Smack 'Em Like You Mean It

I love to play drums. I’m damn good at it, if I must say so myself. The process of making music is an amazing thing, really. Expressing oneself with others in such a fashion is almost beyond description. I’ve had a lot of folks over the years who’ve challenged me with the idea of writing a story from a drummer’s perspective, an unflinching look at what really makes a true musician tick, not some ridiculous parody of a numskull teetering on the brink in a fog of drugs, alcohol, and stupidity; and to be honest, the idea seems completely unattainable, and not for the reasons you may be thinking. We’ve all heard the saying that goes like this, “Writing about music is like dancing to architecture.” Well, whomever uttered this original statement knew more than a little of what they spoke. To try and describe the process of making music to someone unfamiliar seems virtually impossible to me. There are no words. Only feelings. But I will do my utmost to give you a glimpse into the experience, ‘cause last night I got to play drums and for seventy-five minutes I was king of the motherfucking world.
Only an hour or so before I was due to leave to go perform yesterday, I had a really shitty experience with a most vile, hateful human being dressed in business attire, babbling about the unshakeable bottom line, shamefully exercising her menial position of authority. This person was one of “those”; one who the idea of sitting down, talking calmly and practically, working something out to everyone’s mutual advantage and satisfaction is not part and parcel of their makeup. Their style is to attack with a barely controlled rage, right out the chute. Catch the prey unawares, kinda deal. I recognize these people for what they are, and their rage stems largely from not having an orgasm for some time. I know it. I can smell it. Her controlling, dictatorial style just didn’t jibe with my ‘live and let live-we can work it out’ personality. Not in the slightest. So, when I finally composed myself enough to pack up, to ready myself to leave to go play, an unnatural anger and intensity, a jarring, unsettling force zeroed in on me, ratcheting my gears up a notch -usually a good sign- letting me know in no uncertain terms I would join these folks on stage here in a bit and let the fucking hammer down. A necessary release. The power. The fury. The delicate whisper. The ever inviting unknown for all the world to see and hear. A vacuum where we the musicians are the only ones alive, astral gliding through the galaxy, never touching down in the reality that more than pales until after the last chord struck. And I knew I could reach these plateaus with these people; vindication on my own terms was almost within reach. I knew I would soon have the final word and I’d feel damn good afterward, like the sensation post orgasm. I do have them, regularly, unlike my nemesis, you see. But still...
These folks I was going to make music with are good, soulful people who’ve written some unusual songs, songs that are rhythmically challenged, melodically unstable. In other words, a bucket of fun, especially for one who can master their set, bring to life the chords, the melodies, the nuances; strut your stuff in the process. I have. I do. So I look forward to making a joyful noise with these folks. Tonight was no exception. Except, tonight I would hit the stage with a murderous vengeance, all thanks to that orgasmically nil quim who’d instilled in me some payback. And she’d get hers, whether she liked it or not. Thank you, my adversary.
Luckily for me, we got there early and were able to nosh. This place has a hamburger joint next to it that ranks right up there with the best burger I’ve ever had anywhere, and that’s a statement unto itself as I’ve had some damn good burgs in my lifetime. And a breaking of bread with my compadres was necessary, setting the tone for the evening. Big kahuna bacon cheddar burger with a basket of home fries and onion rings definitely hit the spot, laid the foundation for the groove to come. The only thing that makes me play better is a rack of baby back’s and a frosted stein of root beer. But a big hog burger dripping with all the trimmings does nicely. I’ve found over the years there’s something inextricably linked between good food and even better music. One most naturally goes hand in hand with the other.
The stage was set.
To complicate matters on my end, as we were setting up I found that in my haste to depart the atmosphere created by the orgasmically nil one I’d packed the wrong tom toms and forgotten my bass drum pedal! Good... Off balance is good. Tests your resolve, your ability to ride the wave of what you’ve been dealt. A challenge to rise to the occasion despite, you know? Thank you again, my adversary.
And then, to make matters a little more fragile, we found that a new soundman was on the gig, one who didn’t seem to have a handle on the tools necessary. I’ll spare you the gory details, but I will say that our bass player had to jump into the fray to give the hapless fellow a hand and an ear. Arduous, only begins to sum up sound check.
I did finally get a bass drum pedal thanks to an employee who had one at home that had been submerged in a bucket of water for what looked to be a helluva long time. The thing had new unknown life forms attached to it, but at the least, it worked... barely.
Given all I’d been through, by the time we finished sound check my nerves were fare you well shot
This isn’t my first time to the cakewalk, and when faced with circumstances such as these, when all goes wrong that can, the gig will either be one of the best or one you want to immediately forget after the last notes decay into so much nothingness.
I was ready. Either way.
Managed to go take a few tokes and lay down on a bed in the back of the van, in the dark, all by myself, just me and my thoughts, the world and its inhabitants a million miles away. Collect myself. Cleanse the mind, clear it of all; a fresh palette.
I knew the second the first note was struck this was to be a magical evening. A savage determination took hold and held me in its spell. Every song was a movie that inspired, a novel you didn’t want to put down, and sometimes we just didn’t know where it would culminate, surprised and shocked at where we’d end up. Everyone had big ears, leaving room for the other to make statements, then propelling the other to new heights, then quickly taking it all away to spin out of control, to descend down a mountainside at breakneck speed, pushing the limits of the envelope, galloping round a corner not knowing what would face us once we'd made the turn. A dizzying free fall. A moment of perfect rectitude. A cascade of notes flying through the air like bright blue sparks, piercing the skin of all who watched, who listened. Sweat dripped. Asses shook. Smiles blazed. Fingers snapped. All in a slow motion wave. A gargantuan sound punctuating the night air, pummeling the walls until they crumbled, breaking up the concrete; chaos and order, all at once. Sublimity.
At times when I’d be midsong my nemesis’ face would appear like a bad dream which would only make me attack with a new level of ferocity, taking no prisoners, nor wanting any. The music, this moment, was mine, and she damn sure wasn’t going to take it from me.
She didn’t.
Thank you thrice, my adversary.
I got off and I wasn’t the only one. Ain’t that the way? A joyful noise, all ye lands...
We imparted memories, ones that many would not soon forget. Something pure. Something righteous. For all. And the notes they will never die, but only grow stronger, more resolute over time.
I love to play drums and this night I smacked ‘em like I meant it. As I was born to.
Afterward I drove home tasting total and absolute victory while my nemesis probably slept fitfully in her sweat soiled bed, covered by cheap sheets, her head squashed into her foam pillows, a sour, rusty imitation of life; a husk that breathes and eats and shits, never knowing the exhilaration of the grand promise that life holds for those who dare.