The Complete Idiot's Guide to
Playing Drums
2nd Edition

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Introduction

Drumming is in my blood. No matter what my various business cards have said through the years, at heart I am and have always been a drummer. 

I don't remember why I started playing drums. Maybe it had something to do with watching Cubby play drums on the original Mickey Mouse Club; you can't ignore the influence of television on impressionable children. (I certainly couldn't ignore how Cubby's playing seemed to impress Karen, who I personally liked more than Annette.) All I know is that my parents have a picture of me at age 5 playing a little toy drumset. The die was cast. 

I started taking drum lessons when I was in fifth grade, in the back of the Wurlitzer store in our local mall. My teacher was a guy named Jack Wagley, and his method for taking the ring out of the store-supplied practice snare was simply to toss his billfold onto the drum head. Crude, but effective. 

When I started taking lessons, my parents bought me a Ludwig Acrolite snare drum on a flat-tripod stand; I used Ludwig 2B laminated sticks with plastic tips. Jack took me through all the old standby method books, Harr and Podemsky and Wilcoxin. I learned to play my rolls, not bounce them, and I memorized all 26 rudiments, diligently counting my way from measure-to-measure: "One-and two-and three-and four-and." 

I got my first drumset in sixth grade; before then I would set up my snare together with some chairs and lamps, and pound on a metal lampshade like it was a ride cymbal. My first set, purchased one weekday evening for just $150, was a red sparkle Pearl-made Polaris from Japan (Japanese sets were the cheapies back then--that was before Yamaha and Pearl got big), with a 20-inch bass, a 13-inch small tom, and a 16-inch large tom. The hi-hat cymbals were so cheap that if I pressed too hard with my left foot, the top cymbal inverted; I was constantly snapping that trashcan cymbal back into shape, until I bought my first set of Zildjian New Beats later that year. 

By seventh grade I was playing in a garage band ("Walk Don't Run" and "Brown Sugar" were our two big covers) and was the drummer in the junior high choral club. I was also the top drummer in our school's A-list concert band, one of just two seventh graders in what was typically an all ninth-grade group. The other seventh grader was another drummer, a short blonde kid named Mike Richards, whom I met when we were both auditioning for the band. We two Mikes became fast friends, and remain so today. I can remember many lazy summer afternoons in the basement of Mike's parents' condo, listening to Blood, Sweat & Tears and Chicago and and Chase, while trading licks on his silver sparkle Ludwigs, and wondering if we could get lucky with any of his sister's friends. 

When I was in eighth grade, Jack Wagley, still my drum teacher, was trying to teach me how to play jazz, using the Chapin and Morello books. I could play all the notes, technically, but I couldn't get the feel down. Jack, became increasingly frustrated at my lack of swing, and finally asked me if I had ever actually listened to any jazz. I answered no, of course, and he prescribed the Dave Brubeck Quartet's Time Out as the antidote to my swing problem. That evening I called up my father and asked him to pick up a copy of Time Out from the local Lyric Records store on his way home from work. I spent the entire evening huddled over my GE portable stereo with my headphones on, listening to Joe Morello swing his way through "Take Five," and "Blue Rondo a la Turk," and all those other odd-time marvels. It was an awakening. 

The very next day--the very next day!--Phyllis Earnshaw, my school's choral teacher, came up to me after choral club rehearsal. (Truth be told, I had a major crush on Mrs. Earnshaw, and was always lingering after class.) She asked me if I'd be interested in getting together with her (on piano), Gene Smith (the band director and an alto sax player), and Brian Siemers (a ninth-grade bass player) and playing some Brubeck tunes after school. Today I'm still amazed at the cosmic coincidence or divine intervention that triggered the Brubeck invitation; then, at that moment, the only thing I could say was: "Yes!" 

Our little Brubeck get-togethers ultimately led to us performing "Take Five" for a school concert. I played the Morello solo note-for-note, or as note-for-note as I could do in eighth grade. I just remember kicking the bejeezus out of my bass drum during the opening bars of the solo, and hearing that sound reverberate through the entire gym. Of all the gigs I've ever played, that is the only one that I can still recall in complete detail. 

I entered high school with a brand new drumset, a custom-ordered set of Ludwig blue-tint Vistalites. Unfortunately, I was playing in the high- school's jazz band, and I never could get those damned Vistalites to sound right. Their boomy sound may have been perfect for John Bonham and Led Zeppelin, but they couldn't have been more wrong for Stan Kenton and Woody Herman. I hated those drums! 

The Vistalites lasted my sophomore year, after which I replaced them with an off-the-shelf Fibes five-piece set. These fiberglass drums had a beautiful antique copper finish, sounded terrific live, and were powerful enough to cut through just about any band I was playing with. I still have those Fibes today, and they still sound great. 

I played for a lot of different bands in high school and on into college, where I was accepted into the Indiana University School of Music's Jazz Studies program. At one time I was playing in no fewer than six different groups--a four-person wedding reception band, a large Weather Report-like fusion band, an avant-garde jazz quartet, a Dixieland band, the Singing Hoosiers (I.U.'s world-renowned swing choir), and one of the school's many orchestras. Frankly, I don't know where I got the energy.

Time went on, and my musical endeavors eventually gave way to a business career. Even though the number of gigs I played dwindled away to nothing, I still had my drums set up in the spare bedroom, and I still practiced my chops regularly. From time-to-time I'd replace an old piece of hardware, or try out a new type of head, or add a new cymbal to my kit. I may have been a businessman by profession, but I was still a drummer at heart. 

My current business card says that I'm a writer, and now I'm writing a book about playing drums. Things have come full circle, through no grand plan of my own. I just replaced by my now-vintage Fibes drums with a state-of-the-art custom Drum Workshop six-piece set, and my friend Mike Richards and I have started trading patterns back and forth again--this time via mail, as I'm still in Indianapolis and he's several moves removed in Kansas City. Drumming is still in my blood. 

Some of the best times in my life have come behind the drumset, or while hanging out with fellow drummers. Unlike other professional communities I've dealt with throughout my life, the drumming community is one of the most friendly and helpful bunch of folks you'll ever come across. Whether it's the owner of my local drum shop, a product manager at a big drum company, or a drum legend like Hal Blaine or Steve Smith, everyone has time to talk and lend a helping hand. Drummers are good folks.