Bits n’ Pieces
March 10th, 2009This is a follow up to an earlier post, called “The Next Move.” I wanted a share a few things that helped me attain some goals over the years. None of this is meant to imply that I’m any big screaming deal. I’m not. I’m just hoping the thought process helps somebody.
If you read “The Next Move” post, you might recall how I mentioned a few other interests, like music and stock car driving. Let’s start with music as a quick example of what I did to get where I wanted to be with it, at the time.
First off, I needed to get all pissed off before elevating my own skills to the next level. Ya see, I was a good drummer, and I was content to be good. Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom. Then, I met some egomaniac in high school that was the best freaking drummer anyone had seen in thier lives.
I hated him and admired him instantly. He wasn’t just good. He was blindingly fast, technically proficient. To describe him as a rock star was inadequate.
Man, was I pissed off. There’s nothing like thinking you’re hot stuff and then finding out you suck, compared to somebody with real talent.
I rolled up my sleeves and practiced harder. I studied drummers and styles from Buddy Rich to Neil Peart and everything in between. And I studied Steve’s style, the guy who was pissing me off.
For two years in high school I closed the gap. We ended up in the same state-level competitive circles. We were both in every music program the school had to offer. Marching band, jazz band, pep band, symphonic band…hell, I took him on for the swing choir rythym section, just to give him headaches. I’ll admit plainly he was the better drummer, but I wasn’t having any trouble landing gigs.
Still, I was the pissed off drummer. I needed a breakout performance. I played with technical proficiency, speed, and catchy rythyms, just like he did. But when it came to drum set solos, Steve sat back, put on the cruise control, and hammered out something so damn fast and strong you felt shell-shocked. When I had the solos, I teased the audience with a simple beat, then built it up, added a layer or two…and then suddenly I’d blow it open. It was like watching 4th-of-july bottle rockets become artillery blasts. I knew I’d accomplished something, when after one auditorium solo, I stopped drumming abruptly – as planned – but the echoes of the last few seconds of play reverberated around the auditorium and hung there. The sound went deep. A friend in the audience told me that the sound seemed to go through his body, through his chair, and then he could hear it down the hall behind him. The crowd, as they say, went wild.
I’d finally won Steve’s respect. No easy task. Later that same year, we did a dueling drum solo. He was still better than me, but my own style was nothing to sneeze at. I remember Steve trying to duplicate the push-through echo…and not getting it. It was simple, he was drumming so damn fast and loud that there was no real distinction in tone at those decibles. It sounded like a dozen machine guns going off in an oil drum. Impressive, but it wasn’t the same impact as a solo that the audience could follow along and go, “yeah…yeah…YEAH!! Those were my solos. I took people with me.
But if it hadn’t been for Steve, I would have never developed the kind of style and sheer passion for drumming that I did. I needed a rival to goad me to the next level. I needed a REASON to improve.
I owe everything I accomplished musically to that jerk, and yes, we became friends. As fate would have it, he went off to a Big 10 college on a musical scholarship, studied engineering, got a job, and last I’d heard, hadn’t picked up the sticks ever since. That’s life, eh?
On to the next example. Stock car driving. Oh yeah, I wanted to do this. I was lucky enough to grow up in a rural area were race tracks were still common. There were three of them in a 10 mile radius plus a NASCAR track about 30 minutes north. I had a cousin who did fill-in driving for a buddy on the local dirt oval, and yeah, he could line up a chance for me to drive.
But I had to study. Ok, kewl. The first opportunity to race was going to be in a winged sprint. Or, super-modified, they were called. Basically it’s an oversized go-kart with big aluminum wings. It’s like driving a beer can strapped to a cruise missle.
I’ll never forget my cousin telling me this piece of advice. “When you lose control , and everybody driving these eventually loses control….remember to shut your eyes as hard as you can. Squeeze them shut. Otherwise your eyeballs can pop right out of your skull from the velocity at impact. The roll cage should keep you alive if your neck doesn’t break, so make sure the seat belt is tight. You need a good helmet too, because the best fire suit is only good for 13 seconds, and if you’re unconcious you won’t be able to release the harness and get out.”
I remember doing the math on the frequency and severity of the accidents I’d seen at this bullring of a race track. I was no coward, but I was no longer sure if I wanted to experience the flip side, pardon the expression, of sprint car driving. I told my cousin I’d look at getting the fire suit and helmet and all that. Well, those weren’t cheap, I’ll tell ya. Mercifully, I was broke enough that I was able to back down using the financial excuse without showing the fresh streak of yellow down my back.
That didn’t stop me, though, from taking the Impala out on a couple of race tracks, on basically what amounted to Amateur Night, “Run What Ya Brung.” When the Impala got an electrical fire in the pit area on the last occassion, the smoke poured out of the dashboard so thick and fast, that I barely had time to register what the hell was going on. Had that happened five minutes later on the track, I would have lost all visibility and I would have hit the wall, at the least. Sans fire suit, since this was Redneck Idiot night and all you needed to drive on the track, was a signed waiver of liability and they’d loan you a helmet.
So another part of examining your dreams close up, is being keenly aware of any downsides. And making sure you’re prepared, in case you encounter them.
They put out the electrical fire in the Impala pretty quick, by the way. Ya know, I’d gotten out of the car so fast, I didn’t even conciously know how I did it. It’s like one minute I was in the car and there was smoke all over the place, the next moment I was a safe distance away. I’d moved so fast, for a second I wondered if I’d left my body in the car.
Awright, this was supposted to be informative and I just sat here and told ya stories. I’ll try and put some actual useful information on my next post. Or maybe I’ll revisit other favorite blog topics, like sex and money. Never know, do ya!
When I was a kid, I had an uncle who was the fire chief of a rural, volunteer fire department. This was the kind of fire deparment that had cans of beer in the soda vending machine. Yep, instead of Coke, Orange Crush and Diet, they had Miller, Bud, and Pabst. Despite the kicking back and hangin’ out at the ol’ firehouse, when the siren went off, these guys were all business.
