The Tapes Archive

Neil Peart grew up in southern Ontario in the 1950s and ’60s as the oldest of four kids in a middle-class family. He wasn’t much for socializing—he’d rather read or listen to records than play sports or go to parties. He once joked about having “spindly little ankles” when explaining why he avoided athletics; instead, he devoted his energy to drumming and reading.

Musically, his heroes were players who combined power with precision: Keith Moon, John Bonham, and Ginger Baker. Peart studied how they worked, building his own style that was both powerful and controlled. He wasn’t trying to copy them—he wanted to figure out how they made complicated parts sound effortless.

He brought that same curiosity to his reading. At age 18, while pursuing his musical goals in England, Peart found a copy of Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead on the London Tube. Her tale of fiercely independent characters fighting to stay true to themselves hit home. Already wary of the herd mentality and convinced that effort came before success, Peart found in Rand the voice of ideas he was seeing in himself. 

Ayn Rand came to the U.S. from Russia in 1926 and built a philosophy called Objectivism. At its core, it was about thinking for yourself and living by your own judgment—so long as you didn’t use force against others. Her most widely read novels, The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged, demonstrated this through characters who stood by their visionary principles no matter what the cost.

Critics argued Rand took things too far—that her views lacked compassion and ignored real-world obstacles. They argued she celebrated individual achievement while neglecting those who got left behind.

Politically, Rand added a voice in shaping libertarian thinking in America. Her case for personal freedom, small government, and free markets gave the Libertarian Party intellectual ammunition. But this connection also muddied the waters—people who liked her ideas about creativity or self-reliance were sometimes assumed to buy into a whole political agenda.

For a young Neil Peart, finding Rand wasn’t about picking sides politically. It was foundational values. Her way of seeing the world made sense of things he already felt: work hard, think for yourself, don’t cave to pressure. However, what began as a personal discovery would later become entangled in much larger public debates.

On Peart’s first Rush album, Fly By Night, and first song, “Anthem” (based on Rand’s novella of the same name), Neil dipped his toes into lyric writing and conveying a touch of Rand’s influence on him. “Live for yourself, there’s no one else more worth living for. Begging hands and bleeding hearts will only cry out for more.”

Peart’s philosophical connection to Ayn Rand deepened significantly with their breakthrough 1976 album 2112, whose epic, 20-minute title track mirrored the plot of Rand’s novella Anthem, depicting a society devoid of individuality and creativity. The album itself was an act of Randian defiance; after their previous album, Caress of Steel, flopped commercially, Rush’s record label pressured them to produce radio-friendly music. Rejecting compromise, the band deliberately opened 2112 with precisely the kind of high-concept, science fiction material their label discouraged, explicitly crediting Rand’s “genius” in the liner notes. Guitarist Alex Lifeson described the album as born from “defiance and anger,” while lyricist Neil Peart connected Rand’s concept of “corruption of the spirit” to the commercial music industry, reaffirming their commitment to artistic freedom and integrity.

In the evolving narrative of Neil Peart’s relationship with Ayn Rand’s philosophy, one striking theme is how his beliefs were misinterpreted or oversimplified for others’ own goals.

In 1978, British journalist Barry Miles recorded an interview with Rush after their February performance at London’s Hammersmith Odeon. The resulting article became infamous among Rush fans—not for what it revealed, but for how it twisted the creative intent of the band. Instead of capturing what should have been your standard rock band fluff piece, Miles framed the band—and Neil Peart in particular—as purveyors of a dangerous ideology.

He drew inflammatory parallels between Rush’s lyrics and the rhetoric of Nazi Germany, invoking phrases like “Work Makes Free” and warning readers that the band’s celebration of personal freedom masked a veiled endorsement of fascist values. “Rush would like to return to the survival-of-the-fittest jungle law,” he wrote, “where the fittest is of course the one with the most money.” The piece ended ominously: “Make sure that next time you see them, you see them with your eyes open, and know what you see. I, for one, don’t like it.”

Positioning himself as the intellectual in the room, Miles opened the piece with a humble brag: “I got the job of interviewing Rush because I was the only one on NME who knew who Ayn Rand was” From there, he stacked the deck by undercutting their musical credibility. On Geddy Lee’s voice, he wrote, “breaks into high castrati shrieks and yelps like a throttled blackbird clamped to the PA.” Alex Lifeson was dismissed as merely “a reasonable guitarist of his genre,” qualified by, “I’ve been to too many Hendrix, Cream and Zappa concerts to say better than that.” And Neil Peart? “He plays very simple shapes… but on the night I saw him, I thought his timing was defective.” The subtext was clear: if the band didn’t even deserve musical respect, why bother entertaining their ideas? 

“These guys are advocating this stuff on stage and on record, and no one even questions it. No one is on their case. All the classic hallmarks of the right-wing are there: the pseudo-religious language… The use of a quasi-mystical symbol—the naked man confronting the red star of Socialism (at least I suppose that’s what it’s supposed to be). It’s all there . . . 

Miles seemed intent on editorializing his worldview, using Rush as a rhetorical target. The article read less like journalism and more like an ideological takedown—one that may have relied on quote mining to bend the band’s words into something that fit into Mile’s narrative. 

Peart knew the conversation with Miles was being recorded, but he assumed it was just a casual, good-faith exchange—two people talking philosophy, not a formal interview for publication. I think if he realized Miles intended to frame most of the article around what should have been considered an off-the-record conversation, Peart likely would have declined the interview. Peart was famously private and reluctant to politicize his public persona, especially in the context of Rush. In fact, a 1973 Seals and Crofts concert helped shape his views on artists who liked to share opinions from the stage that no one paid to hear. Neil recalled in his book Traveling Music:

“Around 1973, I went with some friends to a concert by the American duo Seals and Crofts… During the show, they talked about their devotion to the Baha’i faith, and at the end, invited people to stay behind and discuss it with them. Proselytizing at a concert seemed strange and made me feel uncomfortable at the time, and from then on, it somehow tarnished my response to their music.”

Two years after the New Musical Express article ran, Peart addressed the controversy head-on with journalist Terry Lawson from The Journal Herald (Dayton, Ohio):

“I think that writer came looking for an exposé, and when he didn’t find it, invented one. I had read some Ayn Rand, sure… But it wasn’t political at all—it was philosophical. We were having what I considered a stimulating conversation, and he chose to turn it into something… well, shall we say, more spectacular.

“I don’t believe in talking down to our audiences in our songs, but I’m certainly not interested in being any sort of political influence, either. If they take anything away from our shows, I hope it’s that Alex and Geddy and I do our best up there on stage. And if that rubs off, that they’ll try to do their best too. Not just rock and roll—I mean, no matter what it is they do.”
—Peart, February 1980

It should be noted that in 1979 NME did send another journalist, John Hamblett, to follow up on the Miles article, asking Neil if he felt he was misrepresented. Neil said:

“Oh, absolutely. That was a very dishonest article. I was under the impression that Miles and I had gotten on very well. I even gave him my address in New York and told him to stop by any time he was in the neighbourhood. All that so-called political dialogue took place after the interview had finished; we were just chatting.”

In 2023, Geddy Lee wrote in his book:
As politely as possible, we tried to answer and engage with every argument he advanced, but he wasn’t having it. Then, as writers do, he enjoyed the final word in print, and published a harangue that bore little relation to the discussion we thought we’d been a part of.

The most painful irony? Geddy Lee’s parents were Holocaust survivors—both had been imprisoned in Auschwitz. For a band that valued skepticism, nuance, and self-reliance, being painted as ideologues—let alone fascist sympathizers—wasn’t just inaccurate. It was grotesque.

Geddy said:

To be described as fascists trying to put one over on British rock fans was puzzling enough, but when I got to the part where he invokes the uninvokable words on the gates of Auschwitz, I thought, Fuck you, man. 

Three decades later, a new misreading would take place—this time from the opposite side of the spectrum. Senator Rand Paul discovered Ayn Rand at 17 and was already an ardent Rush fan. “The serendipity was that I actually liked this band that knew about Ayn Rand,” Paul once remarked. In college, Paul wrote about his libertarian beliefs in the campus newspaper and later embraced Objectivist rhetoric as part of his political identity.

In May 2010, journalist Joshua Green was in Bowling Green, Kentucky, covering Rand Paul’s Republican primary victory for the U.S. Senate. After Paul took the stage to Rush’s “The Spirit of Radio,” Green decided to tweet about it since he thought a Republican playing Rush music seemed humorous to him. Responses flooded in: Rush were libertarians! 2112 was based on Ayn Rand! And yes, Rand Paul was a massive fan—Rush was his favorite band.

Green’s tweetstorm went viral in the Rushverse—and eventually reached Robert Farmer, director of legal affairs for Anthem Entertainment Group, Rush’s label. Within days, Paul’s campaign received a cease-and-desist letter. Not only had Paul used Rush’s songs at campaign events, he had also quoted their lyrics—like “Glittering prizes and endless compromises shatter the illusion of integrity” from “The Spirit of Radio”—in speeches. Paul would also quote Rush’s song “The Trees” to criticize policies that promote equality of outcome rather than of opportunity.

Green’s tweetstorm went viral in the Rushverse—and eventually reached Robert Farmer, director of legal affairs for Anthem Entertainment Group, Rush’s label. Within days, Paul’s campaign received a cease-and-desist letter. Not only had Paul used Rush’s songs at campaign events, he had also quoted their lyrics—like “Glittering prizes and endless compromises shatter the illusion of integrity” from The Spirit of Radio—in speeches. At one rally, he went even further, reading the entire lyrics from the Rush song The Trees as if it were a parable about government overreach and the tyranny of the majority.

The creator of the song saw it very differently. In a 1980 interview with Cheech Iero, he openly dismissed the lyric as “a piece of doggerel,” something he dashed off in five minutes after seeing a cartoon of trees arguing like people. 

When asked if the song carried a deeper social message, his reply was blunt:
“No, it was just a flash… I saw it as a cartoon, really, and wrote it that way.”

When it was suggested to Neil in 1979 that The Trees was basically a statement against trade unions? Neil responded:

“Really (apparently surprised at the suggestion), I can assure you that that wasn’t the intention. 

On top of quoting Peart’s lyrics, Paul’s campaign also used the music from “Tom Sawyer” in a fundraising video. The campaign’s response to the cease-and-desist was dismissive. “The background music Dr. Paul has played at events is a non-issue,” said campaign manager Jesse Benton. “The issues that matter in this campaign are cutting out-of-control deficits, repealing Obamacare.”

Once again, Neil Peart’s words were being used in ways he never intended, by people who claimed to understand him—but didn’t.

What made Rand Paul’s use of Rush’s music especially ironic wasn’t just that he misunderstood the band—it was that, in doing so, he violated the very principles he claimed to represent.

Libertarians and Objectivists place property rights at the center of individual freedom. Ayn Rand was adamant: your mind, your work, and your creations are yours alone. In The Fountainhead, when Howard Roark’s architectural vision is used without his permission, he doesn’t negotiate—he destroys it. That act, extreme as it is, is her unflinching defense of intellectual property and moral ownership.

And yet, Rand Paul—an open admirer of Ayn Rand and a devoted Rush fan—used their music, their lyrics, and their message in his campaign for personal gain, all while preaching the sanctity of private property. For a libertarian to brush it off as a “non-issue” and to disregard the rights of a creator wasn’t just a legal misstep—it was a philosophical betrayal.

Both Miles and Paul missed the point entirely. And both revealed, in different ways, just how easy it is to ignore the meaning of someone’s work when you’re too busy trying to use it for your own gain.

In 1984, Peart was asked:
SF: A lot of your lyrics are said by many to be inspired by Ayn Rand.

NP: Yeah. That’s sort of a convenient post to latch on…I’m not as big an Ayn Rand fan as
I’m made out to be.
SF: In Harry Shapiro’s book called A-Z of Rock Drummers, he alluded to many of your lyrics as being “fascist.”

NP: I’ve never written anything political. I’m an apolitical person, really. If I’m interested in anything, I’m interested in the philosophies that bring about those political schools of thought. I don’t write about politics. 

Neil Peart was never trying to start a movement. He wasn’t looking to be a spokesman or a philosopher-king. He was a drummer who read books—a lyricist who wrestled with ideas. A thinker trying to make sense of the world through rhythm, structure, and words. The philosophies he explored—Ayn Rand included—were never meant to become party platforms or ideological talking points. They were catalysts for his own growth, and sometimes, just sparks for a song.

But once those ideas left his notebook and landed on a Rush album, they became fair game for misinterpretation. 

What they missed is that Peart’s relationship with Ayn Rand—and Objectivism—was never static. It evolved. In a 1997 interview with Liberty magazine, Peart pointed to the moment when the shift began: reading Rand’s essay Apollo and Dionysus.

The piece wasn’t abstract philosophy—it was a full-throated attack on the 1960s counterculture. Rand portrayed the youth of the era as emotional, irrational, and nihilistic, mocking their music, their protests, and their idealism. She wrote:

“What we saw in the streets of Woodstock was the worship of the Dionysian—of emotion for emotion’s sake, of mindless self-indulgence.”

For Peart, this marked the beginning of a break. While he valued reason and self-discipline, Rand’s rigid dismissal of emotion, art, and idealism struck him as reductive. He later reflected:

In the same article, Peart described himself as a “left-wing libertarian,” explaining that he could never support the political right due to its intolerance and support for censorship. He said the rise of religious fundamentalism in America and around the world “terrifies” him, but he also noted rising intolerance from the left as something that troubled him deeply. His allegiance wasn’t to any side. He pledged allegiance to think for oneself. 

Nearly two decades later, in a 2015 Rolling Stone interview, Peart reaffirmed this worldview, calling himself a “bleeding-heart libertarian”—a term that captured the balance he had come to value: personal freedom paired with compassion, reason tempered by empathy, and a refusal to be boxed in by any ideology.

He didn’t just evolve privately—he had begun exploring this shift years earlier in his work. In Rush’s 1978 album Hemispheres, Peart staged the very same conflict Rand had written about: Apollo, god of reason, at war with Dionysus, god of emotion. But unlike Rand—who saw reason as the only acceptable guide—Peart didn’t crown a victor. He offered a third path. The character Cygnus emerges—not as a conqueror, but as a unifier—bringing mind and heart into balance.

“The cities were abandoned, and the forests echoed song. / They danced and lived as brothers. / They knew love could not be wrong.”

It was, in essence, a direct rebuttal to Rand’s binary worldview. For Peart, reason without empathy was sterile, and emotion without structure was chaos. But together, they could build something lasting.

Peart didn’t preach. He questioned. He didn’t instruct. He explored. And when he outgrew a belief or an influence, he moved forward, not with resentment, but with clarity.

He never wanted to be owned by the left, the right, or even his fans. He didn’t want followers. He wanted readers. Listeners. People who’d think for themselves and challenge their own hypocrisy. That was the thread running through all his work—not just freedom, but earned freedom. 

His lyrics weren’t manifestos. They were mirrors. And maybe that’s why so many people saw what they wanted in them—even if that meant missing the man behind them entirely.

Because for Neil Peart, being misunderstood wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.

Being simplified was.