You’re practicing like crazy. Rudiments. Funny licks. Repeats on loop. Faster. Faster. Hell, stick flip. Show-off shit. Stage lights hit. Someone calls it. Blues. Shuffle. God forbid. Polio hands. Stiff. Spastic. Sound like a cripple. What the fuck? Wrong practice. All wrong. Drum shit. Forget it. Practice music. Time. Pocket. Feel. Before the beat. On…
What is it? How do you spot the real deal in a world drowning in bullshit? Jesus drops the line: “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” Beliefs crush truths flat. We cling to our cherished bullshit like life rafts in a sewer. We swear our convictions are gospel. Most…
When you sit. You practice. Chops sharpen. Good. Better comes. Fire ignites. Enthusiasm roars. Self-respect builds. All good. BUT Most drummers bleed chops. Still choke when the lights burn real. Gigs hit. They freeze. Why? Shedding alone builds speed. Doesn’t build soul. No style. No vocabulary. No feel. No balls-out musical confidence. Preparation gets no…
That clean hit when the call comes. Gig locked. You show up. Sticks ready. No drama. The room breathes. Tunes sit heavy. Crowd moves. They jive because you make it inevitable. Unusual shit? Sure, it crashes sometimes. But when it doesn’t? Pure oxygen. Under-promise. Overdeliver. Every damn time. Pactum Batteria. Show up. Shut up. Hit…
Listen close. Real close. I didn’t compete to “do my best.” I competed to obliterate everyone else’s best and make it look effortless. Winning wasn’t the goal. Winning was the starting requirement. Anything less was treason against myself. Instinct? Honed to a molecular edge. Intensity? The kind that makes the air around you vibrate. Philosophy?…
Skip the bedrock, and watch the tower topple—algebra crumbles without arithmetic’s anchor, empires erode sans solid stone. Drumming? No groove without the pact’s unyielding base. The code’s cornerstones: Rudiments, distilled to essence—singles carve precision, doubles build speed, flams ignite flair. Master these, and the forty unfold like echoes in the shed. Timekeeping, the heartbeat shared:…
Drum quest. Beat mastery. You choose. One day or day one. Procrastination kills. Slow death. Dreams deferred. Rot sets in. Mountain looms. Drums. Daunting peak. Too steep. Too brutal. I’ll never summit. Bullshit. One step. First hit. Paradiddle starts. Rudiment one. Then another. Stick left. Stick right. Eddy Merckx. Cannibal on wheels. Secret to greatness?…
Drum hell. Stagnation hits. Plateau reeks. You pound the pads. Same fills. Same grooves. Dead end. Frustration boils. Hands cramp. Mind blanks. Writer’s block twin. Practice block. Same rot. Break it. Hard. Fast. Ruthless. Change the rig. Rearrange the kit. Toms shift. Cymbals crash new angles. Force fresh attack. Habits shatter. Switch genres. Rock…
Sticks in hand. Pad or nothing. You got a ghost of an idea. Or zero. Fumble city. Hands betray you. Brain screams play but body delivers noise. Pure racket. Not drumming. Not music. Assault on ears. Why persist? Some buried rage. Twisted knot in the skull. Self-inflicted pain. Morning ritual. Pre-school torment. Ruin the day…
