Playing in a band (SSR - sorta skiing related)
I recently had to submit two essays about playing the drums to a media company for a potential freelance writing gig. I didn't end up getting it because I was told that I was too creative and that they were looking for someone with more of a straight-forward journalistic style.
So, I thought I'd post them here since they may never see the light of day elsewhere.
PS: Come see my band this Saturday night at Mt. Snow. PM me for details.
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ESSAY #1
Two minutes into the first song, the kick drum slipped out of reach, and I cursed myself for not bringing a floor mat.
So this is how it’s going to be for the rest of the night, I thought? Did Keith Moon ever have this problem? Am I the only schmuck who forgets to bring a mat? For the moment I was content to blame it on the club. No self-respecting club owner would hire a band and fail to provide a drum mat, I concluded. Much better.
Stopping in the middle of the song was out of the question because then I’d be the jerk who made us all sound like amateurs despite our “independent” status. Screaming for help only got me a sore throat and a couple beats off tempo but that didn’t matter since the entire club was glued to our singer’s attempts at hanging himself with his microphone chord. I was just the guy sitting in the back, banging on stuff. Mr. Anonymous. I couldn’t even see past the first row of people. Was anyone even paying attention?
I did my best to wiggle and stretch my right foot closer to the kick, throwing in a fill in hopes that it would reconnect my foot with the pedal. That 100-yard sprint to prevent a parking ticket earlier in the day had stretched out my calves nicely. Someone should have caught that on film.
As I reached for the crash, I managed to snag the underside of the pedal with the tip of my shoe and swing the entire hulk back into position, rolling across the racked tom and back onto the crash in one big swoop.
Now I had the crowd’s attention. It’s about time, I thought to myself. But just as I was ready to show off with another fill, our singer came bouncing down from the ledge behind me and back onto center stage in time for the chorus.
Figures.
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ESSAY #2
As we walked down Newbury Street earlier that afternoon, Kier turned a few heads. Maybe it was the black cowboy hat, dark Elvis shades, and the brown leather get-up that I bought for him at a thrift store in Reno. Maybe it was the banjo strapped across his chest. Either way, it’s always a good look for him and the girls seem to dig it.
Later that night on stage, from behind my drum kit, I spotted a girl in the front row giving him looks that would send her father into cardiac arrest. As the stage lights bounced off his leather jacket, I saw Kier crouch down low to serenade her like it was just the two of them in this sold-out club. Knowing my luck, he’d try to show off by jumping onto my kick drum, either knocking over a cymbal or tripping on the floor mic in the process. Either way, I was sure to get a face full of spit and sweat with him dangling over me like an octopus drunk off whiskey, beer, and short skirts.
Just as I launched into a fill, Kier hopped onto the kick, banjo flying in every direction, sweat pouring out of his hat, and shoved a cymbal in my face with his butt, rendering my high hats useless. I turned to the stagehand and yelled as loudly as I could. Nothing. Does anyone ever pay attention to the drummer? I could be juggling flaming chainsaws back there and only the fire marshal would raise an eyebrow. I reminded myself that good help comes with a price and we barely make enough to pay for gas on the way home. I stuck to the ride cymbal for the remainder of the song and prayed that nobody else ordered shots of whiskey for the stage.
