Greatness hits like a .44 to the sternum.
You’re in the room. Buddy Rich Channel One Suite, 1982 footage, or Vinnie live in ’98, or that little bastard Tony Royster Jr. at fifteen melting the Modern Drummer Festival with a gospel chop solo that made grown men weep into their stick bags. Doesn’t matter who. Pick your poison. The effect is the same.
Two roads diverge in that darkened hall.
Road One: “I’ll never be that. I’m selling the kit tomorrow. Maybe take up golf.”
Road Two: “Motherfucker just showed me the map. Time to bleed.”
Same performance. Same 2,000 drummers in the seats. Half walk out smaller than when they walked in. Half walk out ten feet tall and homicidal with ambition.
I’ve seen it. Hell, I’ve felt both kicks in the gut on the same night.
Jojo Mayer, Toronto 2004. Man’s doing impossible tuplet grids with one hand, sipping a Heineken with the other, grinning like Satan on vacation. First five minutes I’m ready to torch my drums in the parking lot. Next five minutes I’m furious—at myself—for even thinking surrender was an option. Went home, locked the door, practiced until the neighbors called the cops. Six months later half his shit was in my hands. Not all of it. Never all of it. But enough to know the difference between a ceiling and a door.
Funny sidebar: I babysat Tony Royster Jr. when he was still in diapers and already swinging harder than most cats do at forty. His dad wand mom were with him at a drum thing in Vancouver with JR Robinson (Who by the by was an excellent drum hang!) and I looked at them I could tell. “Hey folks ya want an adult day by yourselves?? Leave him with us – we were putting drums together.” He loved it!
I should’ve known then the little monster would one day make me question my entire existence behind a kit. Thanks, Tony. Love you too.
Point is this: the master doesn’t choose your reaction. You do.
Fragile ego + greatness = despair.
Stubborn ego + greatness = gasoline.
Tiger Woods drains a 40-footer on 18 at Augusta. One guy in the gallery thinks, “Why even bother?” Another guy thinks, “Guess who’s hitting 10,000 balls this month?”
John McLaughlin plays “Birds of Fire” and half the guitar players in the room quietly unplug forever. The other half sell their cars to buy better amps.
The art is neutral. It’s a mirror, not a gavel.
The ones who quit? Usually had more raw talent than they ever admitted. They just couldn’t survive the vertigo of seeing how far the summit really was.
The ones who get better? They stare at the same summit and hear only one word: “Climb.”
Everest doesn’t kill you.
Deciding you were never meant to breathe that air does.
So next time you watch Vinnie or Tony or Jojo or whoever the hell is currently ruining your life with inhuman brilliance, ask yourself one question before the lights come up:
Am I gonna jump…
or am I buying better boots?
Choose fast, kid.
The mountain’s not waiting.
Keep swingin’