I wasn’t very familiar with the Rush catalogue, but because of the Fifty Something tour and Annika Nilles being chosen as the drummer for that tour, it piqued my interest. And I’d better get this out of the way up front: I am not a prog-rock devotee. Some of that genre I dig, and some…
I’m not a doom-and-gloom guy. Hell, I’m not even a skeptic. I’m a run-of-the-mill drummer. That comes with a certain amount of common sense. A little realism. You learn things. You watch things happen. You figure out eventually that some things are going to work and some things aren’t. And when something’s over, it’s over.…
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,…
