by Mike Grosso
“You just made those,” he says.
“Those dents?” I say.
He nods. I cower a little as my hair stands on edge. Did I just damage Pete’s drum set?
“Calm down,” he says. “I’m not pointing it out to get you in trouble. That’s the point of this set. It’s here to take any and all damage a beginner can dish out. I just want you to understand that we’re not stabbing an enemy or blackjacking someone. We’re playing the snare drum.”
He sits back down by his set and tells me to continue. I shake my arms, loosening the muscles, and try to imagine myself floating. When I start playing again, the snare hits are smoother and more even. Pete smiles and gives me a light, sarcastic applause. “Much better.”
Then he throws me a curveball.
“I want you to play singles as slowly as you can,” he says.
I do it. It’s harder than you might think. The longer between each swing of the stick means the longer you have to screw up your grip. But I do get it down, and my grip feels better afterward.
“Now speed up just a little bit,” he says.
I speed up.
“I didn’t ask you to floor it, Sam! Take it easy!”
I slow down.
He watches for about five minutes, then says, “You got it. Speed it up again, just a little bit this time!”
I speed up. Then he tells me to speed up again. And again. Before long, I’m playing faster than I ever have before, but my arms are about to fall off. Little by little, the movement travels from my wrists to the rest of my arms and up to my shoulders.
“Are you tense?” he shouts over my lightning-fast singles.
“Yes!” I shout back.
“Slow it down until you’re relaxed!”
I slow down. My body relaxes a little, but pain and numbness stay in my forearms.
I almost want to hug him when he finally says, “Stop!” My arms throb the second they stop moving, and the fatigue hits me, all the way through my shoulders and into my neck.
“I need to build up my upper-body strength,” I say.
“No no no!” he says, waving his arms in the air. “You think drumming is all about power? Do I look like a bodybuilder to you?”
I’m not sure how to answer. Will I insult him if I tell him he looks like a pencil with arms and legs?
“Buddy Rich had the thinnest arms you’ll ever see,” he says.
“Who’s Buddy Rich?” I ask.
His face turns red, like he just choked on a zucchini. For someone who’s always telling me to relax, he sure looks like he’s going to blow a gasket.
“You don’t know Buddy Rich?” he says. “Why did you storm into my house, angry about jazz band getting canceled next year, if you’ve never heard a real jazz drummer play?”
“So he’s a jazz drummer?” I ask.
“He was a jazz drummer. The jazz drummer. He had tiny little arms like toothpicks because he never used his muscles, or lack thereof, to play fast.”
“Can I borrow some of his music or something?”
“Do your parents have a record player?”
Whoa. Talk about old school. “Definitely not.”
“Then you won’t be able to listen to my collection. Head over to the library.”
“The school library?”
“God, no! The public library. You can check out Buddy Rich’s music on CD there. Totally free, as long as you bring them back on time. You do know what CDs are?”
“I’m not that dumb.”
“You’re not dumb at all. You’re just young. That’s why I don’t want you going online. No torrenting. You’re not going to get me in trouble with your parents, or anyone else, and most of his stuff is mislabeled by Internet idiots anyway. Torrenting Buddy Rich will probably get you Tina Turner.”
“Who’s Tina Turner?”
He shakes his head. “Just forget it. Your homework before next lesson is to listen to two real jazz albums. One can be Buddy Rich, and the other can be whatever you want, as long as it’s jazz.”
“Who else would you recommend?” I ask. “Besides Buddy Rich?”
“I’d recommend you find someone on your own. You’re not afraid of jazz, are you?”
I think of how much I wanted to be in jazz band next year and say, “Of course not.”
“Good. Then head over to the library and find a jazz album that speaks to you. If you can play jazz, you can play anything. Trust me. And if, by some stroke of luck, you discover an artist you’ve never heard before, it’s a win-win situation.” Pete gestures to the stairs leading out of his basement. “I expect you to be two jazz albums older when you show up next Monday.”
I walk up the basement stairs and leave Pete’s house, thinking about how to make it to the library. Wondering how I’m going to explain a sudden taste in jazz to my parents. All the while, another part of me wonders if my parents will notice, or even care about, anything related to music.
I wonder if it would be worth being busted, just so my parents could learn what really matters to me.
Another voice mail from Dr. Pullman is waiting when I get home. This one scares me more than the others. I had assumed the end of my lunch detentions meant the end of his phone calls.
Another press of the number 9 on the keypad. Another computer voice telling me, “Your message has been deleted.”
Only it wasn’t my message. Even I know that.
The next day, before math class, I ask Kristen to go to the library with me after school. She agrees, but I can tell by the way she sighs that she’s not as into the idea as I am.
We meet at our lockers at the end of the day and head over. It’s a good distance, but we get to talk a lot on the way. When we finally get there and are walking through the front entrance, she says, “Seriously, are we really going to hang out in the library after spending all day in school?”
“You didn’t have to come with,” I say, hoping it won’t make her want to leave.
“I know. It’s just weird to come here without having to research something. This place totally wigs me out.”
“Would it help to know we’re coming here to get music?”
“Depends on the music.”
I don’t say anything else. Something tells me jazz would not get her approval.
I find the computer with the card catalog and search for Buddy Rich. When my search returns a bunch of books on him, I find the advanced search options and tell the system I only want audio recordings. That gets me what I want—a whole list of albums. It turns out the guy recorded a ton of stuff. Most of them are at other libraries in the area and need to be special ordered, but I find three that are in our building. I write down their location on a scrap of paper and run off to find them.
“So what’s the deal with this guy, anyway?” Kristen asks.
“Buddy Rich?” I say. “He’s a jazz drummer.”
“No, I mean Pete Taylor. How did you get him to give you lessons?”
I try to tell her a short version of what happened the day I knocked on his door, and a little bit about our lessons. She winces at certain parts, as if my stories about Pete are like getting punched in the stomach.
“He sounds mean,” she says.
I don’t know how to respond. I can’t argue with her—he isn’t the nicest guy in the world, but I don’t think he’s mean. He just expects a lot. A whole lot. Maybe that’s exactly what will ensure that I never hear anybody tell me I’m the worst drummer in the band ever again.
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Kristen asks.
I nod. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
“What about your parents? If they find out what you’re doing, they’re going to lose their minds.”
“I’ve been in trouble plenty of times. I can handle it.”
“This isn’t like bringing home a bad report card, Sam. You’re stealing your parents’ lawn mower to take secret drum lessons, all while deleting voice mails from the principal. D
o you have any idea how insane that is?”
“I know. I just want to learn enough to practice on my own. After that, they can ground me forever if they want.”
“Not forever. You’re still coming to my pool party.” Kristen frowns and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry they cut music next year.”
I put my hand over hers and squeeze.
We leave the library with four CDs. Two Buddy Rich albums, something by Miles Davis, and some CD that looks like it’s covered in sparkles. Kristen says a new friend of hers says it’s pretty cool.
It’s still a while before Kristen has to be home for dinner, so we head to my house to find Brian building a fort out of couch pillows. He sees the two of us and says, “Help! The house is being invaded by baboons!”
“Talk to me like that again, and I’ll kick you across the room!” Kristen snaps. My brother’s face turns white as he retreats into his assemblage of pillows.
We race upstairs and drag out an old CD player I inherited from my cousin. We plug it in, pop open the CD deck, and put in one of the Buddy Rich albums. Kristen lies on my bed, and I lie on my stomach, my face inches from the CD player’s digital display. I pull my baseball cap off and lay it on the floor next to the player.
The music starts off quickly. Quiet, but intense. There’s a lot of piano and a faint, light percussion. It sounds like a drumroll on the ride cymbal until I realize he’s playing that fast with only one hand. Then the snare and toms kick in, and he plays something that sounds like musical chaos.
“That is such a cool drum fill,” I say.
“What’s a drum fill?” Kristen asks.
It’s hard to explain without that headphone jack, but I try anyway. “You know how there’s the main beat that repeats over and over, and every once in a while, the drummer plays something quick and fancy on top of it? That’s a drum fill.”
“Like a guitar solo?”
“Not that long. Drummers don’t play full solos very often, but they’re amazing when they do.” I consider telling her about John Bonham’s solo in “Moby Dick,” but chicken out when I remember that awkward conversation with my dad about how Bonham died.
“So it’s like putting glitter on top of the beat?”
“More like frosting, but yeah.”
It’s nice talking to her about drums. She doesn’t give me any weird looks, and for a moment, I actually feel like an expert.
I listen to more of the music. The drums are constant and intense and totally in your face. I look back at Kristen, who’s twiddling a lock of hair between her fingers, bored as I’ve ever seen her.
There are solos by other instruments—a saxophone, a trumpet, and an upright bass from what I can tell. None of them are impressive. It’s not until later in the song that Buddy Rich takes his drum solo, the longest solo of all, and everything in the song stops to wait for him. Only they’re not waiting for him. They’re left behind in the dust, thrown from the vehicle, and tossed and spun across the pavement, lassoed and destroyed like a cowboy’s victim.
The drum solo ends, and the band plays one more verse and finishes on one huge note that sounds like a thousand people playing all at once. If I looked at myself in the mirror right now, I imagine my hair would be a mess, my face would be flushed red, and my eyes would be popping out of my head. I don’t know if I like the melody just yet, but I am absolutely blown away by the drums.
I have a long way to go, much longer than I thought, but my long road is not impossible. I can become that good if I want it and I’m willing to work hard enough. Buddy Rich was once a young kid who couldn’t play a double stroke roll to save his life. That’s why Pete said that I have to surpass him or I have failed. The only way to start learning is to see those who have done it and realize it’s possible.
I spy Kristen staring at me, giving me this intense look, like my face just lit on fire.
She says, “Man, you’re really into this stuff, aren’t you?”
I’m too nervous to tell the truth, so I say, “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay. It’s not my thing, but I’m not going to make fun of you or anything.”
“I know. It’s not that.” I push my hair behind my ears. “It’s like the inside of my head was recorded and played back for me. Maybe that sounds weird, but it’s the only way to explain how it makes me feel.”
“That’s cool.” Kristen swallows hard and turns away from me. “If I knew how much you liked drums, I might have backed you up a little more.”
She and I both know what she means. Her silence whenever anyone made fun of me. Backing out of the conversation when I was getting picked on. Failing to do all those things friends are supposed to do.
And then there’s me, realizing how hard it can be to do the right thing, especially if nobody’s there to knock you off your pedestal.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You’re still my friend.”
I spend the rest of the school week fidgeting through class and listening to jazz CDs on repeat at night.
When Friday arrives, Ms. Rinalli opens rehearsal with an announcement.
“It is time to both celebrate and panic,” she says with a smile, “because our spring performance is exactly one week from today!”
A few kids gasp, while others roll their eyes, pretending not to care. Others are just excited we’re closing in on the end of the year. Those of us excited about the performance stay very quiet.
We spend the entire period playing our songs, trying to get through the whole list without stopping, and failing the majority of the time.
We get to the song where Scott and I play snare. He watches me intently, more so than before. When the song is finished, he says, “How are you playing your triplets?”
I look at my fingers, wrapped around the sticks. It takes me a moment to figure out what he means. “You mean my triple stroke roll?”
“Yeah. Whatever you call it.”
“It’s not a big deal. Instead of alternating snare hits, I’m playing three rights followed by three lefts. It’s a good way to practice stick control.”
Scott sits down and gives it a try, tapping out a triple stroke roll on his knees. It doesn’t sound bad for his first time.
“You’re getting pretty serious about this,” he says.
“I am,” I say. And I think, I’ve always been serious about this, Scott. You just never noticed.
Saturday arrives with a vengeance. I’m certain the second round of lawn mowing will be easier than the first. I am very wrong.
The day begins with me forgetting to visit Pete’s neighbor first. I travel all the way to another customer on the other side of town only to remember that I don’t have enough gas. I head back toward Pete’s neighbor’s house to find her waiting on her front porch, a portable fuel container next to her.
“Late start today?” she asks.
I give a little growl, and she laughs as she helps me pour gas into the lawn mower.
“You’re helping me out, and I’m helping you out,” I say. “But I still don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Wanda,” she says. “Then again, geezers like me forget things. Maybe my name is really George.” When I give her a look, she says, “Loosen up, honey. It was a joke.”
It doesn’t matter that I’m more prepared for the physical exhaustion when I start mowing Wanda’s lawn, because I’m still dreading how long the entire day will last. Last week I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Now I know precisely how bad it will be, and I hate every moment leading up to it. I hate how long I’m out there, sweating under the Orb of Death.
But this time I know the Orb of Death is no match for me. I’ve done this once before, and I’ll do it again, no matter how many lawns it takes.
The old lady who brought me lemonade last week has water this time around. I guess if I’m going to gulp something down, it might as well be water.
When I’ve finished the last lawn, I’m pretty convinced I’ll never do it again. The
re’s no way I can handle this every week. Then I remember Scott asking about my triple stroke roll, and feeling like a real drummer for the first time in my life. One horrible day per week is worth drum lessons, even if I have to mow a million lawns to pay for them.
“Buddy Rich and Miles Davis?” Pete says from his little spot on the throne of his drum set. “Not bad for your first choices. What did you think?”
And all I’m thinking is, Headphone jack, headphone jack, headphone jack, over and over again.
“That bad, huh?” Pete says. “Did it scare you into silence?”
“No,” I say. “I liked it. I just—”
Pete twirls his finger, gesturing for me to go on.
“I need more time to get into some of the songs,” I say, “but Buddy Rich’s drumming rocks.”
Pete smiles. “Good enough. Now play me a double stroke roll.”
It’s the first time we haven’t started out with singles. He’s going right for the throat. I play them for a couple of minutes, until he says, “Not bad. Did you practice every day this week?”
“Every day except Saturday,” I say. “I had to mow all the lawns.”
“It shows. Let’s try paradiddles.”
I think the name is a joke until I see he’s not laughing. Paradiddles are not a monster from a Harry Potter book or a dance move from outer space. They’re a bizarre rudiment that throws me off even more than doubles. Right left right right left right left left right left right right left right left left. My hands are flying, wondering what the purpose is until I hear the pattern emerge:
PA-RA-DID-DLE, PA-RA-DID-DLE.
Right left right right, left right left left.
My hands really start to fly, totally relaxed but on fire, beating the tar out of the snare drum without me even having to flex my muscles.
“Yes!” Pete shouts as I stop playing. “There is hope for you yet!”
I beam a little, hiding my face so he can’t see me blushing.
“Now play the right hand on the floor tom while keeping your left on the snare!”
I get goose bumps. Did he really mean that? Did he really just ask me to—