Drummer Boy
I acquired my first drum on Christmas day, 1966. It was a Ludwig jazz festival snare drum, adorned with brilliant gold sparkle finish and shiny chrome rims. It came in a kit shaped liked a suit case, in which was the snare drum, a three legged stand, a pair of hickory drum sticks, a drum key and a sheet of music listing the twenty six standard drum rudiments. I was in fifth grade at the time.
The kit was lined with a brilliant red fabric that gave off an odor sort of like a new car smell. The combination of the bright red of the fabric, the brilliant glow of the gold sparkle and the shiny chrome was the likes of something I had never seen before.
Being the youngest of four brothers, just about everything I had ever owned up to that point was a hand me down from one of my older brothers. But the snare drum was brand new, and it was mine.
It was a Ludwig snare too. The same one Ringo Star played. My drum teacher told me it was the finest snare drum you could buy in the whole world. My father told me it would take him years to pay it off. That’s when I realized that this gift was truly special, and I felt special to have it.
There was only one problem I had with the drum, and that was that in order to play it, I would basically have to perform for the whole neighborhood, because it made so much noise that everyone would surely hear me. And this was somewhat problematic, being that I was a bashful kid at the time and did not take kindly to being the focus of attention.
So, for the first few weeks that I owned the drum, I would simply look at it but categorically refused to play it. That was until my mother set the drum up in my room one day, shut the door behind her and told me I wasn’t coming out until she heard me play.
So I got out the sheet of drum rudiments and went at it as best as I could. It wasn’t long before I saw Richie Adams peering in through the open window to see what all the racket was. To his credit, he didn’t laugh or make fun of me, he actually thought it was kind of cool, so on that day my career as an amateur percussionist was launched, albeit in ignominious fashion.
It is well advised for a percussionist to start out on the snare drum and learn his rudiments well. And learn them well I did. I would practice just about every weekday. As I shared a room with my brothers, I would set the drum up in the bathroom, since that was the only room in the house where I could practice in private.
Every other birthday or Christmas my parents would gather together enough money to buy me an addition to my drum set. First a cymbal, then a floor tom, then a throne to sit on. They never quite seemed to get the whole thing together though, so one year around Christmas I visited Bill’s Music Store on Frederick Road in Catonsville, Maryland and I asked them if they had any used drums that I could purchase for a reasonable price. They did, so I brokered a deal: $150 for a bass drum and small tom tom, and they even threw in a ride cymbal for free.
I talked the deal over with my father, so he agreed to pay me back the $150 he borrowed back from my allowance and he drove me down to pick everything up. I remember vividly loading everything into his Dodge Coronet 440 station wagon as snow flurries fell, heralding in the start of Christmas season. I got it home and set everything up in my bedroom, and the next day I jammed for hours. And I have been jamming, terrorizing the neighbors ever since.
In High School I took music lessons from the head percussionist in the Baltimore Symphony. He taught me how to play the rudiments properly and how to read music at an advanced level. I was the tympani player in our school band and orchestra.
When I went off to College, I joined the Salisbury State College Mighty Seagulls Marching Band. I passed the audition with flying colors, as the band director had me play a piece called “Ode to Snare Drum”, something my teacher had given me years earlier, so I knew it by heart. So I won the coveted position of snare drum player, a significant step up from bass drum or cymbals.
We had sheet music to follow, but we never paid much attention to it. We usually just played by feel, as most drummers do. I remember one evening I had to work so I couldn’t make it to a pep rally we were to play at, so I asked someone to stand in for me. I met him in the quad with my drum before the rally, and he asked me where the sheet music was. I simply told him to just follow the rhythm and he would be fine.
In addition to playing at home football games, we also traveled occasionally, once even taking a trip to play arch rival Towson State in Baltimore. I remember our half time performance well as Towson didn’t have a marching band, so we were something of a novelty there. That made us proud of our school, as insignificant as it may seem now, so many years later.
When football season was over, I joined the concert band. My drum teacher had taught me how to play the xylophone, so in addition to the complex snare parts I was able to master, I also played bells and xylophone. That was when I realized how fortunate it was that I had had the fortune to study music and how glad I was that I had taken the time to learn it well.
I transferred out of Salisbury State after my second year, and never played before a live audience again. I still have the snare drum my father bought me, and the kit it came in. Although the rims on it are rusted and everything else has been replaced over the years, I still have it as part of my drum set, which I play several times a week.
I don’t honestly know where the obsession I have with percussion stems from, but I do know that drummers speak a familiar language with each other. We frequent "You Tube" often, posting videos and admiring each other’s performances. Virtually all drum solos are home grown, and it takes a discerning ear to appreciate the unique rhythms that our compositions create.
I know from time to time you hear a kid in your neighborhood that is partial to pounding violently on a set of drums. And I know to you it simply sounds like just a lot of noise. But please don’t knock on his door and complain. Instead, try to follow the rhythm. And if you should encounter him in the street, tell him it sounded kind of cool.
I acquired my first drum on Christmas day, 1966. It was a Ludwig jazz festival snare drum, adorned with brilliant gold sparkle finish and shiny chrome rims. It came in a kit shaped liked a suit case, in which was the snare drum, a three legged stand, a pair of hickory drum sticks, a drum key and a sheet of music listing the twenty six standard drum rudiments. I was in fifth grade at the time.
The kit was lined with a brilliant red fabric that gave off an odor sort of like a new car smell. The combination of the bright red of the fabric, the brilliant glow of the gold sparkle and the shiny chrome was the likes of something I had never seen before.
Being the youngest of four brothers, just about everything I had ever owned up to that point was a hand me down from one of my older brothers. But the snare drum was brand new, and it was mine.
It was a Ludwig snare too. The same one Ringo Star played. My drum teacher told me it was the finest snare drum you could buy in the whole world. My father told me it would take him years to pay it off. That’s when I realized that this gift was truly special, and I felt special to have it.
There was only one problem I had with the drum, and that was that in order to play it, I would basically have to perform for the whole neighborhood, because it made so much noise that everyone would surely hear me. And this was somewhat problematic, being that I was a bashful kid at the time and did not take kindly to being the focus of attention.
So, for the first few weeks that I owned the drum, I would simply look at it but categorically refused to play it. That was until my mother set the drum up in my room one day, shut the door behind her and told me I wasn’t coming out until she heard me play.
So I got out the sheet of drum rudiments and went at it as best as I could. It wasn’t long before I saw Richie Adams peering in through the open window to see what all the racket was. To his credit, he didn’t laugh or make fun of me, he actually thought it was kind of cool, so on that day my career as an amateur percussionist was launched, albeit in ignominious fashion.
It is well advised for a percussionist to start out on the snare drum and learn his rudiments well. And learn them well I did. I would practice just about every weekday. As I shared a room with my brothers, I would set the drum up in the bathroom, since that was the only room in the house where I could practice in private.
Every other birthday or Christmas my parents would gather together enough money to buy me an addition to my drum set. First a cymbal, then a floor tom, then a throne to sit on. They never quite seemed to get the whole thing together though, so one year around Christmas I visited Bill’s Music Store on Frederick Road in Catonsville, Maryland and I asked them if they had any used drums that I could purchase for a reasonable price. They did, so I brokered a deal: $150 for a bass drum and small tom tom, and they even threw in a ride cymbal for free.
I talked the deal over with my father, so he agreed to pay me back the $150 he borrowed back from my allowance and he drove me down to pick everything up. I remember vividly loading everything into his Dodge Coronet 440 station wagon as snow flurries fell, heralding in the start of Christmas season. I got it home and set everything up in my bedroom, and the next day I jammed for hours. And I have been jamming, terrorizing the neighbors ever since.
In High School I took music lessons from the head percussionist in the Baltimore Symphony. He taught me how to play the rudiments properly and how to read music at an advanced level. I was the tympani player in our school band and orchestra.
When I went off to College, I joined the Salisbury State College Mighty Seagulls Marching Band. I passed the audition with flying colors, as the band director had me play a piece called “Ode to Snare Drum”, something my teacher had given me years earlier, so I knew it by heart. So I won the coveted position of snare drum player, a significant step up from bass drum or cymbals.
We had sheet music to follow, but we never paid much attention to it. We usually just played by feel, as most drummers do. I remember one evening I had to work so I couldn’t make it to a pep rally we were to play at, so I asked someone to stand in for me. I met him in the quad with my drum before the rally, and he asked me where the sheet music was. I simply told him to just follow the rhythm and he would be fine.
In addition to playing at home football games, we also traveled occasionally, once even taking a trip to play arch rival Towson State in Baltimore. I remember our half time performance well as Towson didn’t have a marching band, so we were something of a novelty there. That made us proud of our school, as insignificant as it may seem now, so many years later.
When football season was over, I joined the concert band. My drum teacher had taught me how to play the xylophone, so in addition to the complex snare parts I was able to master, I also played bells and xylophone. That was when I realized how fortunate it was that I had had the fortune to study music and how glad I was that I had taken the time to learn it well.
I transferred out of Salisbury State after my second year, and never played before a live audience again. I still have the snare drum my father bought me, and the kit it came in. Although the rims on it are rusted and everything else has been replaced over the years, I still have it as part of my drum set, which I play several times a week.
I don’t honestly know where the obsession I have with percussion stems from, but I do know that drummers speak a familiar language with each other. We frequent "You Tube" often, posting videos and admiring each other’s performances. Virtually all drum solos are home grown, and it takes a discerning ear to appreciate the unique rhythms that our compositions create.
I know from time to time you hear a kid in your neighborhood that is partial to pounding violently on a set of drums. And I know to you it simply sounds like just a lot of noise. But please don’t knock on his door and complain. Instead, try to follow the rhythm. And if you should encounter him in the street, tell him it sounded kind of cool.
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