The drums are the secret. I think we all suspected as much, but we never said so. A good drummer makes all the difference, pretending not to matter. These are the intangibles, the real keys. I remember David's guitar was slung to just the right length, and he moved with it like every concert you've ever imagined. He could stand like a rock star, with that look that says your mind is anywhere but here; it's looking in or peering out, but it doesn't even notice this place. This looks belies your hypersensitivity to every moment on the stage, the way every face turned toward you burns into your brain forever.
Paul played the bass and I played the fool. We lived, those days, in our own youth. We were changing the world with the same four chords everybody uses, with intermediate skills, with beginner's luck. We tried to build art from our collective lack of craft. We were hiding behind each other, except for the drummer. He took our intentions, our aspiration, and made them sound like music. If you closed your eyes, you could feel him doing something real, beating a story from his skin.
If I could have anything back, I'd have that drum playing behind me again. Ba boom. Ba boom. Ba boom. It would make all the difference.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
P. S. - Aphter: 56. Thanks for stopping by.
