I’ve got a hypothesis. Three kinds of performers. The first kind loves the before. Rehearsal. Exploration. Discovery. Tightening the screws. Finding the flaw. Fixing the flaw. Running it again. And again. Getting the thing damn near perfect before anybody sees it. The second kind lives for the show. That’s where the juice is. The lights.…
I’m not much for religion. Never have been. I don’t know much about God. Can’t tell you if He or She is there. Can’t tell you if they are listening. I do know drums. That’s different. I’ve played outside a lot over the years. Something changes out there. The air changes. The sound changes. You…
You lose people. That’s the deal. Over a lifetime, they go. Relatives. Friends. Parents. People welded into the architecture of your life. Then strangers. People you never met. Never spoke to. Never knew. And somehow they hit you. You don’t know why. When you’re young, death is somebody else’s problem. You’re bulletproof. Immortal by default.…
The Jam Session
Two different planets. Same raw nerve. Drumming is blood and sweat in the pocket. You’re not watching the music—you’re chained inside it. Kick, snare, ride. Time wraps around your ribs and you disappear into the engine. No audience. No applause. Just the band breathing down your neck and the knowledge that if you rush, drag,…
Better question. How do you get a goddamn gig you actually want? Not the sad Tuesday-night thing with two drink tickets and a bass player named Skippy who thinks tempo is a rumour. A real gig. A good gig. The kind that pays. The kind that matters. The kind people remember. Here’s the ugly little…
Be a little feral with the kit. Not loud for loud’s sake — nah, that was for the posers who thought volume equaled soul. Play like the drum like it owes you money and you were there to collect with interest. Your right foot lives on the bass drum pedal like it was born there,…
Drumming is brutal. It’s physical as hell — shoulders, wrists, back, legs, ankles all grinding through hours of repetitive impact. You push for that groove, that speed, that power. But when something tears, strains, or just plain breaks? Whether from slamming the kit too hard or some dumb accident off the stool, the decision hits…
The lights dim. Smoke hangs low like bad conscience. Gavin Harrison steps up, sticks in hand, kit gleaming like a loaded .45. No flash. No apology. Just purpose. Cold. Hard. Unfuckingbreakable. I saw him live. Twice. The room pulsed. Air thick with sweat and expectation. He didn’t play for applause. He didn’t chase notes like…
