Drummers like Russ Kunkel and Ringo Starr were kings of the solid, laid-back beat. They made it sound easy, but it’s not. Playing solidly: just going through the motions isn’t good enough, it’s an exact science. The beat can’t push; the beat can’t drag. Each note has to be dead-on-the-number, a twin with the note that came before—in pitch, in volume. When you play a fast song, what you do as well as how you do it becomes important; during a fast tune a drummer’s allowed more flare, freedom, syncopation, and dazzle. Once in a while you can even forget the bass line and go off on a tangent. But on a slow song, the drummer has to keep it laid-back; he’s got to hit hard and right on the money. The beat’s the pedestal, and it’s got to be precise and made out of dark-blue iron.
Thud-thud-swack. Thud-thud-swack.
What I tried to do was lay down a beat for “Mr. In-Question” that would last a million years.
Caged behind a fence of tom-toms, mikes on chrome booms, and brassy cymbals, I peered at slow dancers. The song’s romantic charm glazed the dancers’ eyes; my big, solid beat skewered each dancing couple, and turned them vertically about themselves on a merciful, bloodless rotisserie.
Thud-thud-swack. Thud-thud-swack.
The inside of the Lake Club was very familiar. Statues with nothingness eyes. The smell of cigarettes and humans. A poster picture of a dark matrix of fool’s gold, neon, pockets of infrared, always New Year’s or Christmas. Hot sex sizzling. Forlorn drunks. Liquor bottles filled with juice.
Thud-thud-swack. Thud-thud-swack.
There. Up on the terrace. Those people were old friends, even Domino sitting with Hector on his lap.
Good ole Spook, looking more reasonable than I ever saw him. No top hat. No chains. No rubber spider. No plastic Godzilla named Ken. Very mild appearing, in fact, in his Levi’s and Rocky Horror Picture Show T-shirt.
“The metamorphosis has begun,” Spook told me before the show. “Stanford University is a different scene.”
“You’re melting, Spook,” I said.
“I’m melting. I’m melting. How could you do this to me, Dorothy?” Spook chanted.
“You know, Spook, I’m glad you showed up,” I told him. “You’re a true patron.”
Melvin Stevenson, Jr., a.k.a. “Spook,” smiled shyly.
After the show that night I would find something and be strangely touched. There would be a large cardboard box in the cab of my pickup. In the box I would find a Godzilla doll named Ken. Symbols are funny, aren’t they?
Thud-thud-swack. Thud-thud-swack.
Next to Spook sat Zoe, our manager, mooning fondly and carefully down at her band. She still glowed with innocence.
Thud-thud-swack. Thud-thud-swack.
I saw: the backs of two young men, whom I felt strong bonds toward. Jay Wong and Seth Collins faced the audience and played their guitars like rock ‘n’ roll knights. When I looked past Jay and Seth into a pool of bodies and faces, I caught a glimpse of Sly, bustling energetically, from table to table.
Thud-thud-swack. Thud-thud-swack.
The song consumed itself, and Abbey turned around and prepared to give me the ending cue. Bandit left the ending of “Mr. In-Question” loose; Abbey repeated the last line as a chorus until the moment was right:
I’ll never know, Mr. In-Question
Yea-aaaah
I’ll never know, Mr. In-Question
Yea-aaaah….
As she double-checked to make sure she had my attention, her expression was bedazzled and remote; she was beautifully enslaved by her own song. Green eyes, brown hair, mouth painted red. Boots, sassy, bra-less. Witchy aura, youthful artist, magic flower. Abbey Butler.
Thud-thud-swack. Thud-thud-swack.
She winked, spun around, and with a clenched fist, punched the nightclub sky. While solidly, just as solidly as I possibly could, I struck two small crash cymbals — one with my right hand, one with my left. Instead of quickly reaching up and clamping off the sizzling metal dishes to effect a clean STOP, I let ‘em ring.
###
About the Author
Brad Henderson teaches writing at University of California, Davis. His left-brain is aided by a Bachelor of Science in mechanical engineering from Cal Poly San Luis Obispo and his right-brain by a Master of Arts in creative writing from University of Southern California. Both sides of his brain appreciate that Brad is an accomplished blues-rock drummer. His prose and poetry have been published in a variety of newspapers, magazines, and journals. In addition to teaching, Brad has held a wide variety of “day jobs” over the years—including cowboy, corporate engineer, truck dock loader, stay-at-home dad, and nightclub drummer.
He can be reached at
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