and motorcycle riding went hand in hand: “They are a good counterpoint to each other. Drumming requires three hours of performing at the limit of my physical and mental capabilities, and motorcycling is very demanding physically, and especially, mentally. The concentration necessary to do it correctly, safely, life-preservingly is enormous. It feels like the vibration of riding actually loosens up my sore muscles, so it’s therapeutic in that way, and after so many years of concert tours, which can be tedious, motorcycling keeps me excited and challenged.” In between tours Peart also travelled the globe, finding new places to explore and attempting to satisfy his insatiable hunger to learn more. Peart put his adventures into words, and in 1996 he published a book titled The Masked Rider: Cycling in West Africa, in which he chronicled his adventures by motorcycle in Cameroon.

Peart poses for a shot with two of his favorite pieces of equipment: a motorcycle and a drum kit.

Writing is also ultimately what saved Peart after the tragic deaths of his 19-year old daughter, Selena, in 1997, and his wife of 23 years, Jacqueline, the following year. Rush had been touring non-stop up until the conclusion of their Test For Echo tour in 1997, but after Selena died in a car crash and his wife died of cancer, the band gave Peart time to mourn – a break that lasted five years. He spent years alone traveling by himself and meeting new people, an unmapped journey from his hometown of Quebec to various destinations such as British Columbia, United States, Mexico, and Belize. Upon returning home, he published his second book Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road in 2002, which focused on his journey of self-rediscovery.

This therapeutic travel experience put Peart in the frame of mind to resume working with Lifeson and Lee, bringing Rush back to life with their album Vapor Trails (2002) and extensive tour that followed. Before the deaths of his daughter and wife, Peart had avoided many press events and meet-and-greets with fans, and after the band resumed touring, the group made a collective and definitive decision that Lifeson and Lee would take care of all interactions with the press in order to give Peart more privacy and avoid him feeling uncomfortable from questions about his personal life. This gave Peart more time to explore the open road yet also remain focused on his craft.

Peart’s incessant need to learn and challenge himself was unmistakable in his growth as a drummer. For twenty years since he joined Rush, he had developed naturally into a virtuosic player, evident in his complicated parts he executed night after night. In 1995, however, after feeling himself become too metronomic of a player, he decided to reach out for lessons. Just a year earlier, Peart participated in the record Burning For Buddy: A Tribute To The Music Of Buddy Rich (1994), in which he played “Cotton Tail” with a big band. During this time he was introduced to drum teacher Freddie Gruber, who had also taught Steve Smith, the drummer of the rock band Journey. Gruber played a critical role in Peart’s development, advising him to change his grip on his drum sticks from “matched grip” to “traditional grip” and altering the heights of some of the drums on his kit, all with the goal to help Peart play with “circular motion” as opposed to the more rigid style he had been using. This change in style provided renewed impetus for even more creativity with Rush, and enabled them to continue producing quality work for the next twenty years.

In 2013, Rush was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Their performance at the event opened with the Foo Fighters, who are fronted by Dave Grohl, the former drummer of Nirvana. Grohl expressed how Peart’s playing changed the landscape for drummers: “An inspiration to millions with an unmistakable sound who spawned generations of musicians (like myself) to pick up two sticks and chase a dream. A kind, thoughtful, brilliant man who ruled our radios and turntables not only with his drumming, but also his beautiful words…I still vividly remember my first listen of 2112 when I was young. It was the first time I really listened to a drummer. And since that day, music has never been the same. His power, precision, and composition was incomparable. He was called ‘The Professor’ for a reason: We all learned from him.”

After Rush’s induction into the Hall of Fame, Peart’s health began to wane, and the future of the band became unpredictable. As he developed tendonitis from years on the road playing three-hour shows, executing his grueling drum parts became more difficult. Peart’s perfectionism manifested clearly in his playing, and since he accepted nothing less than his mile-high standards, he could not continue touring if that meant delivering subpar performances. Peart’s decision to make Rush’s final show on their R40 tour their last as a band set an example of how to leave the game with dignity, grace, and class. Peart’s unending desire to learn more is what enabled him to be successful and satisfied in his life filled with tragic loss. His recovery and legacy should serve as a model for anyone with a passion they are committed to mastering.

As Peart wrote in his book Far and Away: A Prize Every Time (2011), “Excitement is found along the road, not at the end, and likewise, peace is not a fixed point-except perhaps in the unwanted ‘rest in peace’ sense. PEACE is the breathing space between destinations, between excitements, an occasional part of the journey, if you’re lucky. PEACE is a space you move through very rarely, and very briefly-but you’re not allowed to stay there. You have to keep moving, and go do what you do. Because you can.”

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A Clandestine Concert

Midnight oil burned from a chandelier within Sage Chapel, spreading an iridescence across the stained-glass windows that cut starkly against the somber night. I was shuffling past, making my way through campus, when I caught the faint whimper of a melody. At first, I mistook it for the wind humming, or the crickets whistling, or my own desperate mind imagining the live music that I so desperately craved since the outset of the pandemic. But the whimper grew to a hiss, which built to a hum. I was now certain of what I was hearing. Stoked with curiosity, I crept across the courtyard and pressed my ear to the door. The grandiose voice of the pipe organ filled the empty pews.

Leaning against the door, I listened as the anonymous musician ascended the manuals and pedals. They attacked their instrument in sudden bursts, climbing upon harmonious phrases, shooting notes high into the rafters. On occasion they stopped abruptly, letting the resplendent tones reverberate within the chapel walls. Then, with the same vigor and conviction as before, they assailed the keys once again. Rolling arpeggios and quavering octaves washed over the room, seeping through the walls into the moonlit night where I stood hanging on every note. My secret serenader put on a remarkable performance.

This might have been the most intimate, personal concert that I have ever been to. As the lone audience member, every beat and bar were my own individual indulgences. Conversely, this was also the most distant of performances. The performer, after all, was oblivious to the very fact that they were performing. Nonetheless, the barrier between us was bridged by the resounding howl of the organ, which permeated the wall and burrowed deep into my bones.

Gently, the organist lifted their finger off the final key, relieving the organ of its eternal duty and releasing me from its captive lure. Reentering reality, I became conscious of how ridiculous I looked to the passersby. I had stood for fifteen minutes with my ear glued to a doorframe, wide-eyed and smiling. Soon thereafter, I realized how emphatically more insane I would appear to the organist, who might walk through that door at any moment. I collected myself and slipped softly back into the night from which I came.

I will admit that I felt a bit creepy leant up against that wall, soaking in the live music like a moth to a porchlight. Then again, no concert in the era of COVID has followed a conventional format. We’ve swapped theatres for drive-ins, Lincoln Hall for a tent pitched on the Arts Quad. Seeing this, I’d like to believe that my midnight eavesdropping was not the most eccentric manner in which someone has pursued live music over the past few months. Anyhow, the lengths that we’ve all gone through to chase live music only proves the essentiality of the medium. Like a note perpetually pressed upon an organ, our desire to see a show will never dissipate.