New tricks on old Trixon

It’s Tom, the bassist, my old bandmate and a cancer survivor. He’s just moved back to San Diego from New York, and I haven’t seen him in years.

“I sold my drums,” I say. “I’ve got drums you can play. Just come over. It’ll be fun.”

Damn, no excuses. When I was 14, one of my favorite songs was “I Can’t Cope” by an obscure Irish punk band called Protex. I liked to shout along with the part that went, “I don’t want to be alive / when I’m 25!” Who could even think that far in the future? Play drums in a band when I’m 45? Never!

Keith Moon, who drowned in a penis-shaped, gin-filled swimming pool (forgive me if my history is off—you have Wikipedia, too, you know), seemed much cooler than Charlie Watts, who had digressed from “Satisfaction” to “Emotional Rescue.”

In the punk days, even playing an instrument wasn’t punk enough for me. In my first band, all I did was yell about the things I found annoying: religion, the suburbs, mandatory draft registration, San Diego’s inadequate public-transportation system and my parents insistence that I tuck in my shirt because “we’re going somewhere nice.”

How did the guys in my band find the time to sit alone in their bedrooms figuring out chords? I had German philosophy to read, and thrift-store mirrors to pose in front of, and girls to impress with my knowledge of what was wrong with their record collections.

But then Reagan was elected president and I felt the need to beat something with a stick. A combination of high-fructose corn syrup and access to my drummer’s drums led me to his throne during a smoke break, and soon I was banging along to “I Can’t Cope” on my very own $150 1960s Japanese blue satin flame Majestic drum kit. Boom cack, boom boom cack, aaaand: frenzy! Animal the Muppet had nothing on me.

The do-it-yourselfbut-not-so-very-well aesthetic of the ’80s garage-band revival lent itself to my need to be a rock ’n’ roller without having to “practice” or “be good.” There was apparently a certain charm in bands that sounded brash and primitive and wore tight pants. Suddenly I was on records and big stages, opening up for bands I worshipped, like The Cramps. “Holy shit!” I thought. “Anybody can do this!” I secretly wondered: Would I at some point have to learn to play? That required discipline, patience, dedication: I didn’t have any of those things. So I went out and looked for them.

I discovered blues and then jazz. I hoped that by hanging out with older, skilled drummers, I would acquire their mysterious mojo like rhythm cooties. I so badly wanted to avoid effort in my quest for proficiency that if I’d known where Robert Johnson’s crossroads were located (this was before Wikipedia), I would have gone out there and sold my soul to the Devil—or at least a kidney.

No such luck. All they’d ever do was stick George Lawrence Stone’s Stick Control in my undisciplined paws and tell me to buy a metronome (it’s sort of like an early, analog iPhone app that makes uncomplicated beats— ask your grandma) and practice, practice, practice. Yawn.

I even tried searching for magic drums: From Gretsch to Trixon to Rogers, I sought out vintage kits based on how they looked. But I didn’t know how to tune them or take care of them.

Still, friends kept pushing me to join their bands. I’d learned enough to play some beats, and a drummer with a car instead of a drug problem is always in demand. But since I’d always considered drumming more hobby than profession, I’d never expected it to last.

A few years ago, a young friend said she really wanted to learn drums. She seemed more passionate than I’d ever been. The Gretsch kit was long gone, but the Trixon and Rogers were both languishing in the garage in need of major restoration from having been treated like beat-to-hell shoes you don’t wear anymore but can’t let go of.

I decided to part with the Rogers. This was the kind Charlie Watts played so groovingly on early Stones records. I started reading up and discovered that the tubs were desirable for more than just the champagne sparkle finish: The Rogers, when properly cared for, tuned and played, would sound beautiful.

I spent weeks in the garage, polishing the hoops and tension rods. I put new Ambassador heads on them, learned how to tune them properly and sold them to Amber for half what they’re worth. I figured they deserved to be in the possession of someone who had a relationship with them that was all love and no hate.

Enter Tom. He’d always taken me more seriously than I took myself. He convinces me to show up and play—and something happens: It’s fun!

I bust out an old practice pad, borrow a friend’s Stick Control and start working out on it every day.

Just last week, I picked up a great ’60s Sonor kit and tuned the toms to B minor. Soon, I’ll refurbish my beloved Trixon. It may be too late to become Buddy Rich, but why should I let that stop me from trying?

If I can’t beat drums, I’ll join them so I can beat them.

And if you, too, have wondered whether it’s too late for you to return to or begin that creative endeavor that has always eluded or intrigued you, take my story to heart: It’s not too late.

Write to dak@sdcitybeat.com and editor@sdcitybeat.com