I just watched a video of a drum battle between the two great drummers, Buddy Rich and Gene Krupa. The pair was featured on "The Sammy Davis, Jr. Show" in 1966. It was great. I loved the way they handled those sticks and how they made faces like they were either in great pain or in a euphoric state of ecstasy. Watching that video took me back to when I had my own claim to fame on the drum many years ago.
It was around the sixth grade that there was an announcement at Lothrop Elementary School in Omaha for more members in the school band. I asked my mother -- OK it was more like begged -- if I could play the drum in the band. The problem was, the school didn't provide instruments. We had to buy our own. I don't know how much a drum cost at that time, but I'm sure my mother couldn't afford it. But at that time, I didn't even consider that. I just wanted to play the drum. Somehow she found the money and we went to the music store and got my instrument.
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It was a snare drum with stand and sticks included. Also included were lessons. I don't remember much about my teacher except he couldn't seem to get it through my 10-year-old head that I needed to read music. The only thing I wanted to do is pound the sticks on the drum. I didn't want to look at those notes on paper. I just wanted to feel the rhythm and let it move me, man. A few years later I would have made a great Beatnik. Maybe I was just ahead of my time.
Eventually the lessons stopped. I don't know if it was because there were only so many free lessons with the drum or the teacher just told my mother I'd never make a drummer. Either way, the lessons ended.
In spite of my lack of ability with “pounding the skins,” as us drummers say, I was still the drummer in the school band. Looking back, I realize I was the drummer only because I was the only kid who had a drum and wanted to do it.
Regardless of why, I was the one and only drummer for the Lothrop Elementary School band. Although I didn't know what a groupie was at the time, I was hoping for at least some notoriety. A few autograph hounds on the playground would have been nice, but there was nothing. I don't think most people at Lothrop even knew the school had a band.
But we continued on and as I recall we practiced almost every day. But unfortunately we didn't get any better. When I chose to play the drum I didn't realize the whole band relied on me. Although everyone was supposed to watch Mrs. Miller the band director waving the baton up and down, they really relied on me to provide the beat for each song. That's too much pressure for a little kid. But that was nothing compared to what was on the horizon.
One morning before practice, Mrs. Miller announced we were being called on for a special performance. The school was having an open house and we were asked to play The Star-Spangled Banner to start things off. Then she looked at me.
"Terry," she began, "you will start the song with a drum roll and you will hold it throughout The Star-Spangled Banner."
Yipes! Hold a drum roll all the way through? I was going to ask if she'd lost her senses but thought better of it. "Yes, Mrs. Miller," I squeaked. It was then I noticed all eyes were on me. I'm sure they were wondering if I could do it. I was wondering if I could do it. I had tried a drum roll a couple of times but only for a few seconds. I was sure The Star-Spangled Banner was longer than a few seconds.
Over the next week we practiced the national anthem over and over. I always started out strong with a somewhat perfect drum roll but never could get all the way to the end without messing up. Then came the big night.
We were all gathered around Mrs. Miller in the auditorium. She raised her baton and a hush fell over the crowd of parents and kids. I had the sticks poised over that snare drum. Then she pointed at me. I took a breath and started a perfect drum roll. She gave the downbeat and the rest of the band started.
I continued with my dramatic drum roll as the band progressed through a stirring rendition of our nation's most revered song. About halfway through the song, tiny beads of sweat began to form on my fevered brow. Undaunted, I continued that drum roll. Finally, the band got to the last few bars. I was going to make it! When Mrs. Miller brought her baton down the band and I ended on the same note.
Although my one and only drum solo went well, that brief experience convinced me I would never be the next Buddy Rich or Gene Krupa, and shortly thereafter my career as a drummer came to an end. It was probably just as well. I never could get those facial expressions right.
Terry Turner is a Prime writer who can be reached at turnert185@outlook.com
