The Little Drummer Boy

Before the Christmas Party

I don’t usually go to these all-musician gigs. They’re usually boring, people talking about the same old things. How close they once came to fame. How many famous musicians they have met. That kind of thing. And you usually don’t see many drummers at these kinds of gigs, either. There are far too many drummer jokes, and we kind of feel picked on when we are outnumbered. “What do you call a drummer who breaks up with his girlfriend? Homeless.” “Did you hear about the drummer who locked himself in his car and couldn’t get out?” “How can you tell when a drummer is knocking at your door? He speeds up and slows down.” “Why do they call it a ‘drum solo’, because everyone leaves once it has started.”

But I have to go to this Christmas party, even though I might be forced to sing “The Little Drummer Boy”. My old band broke up after 30 years together. Our bass player died, our guitarist got severe arthritis in both of his hands, and the singer left for a more popular band. Now it’s just me. There is got to be someone at this gig that needs a drummer, or knows a band that is looking for a drummer. There’s just got to be. The kids still live with us, and we need the money. Teaching drumming does not earn enough.

The party is being thrown by a big agent/promoter, one of the wealthiest in the business, so I feel privileged to have been asked, even though it was a generic e-mail probably put together by one of his minions. There are rumours that he is shopping around for a band, or putting one together, or beefing up one of his bands already doing fine, but needing someone new. That means that there will be a lot of people there making their presence known.

Although pretty much everyone will be playing at some time during the night, no one is allowed to bring their own instruments to the party. I like not having to cart my drum set around, but I will be bringing my sticks. I suspect the only sticks that they will have there will be skinny, light-weight plastic or nylon ones, or, at best hickory sticks thin like long toothpicks. Although I am quite short, I have big hands, and I need thick sticks. And I prefer harder wood than hickory, preferably maple or oak.

I’ll be wearing my fancy drummer’s jacket. It has a long thick pocket that reaches down the center of my back from my shoulders to most of the way down to my butt. It’s kind of like a quiver for drumsticks. My wife Alicia sewed it onto the jacket. She’s a whiz with the sewing machine, having made some of our kids’ clothing when they were growing up and we could not afford much that was new. 

The Christmas Party

I go to the party alone. Alicia has to take care of our grandson. She is not too keen on these gigs either, but regrets that she cannot be there to support me when I am going to spend much of the evening selling myself.

           The guy’s house is huge, about as big as all the houses put together on our dead end street. In another country you would call it a castle. I am a little late, as I wanted to spend at least a little time with our grandson. That means that I had to park almost a mile away from the place. I am really glad that I didn’t have to bring my kit.

           As I approach the house on foot, I hear some guys playing already. I feel a little overwhelmed when I enter the house/castle. This is much fancier than any place I have ever played. I am just a little drummer boy looking for a long term gig. That’s how I feel. Where’s the bar?

           I start talking with some guys at the bar, all from the same band. I want to ask them whether they know any bands looking for an experienced drummer, but I feel that I should give it a little time and a few more drinks. These guys are pretty much as dazzled by the whole experience as I am. They came for possible opportunities as well. And the free drinks are nice.

           There’s our host walking towards the stage. He would only look more like a fat cat if he had grown whiskers that stuck out of the sides of his mouth and a tail. The keyboard player of the band on the stage plays the first few bars of Hail to the Chief. All of us with free drinks in hand and hopes for some gigs, promotional assistance or a recording contract turn towards him as he nears the microphone.

Then Suddenly

Then suddenly it happens. Our host is but a few feet away from the stage. Then a large man wearing a black mask rushes towards him, something I don’t immediately see as suspicious after the covid-19 days. He grabs our host by the shoulder and spins him around. Then he points a gun to his head. He yells out, “Give me your wallet, or I’ll shoot you, and take it off of your dead body.  Behind the man in a mask is another thug so dressed, and also so armed, his gun on the ready for any resistance from the crowd. A tsunami of silence empties the room of sound.

           One common trait of many a drummer is fast reflexes. Quicker than I believe I can think, my hands reach back into my drumstick-holding quiver. Both hands retrieve the thickest, hardest sticks that I own. With the practice of throwing many a snowball, my children know to be careful the day of the first big snowfall of winter, and tossing to safety many a stick broken on the sharp edge of a cymbal, I throw one of the drumsticks at the face of the second man. It strikes him in the eye. He drops his gun, and falls to the floor, reaching for his injured eye. 

           The man holding the host is not prepared for my second move. I strike as hard as a cymbal crash on his right wrist with the other thick maple stick. Then I grab him by the lapels of his fancy suit, and with my other hand put the tip of the stick into the opening of his left nostril, threatening to stick it up so high it will pierce his brain. Like the large man I am accosting, I believe that to be truly scary with a threat, you must make it one that the victim can picture and suffer from before it even happens.

           My new friends at the bar rush in to support me. Our host is rescued. And the guy on the keyboards begins playing “We are the champions” by Queen.

Aftermath

The police are called. The bad guys are arrested. Our host walks up to the microphone on the stage, and publicly thanks me for what I have done. He asks me what the name of my band is, so that he can get the supposed ‘us’ some gigs. He beckons me to the microphone. I tell the crowd that I studied the percussive martial arts after playing at many a sleazy dive. While I have them laughing and on my side, I tell them my sad story about being in the same band for 30 years, only to be currently ‘bandless’. 

Now coincidences do exist. Why do you think that the name of the drummer for Z. Z. Top has the last name of Beard, even though he does not sport one himself? One of the boys that I had been drinking with walks up to the stage and tells me that they are looking for and have now found a drummer. That puts me in such a good mood that I declare into the microphone, “As a drummer, these are the only lyrics for a Christmas song that I can ever remember ……pa rum-pum-pum-pum.” With those few words, I leave the stage to join with the boys of my new band, a band with a future