The three Bs. “Belief. Balance. Bond.”
In the heart of every beat lies a code—a pact not just with the sticks and skins, but with the life that calls you to them. After six decades chasing rhythms from parade fields to pro stages, I’ve distilled it down to three B’s: Belief, Balance, and Bond. These aren’t drills or dots on a chart; they’re the breath between bars, the wisdom that turns the grind into grace. They’re touchpoints for any drummer (or anyone, really) navigating the swing of highs and hangs. Lean into them, and the kit becomes more than wood and wire—it’s a compass for the chaos.
Belief: The Unshakable Anchor
Belief is the first strike, the downbeat that sets the tempo for everything else. It’s faith in the unseen groove: trusting the process when the woodshed feels like a cage (those endless rudiment runs that echo back in a clutch solo), believing in yourself when the mirror shows calluses but no crowd (that flubbed fill in a silent room? It’s just data for the next bar) and holding steady through the flux (the championship highs of a win or the quiet ache of a tour that fizzles—this too shall pass, like a rest that builds tension for the release). Without it, drumming’s just noise, a frantic scramble. With it, every practice is a vow, every gig a revelation. It’s the quiet roar that carried me through 45 years of pro life: not blind optimism, but the bone-deep knowing that the beat always finds its way home.
Balance: The Steady Pulse
Balance is the hi-hat’s whisper against the kick’s thunder—the art of holding it all without tipping into frenzy or fade. It’s technique dancing with soul, grind yielding to grace: knowing when to hammer the double-stroke through a rock anthem and when to ghost-note the space in a ballad or trading the adrenaline of a cruise-ship spotlight for the hush of a solo walk on deck. In the pact, it’s the wisdom that guards your edges—your wrists from overuse, your fire from burnout, your world from the kit’s gravitational pull. I’ve balanced drum shops and clinics with family, pipe-band precision with free-jam flights; it’s learned in the lean years, when one gig pays the rent but not the dream. Drum hard, yes—but live light. Let the pendulum swing, and you’ll find the center where the music (and life) flows fullest, unforced and alive.
Bond: The Shared Resonance
Bond is the circle’s hum, the unbreakable thread that turns solo sticks into symphony. It’s the pact alive: that bass player locking eyes mid-fill, the pipe band brother sharing a post-parade dram, or the clinic kid whose wide-eyed “how’d you do that?” reignites your own spark. Vulnerability forged in sweat—admitting the dropped stick, celebrating the locked groove—builds crews that outlast the setlists. Beyond the stage, it’s how drummers wire into the world’s ensemble: the shop regular who becomes family, the online echo of a shared scar. I’ve bonded over thousands of gigs, from van confessions to Modern Drummer deadlines; it’s the reminder that no beat stands alone. In isolation, you’re just pounding; in bond, you’re amplifying—each other’s anchors, each other’s wings. The code’s not solitary; it’s the “we” that makes the one feel infinite. These B’s aren’t a finish line—they’re the loop, the ride-out that invites you back in. Etch ’em on your throne, whisper ’em pre-set, and watch the grind transmute into something sacred.
Back in ’75, pipe-band Highland Games and the weather turns biblical—sheets of rain turning the field to soup. My belief wavers as the snares slip; balance goes when the pipe band leans into the mud; but the bond? That’s the glue—the pipe major’s nod, the tenor’s grin through chattering teeth. We don’t just march; we become the storm, playing our way to gold. Lesson etched: The B’s don’t prevent the pour-down—they turn it to thunder.