The Best Drum Songs

Blah blah. No drum solos here. Just great tracks by my faves. Sorry, no Neil Peart or Phil Collins. They just don't make the cut. Also, apologies for any shoptalk. You'll figure it out. In no order...

Dave Weckl Band - "Tower '99" - Dave Weckl - A master's master. My favorite "chops" guy. Yes, I am biased because I knew him when he was a student at UB back in the day. I did double drums with him on one tune at a club. I wasn't embarrassed or humiliated. I did attempt to slit my wrists later. Check the song out here.

Lee Michaels - "Do You Know What I mean?" - Bartholomew Eugene Smith-Frost. Yes. Just "Frosty" and Hammond. That's it. And that last fill--one of the best ever. And no toms! Listen here.

The Rascals - "Do You Feel It?" - Dino Danelli - I have written this before, but he was the guy who helped me fall in love with drumming. Check out the snot and swagger. Pundits say Ginger Baker was the first "star" drummer. I say Dino. Period. Nobody played like that back then. Only a handful do now.  Listen here

The Fifth Dimension - "Save the Country" - Hal Blaine - Here's the guy who invented the studio drummer. Listen to how he shifts gears (for the whole band) between syncopation and straight time. I know master drummers who can't pull this off. Oh, this tune wasn't a big hit? Try "Bridge over Troubled Waters" or "California Dreamin'". He has more gold records than anybody. Listen here.

Tower of Power - "Squib Cakes" - David Garibaldi - The guy who taught me funk. See the control--how he lariats this big semi and can make it howl or whisper. Plus a great Hammond flight by original ToP member Chester Thompson. Listen here.

Rickie Lee Jones - "Chuck E's in Love" - Steve Gadd - A glorious, swampy half-time shuffle sidles into full-time in the choruses. And that fill after the breakdown? Jaysus. Listen here.

Sting - "Seven Days" - Vinnie Colaiuta - An exquisite foray into 5/4 time. There are many renowned drummers who could never cop this feel. Civilians, get your minds out of the Maidenform; this is music talk. Listen here.

Steely Dan - "Gaucho" - Jeff Porcaro - Just dig the beautiful dovetailing by all players on this track. That breath on the "and" after 1. And the late JP holds it together with consummate technique, style and nuance. Listen here.  One of two who are not with us anymore (1992). Yes, and there's also that fabulous half-time shuffle on "Rosanna" by Toto.

Yes - "Roundabout" - Bill Bruford - The pioneer of prog rock drumming ... and still the best. I don't think he hits a tom in the entire song. Tons of bottom-feeding, double-bass, paid-by-the-note drummers couldn't carry his stick bag. A star drummer (who has played on multi-platinum albums) once bragged to me, "I've got a sample of Bill Bruford's snare from 'Roundabout'." Listen here.

Aretha Franklin "Rock Steady" - Bernard "Pretty" Purdie - Oh yes. Pushin', shovin', smokin'. With the inimitable Chuck Rainey on bass.  Listen here.

Carly Simon - "Anticipation" - Andy Newmark - A hallmark drummer with tons of credits. And few know his name. Those fills fit the song so well. And no splashy, crashy cymbals, either.  Listen here.

The Beatles "With a Little Help from My Friends" - Ringo Starr - Could've gone with "Ticket to Ride," but here's where Mr. Starkey treats the world to their first taste of Pepper Rolls--those wonderfully syncopated, jaggy fills. Easy to duplicate, sure. But he invented them.  Listen here.

Rod Stewart - "(I Know I'm) Losing You" - Mickey Waller - Nasty, loose, sloppy shit that works splendidly. Just flips, flops and flies, but the wheels never fall off. RiP, Mr. Waller (2008). Listen here

Honorable mention:
The Police - "Roxanne" - Stewart Copeland
Little Feat - "Dixie Chicken" - Richie Hayward (RiP)
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - "Little Wing" - Mitch Mitchell (RiP)
Paul Simon - "50 Ways To Leave Your Lover" - Steve Gadd

(More) New Rules

Yes, I have checked in on this before. Felt like a revisit.

Restaurants will now show actual food as prepared by local employees. Wanna see that Subway sandwich again? I'll bet you don't. Ditto the "sizzling" hot bacon perched on tongs. Nope. Now you have to show Joey Pimply Minimumwage putting the par-cooked "bacon" into the "magic oven."

Ditto Taco Bell. No more flaming grill with a piece of prime steerflesh being tossed on it. Face it, would you ever want to see a TB employee anywhere near an open flame?

On America's Got No Voice Talent (and all its cousins), one judge must actually speak the truth: "Well, Cheyenne, your intonation, in a word, sucks. You're oversinging. Too many notes per syllable. We already have one Mariah Carey, and she sounds like a Manx in a microwave." In fact, get those smug douchenozzles from cooking contests to judge second-rate wedding-band singers. They don't like anything.

Really?

In the NFL, if you score a touchdown and decide to execute a cute little "I'm special" gavotte, the other team should be able to pummel you until you stop prancing. Add NFL: ban all cheerleaders. They: a) do not lead cheers; b) dress like saucy tarts; c) objectify and marginalize women of substance; d) use the oxygen of others. Do I need to mention the half-century-old, Lada Edmund Jr. go-go boots?

In the last month of the NBA season, when a team (home or visitor) sits down a non-injured starter, subtract a dollar from the price of beers for that game.

The following songs are now banned forever. Original artists must ask for permission:

• Wagon Wheel
• Mustang Sally
• Stairway to Heaven
• Sweet Home Alabama
• Wipeout
• Can't You See
• Free Bird
• Anything by Rush

Cowbells, unless strung around the necks of bovines, should be buried in the Enrico Fermi memorial landfill.

Any use of "uber." Especially without the umlaut. Want more?

• eye test
• talking point
• cognitive dissonance
• resonate
• optics

BY THE WAY, PANINI IS PLURAL. ONE EATS A PANINO! YOU ARE AN ALUMNUS OR ALUMNA, NOT AN ALUMNI! LEARN ITALIAN PLURALS!

Enough.

Ban all trophies, ribbons and awards for people under 18. No names on the backs of youth sports unis. And no "Tawnee's Mom" t-shirts allowed for spectating parents. No travel teams for kids. Just let them play.

Sargento cheese. French's mustard. Old El Paso anything. Miracle Whip. To that point, Kraft anything, as well. "Gourmet" pet food. Beer with fruit flavors. Any pizza with the word "stuffed" in the menu description. Ragu. Wine that tastes like Hi-C. I could go on.

Awards shows: Oscar, Emmy, Grammy, Tony. All others: burned like a Salem wiccan.

TV chefs must not use the word "clean" ever again. Unless they are referring to dirty serving tools. What is "clean" flavor? Something sans botulism?

No more TV series for Emeril. Until his head size goes below 8½. Guy Fieri, just stop, will you?

Okay, I'm done for now. Gonna taste a raviolo.

The Polka Fight

The scene was unpretentious: the Holiday Inn, Bethlehem, PA. Specifically, the bar. Caz, Flyjuice and I were off on a drum corps weekend in Allentown. The Eastern Regionals. Yes, it's a very big deal to fans of this sport.

Germane? Fer sure. On the Friday afternoon before lid-lifter of a two-night gala, corps fans filled the bar, getting in a little pre-game to prep for the alcohol-free competition to follow. Shop talk ruled. As a writer for Drum Corps World, I was approached by various alumni and faithful, all wanting to know my take on the current season. In my role, I was supposed to be objective. Flyjuice held forth to a clot of faithful. He knew little about drum corps, but with some key phrases (supplied by me), he bullshat his way fluently. Then again, Juice could have broken Fedders sales records in Sitka—he was that artful in building edifices out of pure fiction.

Behind the bar, an earnest, youngish man was on the stick. It was evident that he was not accustomed to a full house on an weekday in midafternoon. Nonetheless, he tried, sliding massive cocktails between benign debaters.

A newcomer wedged himself into the conversation. He identified himself as Frank. Short, fortyish, a bit hydrant-y, with muttonchop sideburns and a hint of pompadour.

"Hey, you guys talkin' about drumming? I'm a drummer," said Frank. "I play with the Stash Yankoski Polkabration." Caveat lector: No, I can't remember the exact name of the band, but this is fairly close.

Most of the faithful turned away to hide giggles. People edged away. I felt sorry for the guy.

I explained, "Well, this kind of drumming is quite a bit different than what you're used to." The others returned to a polemic over whether the Chicago Cavaliers would beat Phantom Regiment that evening.

Frank looked puzzled. "How so?"

I said, "These corps are like high-end marching bands. Drum sections can be thirty strong, with snares, multi-toms, tympani, marimbas ..." I trailed off as Frank's brow terraced.

"Do they ever play polkas?"

"Never."

"Oh."

Frank asked, "Do you play drums? Gotta trap set?"

Trap set. Oh boy. Why didn't he ask if I drove a Studebaker? Trust me: polka is the slug of the evolutionary drumming-chain. Give me an afternoon, and I can make a polka drummer out of you.

I tried to divert the topic. Nope. Frank held forth on the groupies he had picked up over the years. Mental images of this induced shudders.

Then, he started in on his own band. As luck would have it, the bartender hovered nearby.

Frank orated, "Stash Yankoski is one of the best. Tellya what, HE HAS THE BEST POLKA BAND EAST A YOUNGSTOWN!"

WHACK!

That sound came from the bartender. In actuality, his bar mop being thwacked, with not insubstantial vigor, on the Formica. All conversation stopped.

The kid's eyes turned to evil slits. His look was feral. And the voice that uttered the next six words was a piercing, malevolent hiss: "He ain't no Jolly Joe Timmer."

The Man

Whoa. The silence was thunderous.

The assailants leaned forward, noses scant inches apart. The barkeep parried: "Jolly Joe has his own grove."

I couldn't exactly fathom what freight this last statement carried, but it caused Frank to back down. Head drooping, he shuffled off sulkily.

As a sigh of relief escaped, we wisely decided, in concert, not to laugh. The bartender went about his business, muttering to himself. The corps chat returned, ramping back to its former level in a gradual crescendo.

Flyjuice couldn't resist. "So Jolly Joe is the man?" he asked the barkeep.

"Yes he is. He's got his own radio station, plus a TV show. My folks were on it." His voice was almost pleading. Juice and I nodded in agreement, which seemed to mollify our server a tad.

Eddie Blazonczyk

He went on. "The Chicago bands are good. You got your Eddie Blazonczyk and the Versatones. They're great. But east of Youngstown? Stash Yankoski? No way. Stanky and the Coal Miners? Not bad. That guy better'd not show his face in here again. Stash Yankoski indeed." He spit out the last words as if they were curses.

In early evening, as we left for the show, we spotted Frank and his bandmates loading up for their gig. A station wagon towed a gaudy trailer. The group wore matching, sad, aquamarine tuxedos the color of a tinkle-infested pool. Cufflinks the size of golf balls. And shirts with enough ruffles to give Jerry Lewis pause. Droopy velour bowties were concealed by hefty jowls.

Frank looked at us furtively. Caz, Juice and I ignored him. "He dissed Jolly Joe," said Flyjuice. We stayed the weekend, never seeing the nervy drummer again.

Jolly Joe Timmer, aged 85, died two weeks ago. But his legend lives on.

I Am a Nazi

"I should of went there alone."

"I could care less."

"I feel nauseous."

"Between you and I, I ain't never eating at Burger Schlock again."

Statements such as these make me cringe. They hurt my ears. Nails on a blackboard; cowbells (especially wielded by female singers, but that is another blog); Helen Reddy.

Yes, according to many, I am a Grammar Nazi. What a terrible appellation. But, since Jerry Seinfeld okayed this n-word, dealing with a portrayal of a nasty Irani soupmaker in Gotham, we take a word from one of the darkest eras of modern history and canonize it.

Fret not, readers. All dozen of you. I will not bring up the myriad errors I hear and read every day. And how to correct them. It's the prevailing attitude toward acceptable English (in America) that irks me.

A real conversation:

Fan: I hear youse guys is making your final debut.
Bandmate: 'Final debut' makes no sense.
Fan: I didn't know we was being so proper.

Language manglers often say, "Well, you know what I mean."

No. I don't know what you mean.

Imagine if we treated other spheres of our lives with such disregard.

Cashier: Lemme see. That's $6.15. Out of ten? Your change is three-somethin'.

Car dealer: That model's gonna run you about 23 grand.

State cop: Lessee, you were doin' around 56 in a 55 zone.

Farmer: That corn? We picked it a couple, two, tree days ago.

Grocer: That mayo's good for a few weeks yet.

Sports: It's second down and four or five yards.

I can tell you firsthand that in Germany, people at the lowest economic stratum speak perfect Deutsch. It is an unpardonable gaffe to err, language-wise. They passed a law (Rechtschreibreform) in 1996 to deal with language inconsistencies.

In France, you've got the Académie française, established in 1635, no less. Ooh, that's right, everything French is wrong (don't get me started on this!). The Real Academia Española governs twenty-one different countries. And don't you dare mess with the Office québécois de la langue française. Those folks are fighting for not just proper language ... but for its preservation.

I recently watched a television program dealing with hobbyists in England. Curious kids flocked to see model trains at an exhibition. Many were interviewed. All of the youngsters had holes in their clothing. They needed grooming, perhaps a good bath. Every one of them spoke exemplary English, with an advanced vocabulary—by American standards, anyway. So there.

No, I don't know how to fix this. I think Trump might opt for a mullet before we start speaking and writing better.

Call me a Nazi if you must. I prefer Language Prescriptor.

That's all's I know.

Sometimes I Don't Know What to Feel

Sometimes I don't know what to feel.
Last night I saw a car crush a little dog under its wheel.
It did not even stop;
It just sped off and out of sight.

-Todd Rundgren

<><><>

Yes, I copped some Todd lyrics for today's rant. They are from his remarkable album, A Wizard, A True Star. To which I still listen. Which record (did I say that?) is 42 years old. And why Mr. Rundgren isn't in the Rock Hall is beyond me ... never mind; I digress.

But sometimes I don't know what to feel.

I know I'm lousy at shared grief. Especially when a celebrity dies. My sole exception is the late Phil Hartman. But he was my friend.

A race-car driver in a fiery demise. A guy on a snowmobile, doing something snowmobiles weren't meant to do. A rock star OD's. Yes, I feel a little down if I liked the music. But, in general, I can't get worked up.

Pets die. Pet owners are devastated. Especially women who own cats. I once had cats. I am not averse to any pet ownership. But when one dies, what? I can express my condolences but little else. Once, I made the mistake of saying to a quasi-girlfriend, "If you were half as nice to me as you are to your dog, I'd be happy." That got me excommunicated.

I don't want or need to own a gun. Most of my friends here in Pennsy have firearms. I don't think they should have to give up their weapons. But when some get offended about any talk of gun control, I stop listening. This doesn't make me dislike them. Now, I once a heard a guy (a non-friend) remark, "President Osama [that's what he said] is coming to take away my guns." I wasn't offended. It just convinced me that the speaker was a mouth-breathing douchebag,

Sometimes I don't know what to feel.

I feel for people who think the singers on American Got Idol Talent are tremendous. I feel for contestants on cooking contests who have to make a meal out of pomegranates, lovage, suet and Reese's Pieces. And I feel nothing but odium for the smug celebrity judges who make said cooks feel like dog-do.

When Ted Cruz, a candidate to run this country, said, "The problem with climate change is there's never been a day in the history of the world in which the climate is not changing," I didn't know what to feel.

When people nowadays say, "I love you," it carries tissue-thin meaning. The phrase is bandied about so much, it has lost its depth.

I know how I feel when I'm drumming. I feel marvelous. There's that.

I don't know I feel about America. I don't think we are necessarily the best country in the world. I realize this is an unpopular statement. But when people say, "You don't like it here? Move somewhere else," that is just moronic.

Then again, if Ted Cruz gets elected ...

The Edge

Dear Dozen Readers: I am going to try to post every day I have my son with me. He arrived on Saturday, and we are once again bonded. To celebrate, pithy scribblings every day for the ensuing three weeks. Please check back daily and feel free to chastise me if I err or otherwise offend.

I've been noticing it more often these days. People with The Edge. Self-celebrators, chest thumpers, posters of awards, trophies and gewgaws.

I wish they'd get over it.

It's that too-firm handshake, that self-absorbed grin, that tight look. They say: I'm someone special and you should be glad to bask in my glow.

I encountered this, in memorable fashion, at a drum corps event. It's a very specific sport--an art form really. Sorta like marching bands on steroids. They compete on a football field. I sat near a guy who looked a little bewildered, possibly a first-timer. I politely asked if I could help him, and he posed some cogent questions.

Then I dared posit, "What brought you to drum corps?"

Then he said it. Four simple words. Syllables that carried massive gravitas. Rife with The Edge.

"I work for Disney."

As in: "I work for Disney. And you do not, you limp excuse for a human. You are an inbred, mouth-breathing commoner, unfit to share my planet. Kiss my ring. Now.

I moved my seat before I said, "Whuppty-do, you douchenozzle."

Okay, your kid's an honor student. She made the travel soccer team (don't even get me going on that). Your pets are adorable. I'm glad you clipped your nails. Oh, you're a veteran--swell. Lost eight pounds? You still weigh close to three spins.

It's one thing to say: "I had a great time at Joe's picnic." But, adding The Edge, it comes out more like, "I made the best ribs in the world for Joe's picnic."

People with The Edge are also easily annoyed. They view life as through a backwards telescope. Everything revolves around them, for they are entombed in the rosy amber of their own narrow worldview. The phrase "the common good" is an empty, wan concept.

These are the antithesis of then Nike slogan. They  just don't do it. But they talk about it. Ad nauseam.

Their jobs are Very Important. I knew one such Edgy asshat who thought that his executive-type job was akin to that of an omnipotent despot. He once told me how he wished he had a bedchamber at work so that he didn't have to leave. He droned. He had the personality of a toaster. When he finally married, I was astonished. A few months later, I asked him about potential wedded bliss. He said, curtly, "We're focused and motivated."

Whither humility, graciousness, authenticity?

I still haven't found what I'm looking for. But I continue pushing that rock up the hill. It takes The Edges off.