That’s Rock ‘n’ Roll
Remembering the good, the bad and the cringeworthy of my early forays into music
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Philip Ogley’s recent article about his high school band brought back memories of my own misspent youth.
Back in school, my three best friends were all musicians. Well, two were musicians and one played the tuba.
It meant that every lunchtime, instead of freezing their bollocks off for 90 minutes out in the wind, hail, rain and snow, they got to hang out in a cosy, heated practice room in the music area — sometimes playing music but usually just larking around.
Naturally, I tagged along.
Occasionally, a kid called Steven Crozier who wasn’t part of our circle would turn up and play drums. From the first time I persuaded him to let me sit on that drum throne and play a basic rock rhythm I was hooked.
I’d found my instrument.
But Crozier was older than us and left school shortly after that. I needed access to that drum kit, so I had to enrol for lessons.
The drum teacher was a guy called Barry Black who’d played with the John Miles Band in the 70s. He’d also been a session drummer with various rock bands and would regale me with tales such as the time he drummed for AC/DC.
“My hands were like ‘raw meat’ afterwards,” he remembered gleefully.
It all sounded like great fun.
Playing drums in the school wind band and orchestra was enjoyable, especially when the music teacher gave me a percussion catalogue one day and told me to pick out whichever drum kit and percussion I wanted. But it had its downsides — not least the overtly racist music teacher.
Nor was it the coolest place for a budding drummer to cut his teeth. I couldn’t wait to join a ‘real’ band.
My chance came soon after I left school when a friend told me he knew a rock band who were looking for a drummer. This was more like it.
We practised hard and got a pretty good set together, comprising covers of well-known classics plus a few of our own songs, and we started supporting other local bands at clubs and rock bars.
We used to practice at a local arts centre, as did several other local rock bands, and it wasn’t too long before we were invited to play at one of the semi-regular rock nights there.
And that’s when things went pear-shaped.
I should say at this point that I was a heavy drummer. I played hard.
I used a heavy-duty base pedal with a thick chain drive because normal base pedals would just break during our pounding, base-driven sets.
We were to be first on stage night and were to open with a deceptively quiet guitar and vocal solo followed after a few bars by a roof-raising drum crescendo of cymbal crashes, thundering tom-tom rolls and, of course, heavy-driven, pounding, earth-shaking bass beats.
To facilitate a faster, smoother changeover between bands, I’d been persuaded — very much against my better judgment — to use the next band’s drum kit. I’d agreed very reluctantly but wasn’t happy about it at all.
At the start of the show, the spotlight illuminated the singer and the tension started to build. The first few bars went perfectly and the feel-good chemicals started to kick in. Then came the big explosion.
A deafening power chord from the lead guitar, the lights went wild, I struck the cymbals, pounded the base pedal… and the strap snapped!
FuckFuckFuckFuckFuckFuck
I carried on playing, but without the driving base it sounder feeble and half-assed.
The rest of the band spun round to look at me, eyes questioning what was happening, and I somehow gestured back that the base pedal had snapped.
The kit’s owner appeared onstage, crouched down by my right leg as he desperately struggled to fix his broken base pedal while we valiantly carried on playing. To his credit, he cobbled it together and we had a base drum for the rest of our set, but I was nervous about stomping on it too hard after that and it killed the whole vibe.
My mojo was a no-go. The audience was full of friends, family and work colleagues, and I cringed at how it must sound.
I cursed the shitty little drum pedal. I cursed the other drummer for pressuring me into using his shitty little kit. Most of all, I cursed myself for allowing myself to be pressured into using his shitty little kit.
Obviously, the whole band was frustrated. We stayed around after our set to listen to the other guys play, but the vibe was not good.
No doubt the other band’s drummer picked up on it, too. Maybe he blamed this newcomer for breaking his drum kit. Maybe he felt guilty for ruining our set. Whatever the reason, he took it out on his girlfriend.
The two of them got into a fight and he ended up slapping her.
Our bass player, Dom, saw this and stepped in. In the spirit of chivalry, he ended up flooring the guy.
Now, Dom was a big bloke, and the kid should really have chalked the whole thing up to experience and gone home to make up with his girl. But drinks and testosterone had been flowing, you know how it is.
First thing I knew about it all was when I was packing gear into the van and the kid stormed past, covered in blood and snot, shouting “Where’s your fuckin bass player?” before disappearing round to the front of the building, where a commotion quickly ensued.
“I’d better go and see what’s happening,” I told our driver. Be ready to leave.
I found them, surrounded by a crowd, the kid on the floor and Dom laying into him like I had laid into his bass drum.
“Alright, Dom. He’s had enough. Time to go.”
We all piled into the van and made a swift exit. As we pulled out of the car park, we saw the kid’s girlfriend running round to where we’d left him. No doubt they would be making up sooner than expected after all.
We played a few more gigs after that before we all kind of drifted off in different directions. Funnily enough though, we never got invited back to that venue. Which is a bit odd when you think about it. I mean, that’s Rock n Roll, right?
