Bang the drum slowly

“Say you’re going to put your old band back together again,
Just gotta find a drummer who understands” – Blue Rodeo, Rage.

So there was a great story on CNN.com the other day (http://www.cnn.com/2008/SHOWBIZ/Music/06/07/alabama.drummer.ap/index.html?iref=newssearch) about the members of the country group Alabama suing their drummer, because he was overpaid. Without knowing the facts of the case, let me state for the record that I am on their side. If the guy got paid $1, he was overpaid.

The guy probably not only got overpaid, he probably drank so much beer backstage that he owes them money. They should probably check their wallets and get their wives and girlfriends test for infectious diseases.

I guess it is obvious I’m not a big fan of drummers. I will stipulate for the record there are some pretty good ones – Charlie Watts, Pete Thomas, Max Weinberg, Ringo, etc. But really, for the most part, they are an insufferable lot.

I had a band few years ago and it basically fell apart because the drummer was down to about 20 working brain cells, which I realize is a lot for a drummer, and he had trouble remembering little things, like when we were practicing, or how to play the songs.

During my last failed attempt at getting a band together, the main obstacle was not being able to find a drummer. I would place an ad on a musicians’ Web site, stating that we were a country-rock band, we liked people such as Merle Haggard, Steve Earle, etc., and we were looking for a drummer who played in a simple, basic style.

The typical drummer’s response went something like this: “Yo! I am a kick-ass!! drummer. I have ben in bands befour, I play funk, classic rock, moetown, jazz, ANYTHING THAT ROCKS! I havent played country muzic but will try. I have pro gear and attitude.” I nearly wore out the delete button on my computer responding to these ads.

One night, the other two guys and I went to try out a drummer named Greg. The house was in a neighborhood that I believe was named “Cars Up On Cement Blocks In Every Front Yard.” I was met at the front door by this scrawny creature with stringy blonde hair, chain smoking and drinking white zinfandel from a plastic cup. This must be the wife, I thought, probably number four or five.

Greg greeted me by saying, “When did you get out of prison?” He wore a muscle shirt and sported a mullet and some tattoos that looked to have been drawn by Satanic school children. We explained to him our style of music, and he nodded, and proceeded to make everything sound like a faster version of “When the Levee Breaks.” After two songs I was legally deaf.

After a while his cell phone rang, and he got a serious look on his face. I noticed his wife had disappeared, and then I picked up on what he was saying on the phone. The phrase that particularly caught my ear was, “Well, officer, how much money am I going to need to get her out of jail?”

Greg got off the phone and explained that his wife had slipped away, and had been pulled over for an expired tag, and the officers had discovered that she had an outstanding warrant for a bad check charge. Oh, and the reason they had spotted her in the first place was because she was pulling out of a CRACK HOUSE they had under surveillance. All this had happened in less than 30 minutes.

Seems that old Greg’s woman had some trouble with the rock, and he had spent thousands of dollars on her in rehab, and she had a habit of sneaking off and doing crack, and I guess I should have felt empathy but I just thought, “What the hell am I doing here?”

I left and never found out what happened to her, but I had finally learned a lesson: If I ever want to play music again, I’ll invest in a drum machine.