Moving Pictures, Rush

The Brotherhood of Rush: A Secret Society Hidden in Plain Sight

Rush, Moving Pictures, 1981

Class of 2013

When our kids were younger, most of our vacations were spent in Mexico City visiting family and preserving traditions. But once they were old enough to hike for hours without demanding piggyback rides, we turned to America’s national parks. Yellowstone and Grand Teton were first.

We were hooked.

Somewhere near Utah—Arches, I bet—something unexpected started happening. As we hiked through red rock formations, random hikers would stop, make eye contact, and point at me. I’d point back. A subtle nod, maybe the devil horns. No words—just recognition.

Marilu and the kids stared.

“Do you know them?”

“Kind of,” I said.

“What do you mean ‘kind of’?”

I smirked, pointing to my shirt. “Look at what it says.”

“Rush,” Diego read aloud.

Marilu blinked. “Okay, but that doesn’t explain the pointing. What are you, in a club?”

“Exactly,” I grinned. “The Brotherhood of Rush.”

She shook her head. “They’re just a band.”

I clutched my chest in mock pain. “Just a band?!”

At that moment, I knew she’d never fully get it. And that was okay. Rush fans don’t explain—we just nod and carry on.

You don’t need to pay dues or pass a test to join the Rush Brotherhood (Sisters are welcome too). You just have to listen—and keep listening—until something clicks.

For me, it started in my early teens at my friend Joel’s house. He wasn’t especially into music, but some of his older friends were. One afternoon, I spotted a record on the table—Moving Pictures by Rush. The cover showed movers carrying paintings in front of a grand building, but everything about it felt layered, mysterious. The bold logo, the imagery, the sense that this album held secrets just waiting to be decoded—it pulled me in before I heard a single note.

“Whose is this?” I asked.

“Fito left it here,” he said. “I’m giving it back tomorrow.”

“Can I borrow it?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

I took it home, dropped the needle, and the room practically lifted off the ground. What came out of the speakers was a kind of controlled explosion—layered, urgent, and perfectly precise. The drumming was complex, the basslines thundered with clarity, the vocals soared, and the guitar sliced through everything like a laser. Could this really be just three guys?

Rush wasn’t just playing rock. They were constructing it—brick by brick, with the precision of classical composers, the punch of hard rock, and the imagination of sci-fi writers. That record, Moving Pictures, pulled me into their orbit. And I quietly started plotting why Fito’s album might never make it back.

Rush didn’t come out of the gate fully formed. Their early albums channeled Led Zeppelin and The Who—raw riffs, bluesy overtones—but they hadn’t yet found their voice. That changed when drummer Neil Peart joined. He was a drummer, yes—but also a reader, thinker, philosopher. And he reshaped everything.

With Peart, Rush found its footing as progressive storytellers. Their 1976 album 2112 was a breakthrough—a futuristic rock opera that declared they would play on their own terms or not at all. It didn’t just save their career. It built their cult.

Moving Pictures was the moment it all came together. Complex but accessible, it was Rush’s perfect balance, bringing progressive rock to the mainstream without losing their identity.

“Tom Sawyer” was the anthem: cryptic lyrics, wild synths, and a message about rebellion and self-reliance. “Red Barchetta” felt like a sci-fi movie in song form—racing across a future where cars are outlawed and freedom smells like gasoline. “Limelight” was Neil Peart’s personal reckoning with fame: “I can’t pretend a stranger is a long-awaited friend.” That line hit me back then—and still does.

And then there’s “YYZ,” an instrumental built from the Morse code of Toronto’s airport. It became a fan favorite, especially after the famous Rush in Rio concert, when tens of thousands of fans “sang” the melody back to the band—note for note—without a single word.

Rush made music that demanded attention. They didn’t care about image or trends. They just got better, deeper, and more confident with time.

After Moving Pictures, Rush kept evolving. Synths came in, then out again. They followed their instincts, not their sales numbers. And their fans followed.

When Neil Peart—the Professor—passed away in 2020, Rush as a band quietly ended. There was no farewell tour, no replacement. Just silence. And somehow, that felt right. He wasn’t just the drummer; he was the mind, the soul, the compass—and the reason we still nod to each other in the wild.

Despite my attempts to keep it, Fito eventually got his record back. But I kept Rush.

Rock Wisdom

What’s your Rush? What passion turns strangers into kin—and reminds you you’re not alone in the wild?