The Beat (Still) Goes On... My Love Affair with Drums

I've uncovered all sorts of treasures while organizing our new storage unit.

As I've sorted through old photographs, one thing has really stood out to me.  And I've realized -- surprisingly -- that I've rarely written about it here on my blog.

It is something that was (and is) a huge part of my life: my love of drumming.

I hope someday the Tax Deductions read this, and if they do, they need to know that drumming was a massive part of their old man's life when he was kid.

Now, I confess as I write this I do run the risk of sounding boastful. That's not my intention at all. The truth is, I used to play drums a lot.  In fact, when I was growing up, drumming was all I thought about.  It was all I wanted to do.

It was obvious to me that I would grow up to be a famous musician some day.

Well, at least famous in my own ZIP code...

By the time I was four or five, the drumming bug had bit me hard.  I practiced and practiced, teaching myself along the way, listening to tapes and LPs, long before I started taking drum lessons in fourth grade.  

Once I started taking lessons, I eventually learned to read rhythms pretty well and discovered various drumming techniques (not least of which was the art of dynamics) which helped me grow and mature as a performer.

My first drum set, which I believe is Christmas 1975 (I would be six years old).  My folks must have gotten tired of me banging on pots and pans.  I think that's my niece, Heidi, admiring my mad skillz.

And, quite honestly, over time I developed into a pretty good drummer.

[Full disclosure:  Today my chops are embarrassingly bad.  I haven't had a place to practice for years and like most things, if you don't use it, you lose it.  Basically, I've "retired" from playing, although I am still an extraordinary "air drummer."]

But just because I don't really play anymore doesn't diminish my love for drumming.  It's a life-long passion and anytime I listen to music, my ear instantly gravitates to the drummer and the drum sound.  It's part of my DNA.  It always will be.

~

I must credit my mom for encouraging me to learn many different styles of drumming.  She taught me that diversity was the key to being a good drummer....

Okay, that's not really the way she said it.  It was more like, "You've got to play more than just that hard rock shit."

But I knew what she meant.  (Phyllis was never known for being subtle.)

So I diversified, learning old school Country and Western, swing, '50s and '60s rock and roll, polkas and waltzes... as well as that hard rock shit.

As usual, Mom was right: learning a variety of styles helped me get many different drumming jobs ("gigs" to use a musician's parlance).  Besides playing in my own bands, I would often fill in "cold" (without rehearsal) when other drummers couldn't make their gigs.

I worked every weekend. Many times as a drummer for hire.  

My dad and I having a jam session.  He is playing my first "real" drum, a gold sparkle Maxitone snare.

Found in storage!  The very same Maxitone snare drum that my dad is playing above.

A few years after getting my Mickey Mouse drum set (and pounding the snot out of it), my mom and dad must have been convinced that drumming was not just a passing fad, so they bought me my first "real" drum set, a three piece red sparkle Pearl kit...

Not a very flattering photo, eh?  But here I am, about eight years old, practicing on my first "real" drum set.  I don't know why I'm holding my stick like that?

Another shot of my first "real" set.  I was proud.

When I was 13 years old, my parents co-signed a $1000 loan with me and I bought the Ludwig set which I still own today.  I paid the loan off with my own money, earned from gigs I played on weekends.

I call this set up "Frankenstein," because it was two drum sets pieced together, along with a set of roto-toms (seen to the right) which I got for Christmas in 1984.  It was a 12 piece set when completely assembled.  I thought it was pretty sweet!

Practicing on "Frankenstein."  I am so glad Mom took these pictures.   They are the only ones I have of me practicing at home.  I spent thousands of hours sitting behind those skins, with music blasting in my headphones.

At about this same time (age of 13), I started playing in bands.  And I played a lot.  In fact, during my high school years, I rarely went out with friends on the weekends because I was busy "working" on Friday and Saturday nights.

It should be mentioned that I was by far the youngest member of every band I was in.  I was playing with adults, often 30 to 40 years older than me.  And yes, this obviously meant I was playing bars and clubs where alcohol was served.  On occasion, it was an issue for a club manager to have a minor in his establishment.

"No kid?  No music," management was always told.  And it worked every time.

My parents always accompanied me (after all, I was quite young) and besides, they enjoyed the music and they often would invite friends and family to watch me play. 

I would typically make more than $100 a weekend.  Occasionally, I would make $100 per night.  In the mid-1980s, that was pretty good money for a teenager.  Playing drums was my part time job.

~

The picture below is special to me. This was my first "real" band. We were called the "Melody Boys," and we played all over the region, from Watertown, SD, to Bemidji, MN.  This photo was taken New Year's Eve, 1985, in Ashby, MN.  We specialized in polkas, waltzes and old time country swing.  Believe it or not, we were in demand!

To the left is Stan South, the best pedal steel guitar player I've ever played with.  A little more than 20 years after this picture was taken, Stan's son, Ray, would become my uncle when he married my mom's sister, Sandy. It's strange how life come full circle. 

To the right is Dale Lubitz, who was a sensational accordionist and vocalist.  He was a big man with big laugh and an even bigger voice.  He also chain smoked the entire time on stage.  As you can see, I was by far the youngest member of the band, which was true for every band I was in.

The Melody Boys, the last day of 1985.  You can see Dale's ash tray, which would be overflowing at the end of the night, on the amp in the center of the picture.

The picture below is one of just a handful I have of my mom and I performing together.  We are playing at the bandstand during "Bertha Days."  Mom is playing the accordion at the front center.  She was a wonderful musician and played entirely "by ear."  She didn't read music; she played by musical instinct.

Mom (center, front) and I playing together in the mid-1980s in Bertha, MN.   I am playing on the high school's old Slingerland set. As usual, I have way too many drums for the style of music we were playing. 

The picture below is of me and my brother, Dale, playing at my niece's wedding in 1988 (I think).  No, we weren't called "Crosswinds," that was the name of the band that was playing at the wedding dance.  We raided the stage and started playing.  We were like pirates or something...

I was known to commandeer many a drum set when I was younger, especially if I thought the band's drummer sucked. I was young and arrogant. 

This is me playing "Wipe Out" on my Ludwig set during, I think, my sophomore year of high school.

Not everything was roses when playing in bands, though.

I auditioned for a band in the winter of 1986, which seemed to really have promise.  The leader of the band was a charming and very talented female singer/songwriter, whose name I have completely forgotten... so I'll call her Wynonna.

Anyway, she offered me the job and we rehearsed all winter, along with a decent guitarist named Wayne and Wynonna's bass player boyfriend, who I will call Spud (because I don't remember his real name).

Wynonna decided to call the band "Mustang," and we were measured for custom silk shirts, specially made for our gigs.  These shirts cost $20 apiece, which was an absolute fortune to my mom.  She couldn't believe how much money we spent on those shirts.

Long story short, our first gig was at the Purple Palace in Vining, MN (still famous for its broasted chicken!) in the spring of 1987.  With five months of rehearsal under our collective belts, we were a tight, well-oiled band and we had a great little show.  I was really looking forward to finally playing for an audience.

I got to the gig early (which I usually did) and set up my gear.

And waited.

...and waited.

...and waited.

I ended up being the only member of the band to show up that night.  Wynonna and Spud had a fight that day and she took off in her car.

She never came back.

Of course, no one bothered to tell me.  I ended up packing up my gear and leaving the Purple Palace humiliated.

Needless to say, that was my last day as the drummer for "Mustang."

However, today I found this little gem in storage: my original, custom, expensive "Mustang" shirt, which the Girl is modeling below...

My "Mustang" shirt; a permanent reminder to never join a band with unstable personalities.

For years, that brilliant red shirt was a sore spot for Mom.  She vowed if Wynonna ever showed her face again, she would "shove it straight up her ass."

She never got the chance, but I have no doubt she would have.

Another "fill in" gig, this one with a band called "Necessity," made up of high school friends.  I was filling in for my old friend Shane, who couldn't make it that night.  My guess is this was about 1989.

Lastly, below is my favorite picture of me and my drums.  I set them up in my front yard on a brilliant summer day in 1987 and my mom took this picture while standing on a step ladder.

The summer of 1987.  I was ready to rule the world. At some point the cowbell was stolen. And I don't know what happened to the black floor tom to the far right. 

As you can see, I was in my "hard rock shit" phase at this point.  I guess I've never quite grown out of it.

Sorry, Mom.