Flams & Paradiddles

It has been said that music has been critical to the development of the human race. In many instances throughout history one could look at music and realize the profound effect it had on each respective civilization. Scholars maintain that slaves communicated with the aid of music and more specifically with drums. Imagine that - people having conversations by simply and rhythmically beating a drum. As a child with self-diagnosed A.D.D. I had to drum, I needed to become fluent in that conversation.

I wanted to be remembered by one name. Drums would just be the tool I used to carve my name into the history of music. I would be mentioned in the same breath as Keith, John, and Ginger. Without these guys there was no Baba O'Reilly, no Fool in the Rain, no Sunshine of Your Love. These distinguished gentlemen were the heartbeat, the pulse for some of the greatest music ever composed. An alcohol and drug fueled fury would see these savages attacking the skins with reckless abandon, and I was hooked like heroin. Drums, rhythm and beats were my drug of choice.

I joined the school band in fifth grade and took to my practice pad. I worked on my rudiments and was anxious to advance to a real snare. My parents were so happy that I had taken to a creative outlet, and had no problem encouraging me. When I came to them requesting private lessons, they obliged. I worked hard on the drills and exercises in countless books with a bigger picture in mind. One day I'd be on stage assaulting a drum kit of my own, a barrage of tom-tom thuds with intermittent symbol splashes. I'd be shirtless twirling around like Tommy Lee (sans hep. C) keeping perfect time, or better yet I'd be with Anthony, Flea and the other Peppers fashioning only a tube sock while keeping the beat like a metronome, accented by the most intricate fills.

My teacher liked my progress but didn't think I was ready for a drum set, which devastated me worse than any lover ever could by claiming I was inadequate. I convinced my Dad that I needed a drum set if I was going to be the next Bonzo. He agreed. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was trying to walk before I could crawl. I couldn't understand all of the delicate nuances of percussion, which translates into a partial understanding of the drum set. It didn't matter, I was a natural, I needed to graduate to a Premier kit. Again, my parents caved and justified it by claiming it was purchased in the name of "creativity".

Years passed. I practiced, and played in countless jazz bands, tried to start a band with friends, and even played the quads in marching band. Needless to say, I've traded in Vic Firth dreams for Wall Street's poisonous reality.

Today I sit here punching the keys to this blog, sobered by the fact that people know me by one name - Pathetic. Here's to creative outlets.