No Friday Confessions from me today. My head is full of Rush. It’s like going to confession, is going to a Rush concert, I’ve decided, and I feel all clean and shriven.

Well, the symptoms are obvious: I have Rushitis again. You can’t go to a Rush concert and not get reinfected, just like you can’t go to a Marseillaise brothel and not get the clap. Erm. I don’t know that for sure, actually.

But here’s what I do know: Neil Peart is the best stadium drummer on the planet. If Neil Peart and John Bonham had a love child, I would nanny that child for FREE. Peart’s drum solo last night made me realize, in the words of another concert-goer, “There. You never have to see another drummer.” I really, really don’t.

Also, I quite adore Geddy Lee. I would go so far as to (here it is, Rachel) commit lewd acts with him. He was funny, gnomish, agile, nerdy, hilarious, and goofy. I would probably sleep with him.

And Alex Lifeson? Well, he’s pretty awesome. Okay, he’s super-awesome. He played this little classical piece last night that was so sweet and full of heart, it was like he was yearning for the Serbian countryside of his heritage. And then he turns around and in some slick guitar-tech work and a flash of light, starts shredding like he taught Yngwie Malmsteen how to backcomb his hair.

Also, to the trio of young men just down the row from us: Don’t give up the dream, boys. Your drummer had some serious chops going on on his knees, from what I could see.

What an awesome, awesome night.

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