Daniel Winters

English 1101

Dr. Cassel

10 September 2018

Down Strokes and Up Beats

My heart beats harder than a blacksmiths hammer. Sweating profusely, I glance around

my drum set to make sure that everything is in place despite compulsively checking it two or

three times already. The crowd is growing restless, I’m growing anxious. “How many measures

until the chorus?” “Where did I put my setlist?” Self-doubt creeps into my thoughts. Suddenly

the lights kick on, blinding like the high beams from a semi heading straight at me. The crowd

bellows like an F-5 tornado. It’s time, all this build up, it is finally time to spill my heart out to

these strangers.

The guitarist lets out a mighty wale from his fine-tuned, cherry red battle axe. The bassist

strums an intoxicating rhythm that permeates through the room and down through your chest.

The first song has begun, but something is wrong. I’m paralyzed! I know I should be playing, but

nothing is happening. The once melodic tones of the guitar now sound like muffled screams.

Anxiety has her strong hands around my throat. Tunnel vision sets in. The whole building is

staring at me, but all I can do is gasp for air to keep from passing out. Why is this happening?

I’ve played 50 shows in three different states before this one. Why is this small town in Indiana

any different? A monstrous sound from the crowd drowns out the music. Are they booing?

Instinct kicks in, the only thought at this point is self-preservation. Run! The horrible emotions
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faced while bombing a show are unlike any I have ever experienced. Could this be enough to

keep me from ever playing again?

My life started out just like any other normal child, I was curious. I spent most of my

adolescent years jumping from hobby to hobby. Boy Scouts, basketball, baseball, as well as

many other extra-curricular activities slowly went the way of the buffalo. That is, all except for

one.

I played my first snare drum when I was in third grade. To say I fell in love is an

understatement. I begged my mom and dad like a puppy for a treat for drum lessons. My father,

being a drummer in the marching band, was eager to oblige. I started off small, just a snare drum.

Every Wednesday I would lug the bulky black case containing my shiny new Pearl Symphonic

snare drum up the rubber covered steps of Hauer Music. The building was historic and smelled

of dust and electronics. That smell took me to a peaceful place in my mind. I knew that smell

meant that it was time for my sensei, Lee McKinney, to transport me into a world of rhythm. No

matter what happened that day, no matter where my mind was, I was at peace in his sound proof

studio. Lee worked relentlessly with me for five years. He was a patient, soft spoken man. He

showed little emotion in real life, but behind the drum set he was more animated than one of the

whacky waving inflatable flailing arm tube men at a used car lot. He moved from drum to drum

like a stampede and often left me awe struck. He made me want to be that good. I spent three

years with the snare drum. My dad was overjoyed when I learned to play his old marching band

songs. Come Christmas of my sixth-grade year I was ecstatic when I came down the steps to my

very own emerald green Pearl Prestige Session Select. Could it be? I gasped, quickly recalling

watching Tony Coleman, a world renown drummer that played with B.B. King, playing that
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same drum set two weeks earlier. This set was to be my loyal steed and I was going to ride it

triumphantly into the winner's circle.

Behind the drums I felt invincible. Each beat on the thin yet strong head of a drum was

my war cry, and I was at war with the whole neighborhood. Slowly every kid in the

neighborhood seemed to want to come over and try out my prized possession. Some would just

beat on it. Others would manage to trot along with an off tempo, muddy beat. I on the other

hand, felt like a god of sorts, watching my friends eat up the intonation of my toms like a beggar

would a loaf of bread.

It was only a matter of time until some neighborhood kids took notice. Paul played guitar,

Jim, the bass, and Doug, a poet of sorts, wrote and sang the lyrics. Real Horror Show was

formed. In our heads, we were going to make it big. I can only imagine my poor mother sitting

through our initial practices. Patiently reading a romance novel with a chiseled Fabio-esque male

model on the cover, while what sounds like a pack of howler monkeys with teen angst is rattling

the house. We practiced every day for hours. I was more devoted to this band than I was to

school because, let’s be honest, school wasn’t going to make me millions like rock and roll.

Our first show was later that summer at a small bar called Jag’s in Kettering. This fuggy,

dark cave of a place was nowhere a 15-year-old should be on a Friday night. The crowd was a

mix of high school kids and old men that could have been my parents age. No one had any idea

what they were in for. We played like a ball of fury for an hour and when the set was over,

sweaty and blistered, I could only make out one sound, applause. They liked us! Soon we were

getting calls from different venues to play all over Dayton. We were well known in the music

scene as a high energy, fast paced, punch you in the ear, rock and roll band. Later that year we
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decided it was time to make an album. After three months and quite a few expletives, we had our

finished product. We were going to make Real Horror Show a household name.

Over the next year we played any show we could. From house parties, to three hundred

person venues. We met a lot of talented bands and networked to get more and more shows.

When my lead singer told us that we got a call from two bands in Kentucky and one in Indiana, I

was elated. This was a dream come true. I get to play the music that I love, meet people that I

would have never met, and get payed to do it. At the age of seventeen what could be better than

that? I was fueled by adrenaline and ego, not to mention the booze that the owner of the clubs

would reluctantly let us have. I was higher than the empire state building with no plans of ever

coming down, that is, until that fateful night in Indiana.

After the show I remember breaking down my drum set feeling confused and defeated,

like I imagine the Greeks felt after the Trojan Horse was wheeled in. The hour and a half ride

home felt like an eternity. Tension was bursting from the brown 1989 Chevy conversion van.

The animosity was so thick it hurt to take deep breaths. After a lack luster effort to help me

unload my equipment, the van pulled away from my mother’s cul-de-sac, and with it went all my

desire to be on a stage.

Anguished, I tossed my drums into the corner of my basement and retreated to my bed. I

didn’t want to move. It felt as if a small part of me had died that night. Years passed by, and like

the hobbies of before, drumming seemed to be an extinguished flame. Often, I thought about

setting the kit back up and playing, but instead I covered it with a blanket with hopes that if it was

out of sight it would be out of mind.

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Fast forward 3 years, it’s time to move out of my mom’s house. My best friend from

kindergarten, Joey was ready to make the move as well. We got a house together about a half mile

from my childhood home in the neighborhood where he and I both grew up. This made moving a

breeze, we got everything out in one day. Everything of course, except the elephant in the room,

the drum set. Do I dare move it? After some solid persuading, Joey talked me into loading it up.

When I uncovered the set for the first time in years, the emotions hit me like a tidal wave. Joey

was always quick with a joke though and made me feel better about loading the remnants of lost

dreams into my car. The set found a quick home in the darkest corner of my new basement.

Joey, a tall, skinny, olive-complected man with a beard down to his chest, was a collector

of all things music. He had a record and instrument collection that put most music stores to

shame, boasting four drum sets, along with various keyboards, electric pianos, and organs. He

was in a very successful band and toured the world playing shows with bands like The Black

Keys and The Black Crows. I would lay in my bed and listen to him practice every day, envious

of his drive and skill. One day while I was at work, Joey decided to take it upon himself to set up

and tune the very drum set that took a part of my soul. When I arrived home from work he was in

the basement playing his newly acquired Hammond B8 organ. It sounded like a bluesy gospel

choir show in my basement, so naturally I went to watch him tickle the ivories. When I rounded

the corner of the cold wooden basement steps, there it was, staring me in the face. My reason for

living at one point, my drive, my motivation turned nightmare. What had he done? Had he just

baited me with his bluesy siren song? He stopped and looked at me, “Play it son!”, he exclaimed.

Could I? Should I? It’s been years since Indiana, but I still get the feeling in my stomach of

driving over a hill quickly. I had no choice, Joey was my best friend and I wasn’t going to let

him down. I sat on the throne, unsheathed the sticks like King Arthur pulling out the mighty
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Excaliber and for hours we played. We danced in and out of rhythms and timing structures,

flowing with each other like autumn leaves in the wind. For the first time in a long time, I was

transported to that magical place. It all started to come back, the dusty smell of Hauer Music, the

excitement of playing in front on my childhood friends, that invincible feeling! Wow, what a

rush. When we were done, I got a nod from Joey, followed quickly by a “Yeah boy!” That’s

what it took, the impetus that was needed. The spark was back. Once again, I felt like the gods of

Olympus behind the kit.

I still haven’t been on a stage since the breakdown in Indiana, but I have maintained that

twinkle in my eye that music brings. It’s easy to lose passion for something after an emasculating

experience like being booed off stage. Will I ever get on a stage to play music again? That is a

question I cannot answer. I don’t think Joey will ever understand what he did for me in that

basement on that day, but one thing is for sure, percussion courses through my veins like waves

in the ocean.

It has been years since Joey and I lived together. I moved to an apartment and he to a

different house. The drums have made the moves with me, but unfortunately, it’s frowned upon

in apartment buildings to rock out like John Bonham. And so they sit. Calling to me from the

other room. Waiting for the day I can climb back in the saddle and slay musical dragons with

epic drum fills, atop my chrome hooped steed.