RUMPAPUMPUM, ME AND MY DRUM OR THE LITTLE DRUMMER BOY 1965

Again, I break from my chronological memories, to return to my childhood, and bring you a haunting memory of my musical career. It was short, but my fame was meteoric. It all came to pass, due to underlying, self imposed, pressure of being a non musician in a family, whose patriarch was a natural artist. He was, indeed, a maestro. One day, just so happened, that the local Optomist Club, in our hometown, announced the formation of a marching band for teenage boys. Aaaaahhh, finally my chance to shine, “where do I sign up?”

I believe, I was in about the last semester of Grade 10 High School, and fancied myself a gift to humanity. Nearing, 6 feet tall, weighing in at a solid 125 pounds, and so skinny that I had to jump around in the shower, to get wet. It was not likely an offer of a position on the front “line” of the HS football team, like my big ol’ lard ass brother, was about to appear. And at hockey, all they wanted from me, was to stand in goal, so they could shoot pucks at my head. So, what to do, to impress the girls? It struck me like a revelation from above, I’ll join the band, right? After all, some of dad’s talents, must lie buried in me, someplace. And so, join up, I did.

The instrument I picked was called a snare drum. My god, the first time I saw this fine instrument, I fell even more in love with my image. It was bright, shiny, gold metal-flake, with silver trim. The drum skin was pure white. My uniform was a Gold sequinned jacket over, Snow White shirt, with tight, shiny, sea blue pants and a gold, shaggy, Buckingham Palace, guard’s hat. I looked like a Peruvian Matador prepared for a date. The first time I got all of my gear on, I was just bursting with pride and could only think, “now I have arrived, bring on the girls”!

“Not so fast,” you might protest. “Didn’t you have to learn how to play it?” Therein lies the “rub”. I had chosen the snare drum as my instrument, because I saw it as the most sexy, girl magnet, of all of the instruments. It was shiny, new, blinding in the sunlight, and obviously made for me. The snare section, lead the band, and played all of the complicated solos. It also, turned out to be, one of the most technical pieces of musical equipment, in the band.

So night after night, week after week, month upon month, a group of instructors, from the nearby Penhold Airbase, Armed Forces Drum and Bugle Band, instructed, bullied, pleaded and then begged for us to learn how to play our instruments. I spent many a weary evening pounding away on a piece of plywood, that my dad had made for me to practice on. No way, they were giving us those instruments, to take home to practice on! Had I been allowed, I would have dressed up for school, and marched down the hallways in all of my splendour.

Growing up, I already knew, that I did not have the same coordination as my peers. I tried everything, played all sports, dabbled with (social) dance and found that I was never, quite, a natural at anything. I always had to work harder, longer and persevere more, than others, in order to achieve, even marginal competence at anything. In all of this, I looked out of sync. A tall, skinny, “piece of work”, I was. One thing I had, though, which helped equalize me somewhat, was that I was obsessive-compulsive, about anything I tried. I was “balls to the wall, all in, and fully engaged”; and I guess, I still am.

Playing drums and marching, was the same thing. Very early on, I found out that I could either march with the best of them, or play a mean drum. Problem was, that I COULD NOT DO BOTH OF THEM TOGETHER! I could either march or play, but not at the same time. When you hear the term. “he marched to a different drummer”, it was coined for me! Marching was a simple matter of stepping with the beat of the big drum. I found that my brain, only allowed me to march on the “offbeat”. That is, the silent spot between “two beats”. I even tried carrying the big bass drum, that pounded out the beat, but could not even sync with that. On top of which, I looked much like a piece of spaghetti, with a huge meatball attached to it, midway up.

The instructors had a terrible time with me, the more they tried to get me in step, the more I failed. I could see them age, in front of my eyes. I expect that many of them had nightmares, just thinking of working with me. They would have kicked me out, however, I was probably their best drummer, when standing still, and I could march like a North Korean soldier, when unburdened of my drum. Additionally, most of the drum section were my buddies, and were there, only, because I was there. I leave; they all leave. I might say, I wore out many a good marching instructor, after trying for a few months, to teach me how to walk, and tap on a drum at the same time.

Some of them even said, I was “special”, but I don’t think it was in a positive way. Geezus, I could see my dad cringing, as we walked past, on parade, in all of our bling; me pounding the skin off my drum and my feet moving in a random pattern. All the while the Sargent at Arms, walked beside me, glaring at me, and giving me the signal, to change feet and get back in step. Sigh…… .