I didn't have the fore-thought to take my own pictures so, like I do, I "borrowed" this photo from Google. I'll give em credit, I always do. Thanks davidstover.com. So, while I don't know anyone in this photo, the vision you see is similar to what I see. Actually, with the exception of the arsses belonging to someone else, this is exactly what I see. And most if not all drummers will tell you, its rather hum-drum, this vision.
Note worthy highlights will appear from time to time but may only be significant to players involved. Heady, sometimes dramatic (usually taking place within the mind of any one particular player), insider stuff that takes place behind the scenes.
On this night, the players: Jack - guitars/vocals/a little bass, Dave - guitar/vocals/a little bass and Denny - keyboards/vocals/ and a little bass and Todd - drums/no vocals/no bass what-so-ever, "headlined" the Moose in Fremont this past Saturday night.
In this setting, there is no rehearsal. Thats because the players are, or should be, seasoned enough to fly by the seat of their pants. If all or some have not joined in by say the 8th bar, the song could very well take on a life of its own, and usually does, as we can easily right that off as, "buzz off, it's our interpretation."
Sometimes, when ending a song incorrectly or shall I say, at the wrong time, certain players give certain other players a look of disdain as in "Boy, you really effed that up." And yes, it was effed up, but then, we didn't rehearse now did we? Only to be acknowledged in return with a "why did you pick that song in the first place you infant bastard." Hardy guffaws ensue.
Sadly, with no real bass player in the house, the rhythm section was doing its best to fall into only sporadic grooves. A little here, a little there. Cue sera, sera.
At the end of the evening, I, the drummer, was asked to take less of my fee, as I had not proved reliable when it came to ending songs at the appropriate time. And yes it's true, through the years, i've been relegated to a bench player, 3rd string even. But it's been my own doing you see, the calibre of players is no longer what it used to be and one must put up with vain, aging drival from the remaining horses left to wander the pasture. As I stood up to leave for the evening, I took the hit to the pocketbook like the professional that I am and spoke these last words: "Yeah, well your bass playing is, is, sub-par."
The level of the playing field was once again even.
