Rush
– Snakes & Arrows
By 2007, most bands from the ’70s were either nostalgia acts or museum pieces. Rush? They were building new architecture. Snakes and Arrows isn’t a back-patting reunion or a limp attempt at modern relevance—it’s the sound of three lifers still trying to crack the code. Geddy Lee, Alex Lifeson, and Neil Peart came in loud and philosophical, channeling fire through amplifiers and uncertainty through lyrics. You don’t put out your 18th studio album just to coast. These guys came to work.
Best of…
There’s grit baked into this record. The sound is warmer, heavier, earthier—an answer to the slicker production of their ’80s experiments and the metallic sheen of the ‘90s. Lifeson’s guitars snarl and shimmer. Lee’s bass still wriggles like a live wire. And Peart? He’s not just drumming; he’s writing sermons with snare hits. The album pulses with a kind of restless skepticism—spiritual, political, personal. But it never collapses under the weight of its ideas. It grooves. It rocks. It even breathes.
And while it doesn’t deliver a traditional “hit” (not that Rush ever cared), the flow of the album rewards patience. It’s a full meal, not a sampler. The instrumental interludes are lush, the heavier tracks thunder without cartoonish posturing, and the lyrics wrestle honestly with meaning in an age of meaninglessness. No answers, just reflections. No poses, just scars.
Choice Tracks
Far Cry
The opener sets the tone—tight, muscular, and fed up with platitudes. Lifeson’s riff bounces between restraint and chaos while Peart unleashes one of his most urgent performances. “One day I feel I’m on top of the world / And the next it’s falling in on me.” Rush, still preaching to the disillusioned.
Armor and Sword
Melodic and ominous. Lee’s voice stretches across Lifeson’s almost hymn-like progression while Peart questions faith without mocking it. It’s grand without being bloated, intense without shouting. A quietly seething track that burns slow and deep.
The Main Monkey Business
One of three instrumentals on the album—and arguably the best. The title sounds like a joke, but the playing is anything but. A seven-minute clinic in dynamic shifts, tight grooves, and syncopated precision. It’s all feel, no filler.
Workin’ Them Angels
Maybe the most underrated gem here. A story-song, worn-in like an old denim jacket. Peart’s lyrics sketch out the life of a wanderer pushing limits, testing fate. There’s Americana in its bones and prog in its heart. Geddy’s delivery nails the balance between wistful and defiant.
Hope
A solo acoustic piece by Lifeson that lasts just over two minutes. No flash, no fireworks—just a quiet moment of clarity tucked inside a dense album. It’s peaceful, yet the title feels like a dare.
If Snakes and Arrows had been their swan song, it would’ve been a proud one. But as Rush proved with Clockwork Angels five years later, they weren’t finished yet. Here, though, they stood tall—battle-hardened, unafraid, and still chasing the signal through the noise.