The Drums

ISSUE #201

I’ve been asked to join a band by a man named Jeff. The guitarist’s name is Matt, but seeing as any decision agreed upon by the two Jeffs would strike down his vote in a heartbeat, I think our band’s name is Jeff. “Sorry, I can’t—we’re seeing Jeff tonight.” “Yeah, I saw them once—they opened for Jeff.”

Big whoop, right? Humblebrag central. Except this is how I inherited a drum set. Drums are my favorite instrument to play, and, also, my worst. I never had a kit growing up—they are prohibitively expensive and make the unthinkable task of parenting that much more difficult. The drummers in my school were the rich kids from the north side of town, the ones who lived close to the country club. The best—one of the greatest drummers I’ve ever known personally—was the son of one of our few doctors. We became friends in the third grade; I remember visiting his large, ranch-style home and running my finger over the cold metal of his Zildjians.

We’re shaped by our surroundings—trite, but true. In fourth grade, we could join the school orchestra. I chose the instrument I found the most beautiful: the cello. The problem? I walked to elementary school, which sat at the end of our block. The next year, when fifth graders were allowed to choose a brass or woodwind, my tiny arms and legs told me to take a different approach. I walked out with the trumpet.

It never occurred to me to ask for a guitar, until my little brother did. I was kicking myself afterward. I couldn’t ask for one now—he was already getting so good at it. So, like good brothers do, I had to define myself through opposition. I chose bass, which brought me to jazz band by the time I got to high school, putting me right next to my drummer friend every week.

I would gaze at the kit with acute longing, dying to ask it out but afraid of being rejected. I’d sneak into the band room instead of going home, just to have some time to play drums in the practice room. Mr. Murphy, graciously, pretended not to notice, often staying later than I’m sure he had to. When my friends and I started a RHCP cover band in high school, I would slip in behind the drum set whenever they’d go upstairs to snack.

I was terrible—hence, the sneaking. I didn’t understand the concept of the kick drum. My hi-hat hits were sporadic and shaky. I don’t think I ever hit a tom without nicking the rim. I was having the time of my life. Why was I asked to play drums in Jeff, then? Well, I guess because no one else was there, and I, at least, had touched a set before.

So, Jeff let me take home his electronic drum set. It may be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me, and I’m sure he had no idea it was a big deal. I’ve sat up all night every night playing it (I’ve always loved the electronic sets for that blessed headphone feature). The time between me pining after the drum set in high school and my long nights this week are a bit like the nine years for Céline and Jesse between Before Sunrise and Before Sunset. It feels like I’m living an alternate history.

I’ve said before that the drummers for The National and Death Cab are my favorite—they take what could be simple sad rock and put a bone-snapping rhythm to it. I first saw The National at Riot Fest, and they play like a metal band live. Those two are akin to Boris Williams of The Cure in the late 1980s. But there are also the session musicians I love, like Al Jackson, Jr. of “Let’s Stay Together” (he shares with Green a co-writing credit). I particularly love the 808-styling of Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation 1984 album and the boom-bap of The Pharcyde’s mix of samples and live percussion. As much as I live for melodies and hooks, I’ve been a tapper for as long as I remember.

Which is why this issue is full of my favorite drum songs. We keep time without second thought, as I wrote about for the Drive issue of the Earwyrms Canon. Time passes through us almost like radiation, suffusing every step of our lives. The drums let us tap into some existential clock—we exercise our right to enter the pocket, the incredible human concept of the Zone. The body is simply a groove machine—we never asked to be this way! The heart is nothing without a beat.

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