Heartless Radio

For my sins, I regularly have to sit listening to a radio station that dispenses aural garbage. 

I hate to generalise but the majority of the songs, melodies, lyrics, arrangements, instrumentation and singing are the most appalling cliches. They have no connection to real life, real feelings or real emotions; nor, to my way of thinking, do they constitute real music. They are heartless.

And if the drumming on any of the songs is played by people, I suspect they are morons plugged in to click tracks. In fact, I hope that they are nothing but click tracks and that no humans were damaged in the production of this stuff. 

This is the true sound of contemporary entertainment. And that is deeply saddening... 

Mr Baker

The real drummer seldom plays the minimum. He seeks to find how far he can go - not for himself but for the sake of the music. 

I got into this game because of Ginger Baker. October 1967. Ginger Baker. At the Saville Theatre, London. In front of the hippest crowd on the planet. With me there too. Ginger Baker. With Cream. Opening with Tales Of Brave Ulysses. Jack Bruce with a voice borrowed from heavy metal angels. Ginger Baker. And Eric Clapton in Hendrix fuzz and granny shades and playing guitar that was not of this earth. Ginger Baker. 

Ginger would tell me to fuck off if I were ever to get close to him. But he changed my life. Fucking Ginger Baker.

On Ginger’s website there’s a video of him playing We’re Going Wrong. When Cream played that song live, Jack Bruce’s vocals went to the limit. And sometimes Clapton’s guitar did the same. But Ginger Baker. Watch that video and you will see how far a drummer can go - for the song. Because he has to. That is real drumming.

Tales From The Sticks - Part One

I promised to write more about sticks. Those not interested in drumming should look away now...

Without sticks, you are generally in some difficulty. Yes, you can play with your hands. And even though John Bonham was known to do it, it doesn't really look so cool...

Drummers love sticks. Some of them spend a lifetime looking for the right ones.

To me, Vic Firth American Classic 7As are perfection. But the more you play, the more sticks you have to buy. Like everything else, they don't last forever...

I called in to a shop in London just to buy a couple of pairs, and inevitably got talking about drums. This is, of course, the main reason for visiting drum stores, to look at drums and to discuss them in fine detail.

I asked what the drummer who used to run the shop was doing now. "Spending more time with his wife," I was told bluntly. "Something he should have done 10 years ago."

The ensuing conversation focused on the links between drumming, divorce and self-destruction. The chap now running the store, previously a full-time professional drummer, had been through his divorce some time back. Gigging every night, even though it was to pay the bills, hadn't gone down well at home. "She knew I was a drummer when we married, but... "

I said I knew it was rare to find a partner who understood about drumming, gigging, being in a band.

He said: "If it's any consolation, just about every full-time musician playing in the West End is divorced."

The conversation turned to drink and drugs (the time-honoured ways of the musician to deal with stresses of all sorts), and in particular to Phil Seamen (the man from whom Ginger Baker got a lot of his Ginger Bakeriness). We had both seen him play.

Seamen dealt with the strains by using cigarettes, alcohol and heroin. He died at 46, having made a name for himself as a drumming genius... but a walking disaster area.

I took my two pairs of sticks, thanked the man in the shop. And we wished each other well in keeping on going...