Addison Road

So, you’re a worship drummer, let’s say.  You’re rokken like Stryper with your bible hangin’ out of your khakis, if you know what I mean.  You’re there in that drummer crouch, working that hi-hat and snare.  Your food is a lead anvil, saying here’s the pocket, boys, come and get it.  The band’s together, the people are gathered and singing, and all is well.

And then it happens:  you get bored.  You think to yourself, “Self, this last chorus needs a shot in the arm.  Hang on boys, ’cause daddy’s gonna pivot right.”

I watch you go for it, your spine goes straight and you make your reach.  Away goes the tight, focused snare, and the well-placed, fat kick, and away goes the musically appropriate hi-hat subdivision and in it’s place we, your aural captives, hear this:

CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!! CLANG!!!!

The snare starts to meander!  The kick rushes and sometimes just isn’t there at all!  The rhythm guitar players begin to dig harder, searching for the pulse, having vague memories of where it went.  The bass player starts to stomp his right foot on the ground in a physical reaction to groove dissapation.  The worship leader’s face begins to constrict, brow furrowed, eyes squinty.

Amateur drummers of the world:  the ride cymbal is not your friend.  She is a siren.  She is a temptress who leads you astray.  She’s a heartless mistress who hates all things groovy.  Shun her.  Shuuuuuuuuun!