Skip to main content

Drummers

Being a musician, I have worked with many, many, many drummers. Drummers are an essential part of my music. A bad drummer can ruin a song quicker than anything. A good drummer can make a mediocre piece of music sound brilliant.

That said, drummers are the bane of my existence. They are, by and large, my favorite people in the world to drink with. They are usually a blast to hang out with. They often even have great production ideas in the studio! But then comes actually working with them.

While a drummer's job is to keep time, they don't understand the concept of clocks. If you tell them that load-in time is 6pm, they might be there by 8pm. Hence the concept of DST (Drummer Standard Time). If you want the drummer to be someplace on time, tell him to be there at least two hours before he/she needs to be there. This should mean they'll only be 20 minutes late.

And now, my favorite drummer jokes:

Q: What does it mean when a drummer is drooling out of both sides of his/her mouth?

A: It means the stage is level.



Q: What do you call those people who hang out with musicians?

A: Drummers.




I really do love drummers. Almost as much as I love having fun at their expense.

Merry Christmas to all of my drummer friends!

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

An Old Photo

The photo was old and scratched up. It looked like it had been handled and mishandled for years, and it probably had. Passed from hand to hand, tucked into scrapbooks, displayed in frames, stuffed into drawers, and rescued again. It had been looked at thousands of times. It was still his favorite. It wasn't historically important. Just a photograph of friends sitting in someone's back garden, sharing a few laughs and a few cold beers. The image was every bit as grainy as the memories attached to it. The colors had faded with age, drifting toward reds and yellows. Time had left its fingerprints everywhere. He was the only one left in the photograph. When his time came, would anyone remember those old glory days? Those years when importance itself seemed unimportant. When photographs weren't taken to prove anything, advertise anything, or preserve a carefully crafted image. They were taken simply because someone thought a moment was worth keeping. There was no guarantee the p...
Post a Comment
Read more

A Bluesy Melody and a Scratchy Photograph

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't born in the mountains. Nor had he been raised in a cave. His appearance, though, often led people to think otherwise. A barber's chair was as likely a place for him to visit as the moon. I don't believe he had ever shaved. His hair, long and unkempt, looked even longer thanks to his seemingly endless beard, which was braided and knotted at the bottom. If unfurled, it probably would have dipped well below his waist.  His mannerisms and manner, while peculiar, were so only in that he was almost religiously polite. What at first glance might appear stand-offish was nothing more than his attempts at being inobtrusive. He was almost like some Appalachian monk, raised by a society trapped in the past, who occasionally ventured into town. He was extremely well-read and more tech savvy than most teenagers. Utmost, he maintained his privacy. No one knew just where he lived. He came and went at his own leisure, unnoticed by the world until he mad...
Post a Comment
Read more

The American

 In his native America, he'd always had a shady reputation. As a young man, he worked as muscle for hire, worked as a bouncer in gambling houses and brothels, and always had a side hustle moving drugs or weapons. He could always be counted on to find a buyer for stolen goods, too. He was smart enough to see the cracks forming in the government long before most. Within days of the First Attack, he'd made plans to leave the country. Some of his cohorts with Sicilian lineage helped him get to Europe. From there he was on his own. He managed to bring along a tidy sum in cash and jewels. This gave him the advantage of time to form new contacts. He was told time and time again that the capital of Bulgaria - Sofia - would be a good place to set himself up. There were gangs there who could make use of his skills, and provided he kept out of trouble and his name out of the local gossip, he would do fine.  And he did. He pretty much became, as he liked to call himself, a consultant. He ...
Post a Comment
Read more