Kik drum rebound...

September 9^th – Apart from the obvious, like hearing a hepped-up version of an established album track or, in the case of Bob Dylan, hearing a whole new take on his previous folksy-acoustic work (much to the great chagrin of many in the audience) the joy of going to watch a live gig is the scent of anything can happen in the air. Like the time I saw SUM 41 in…Nottingham, I think, can’t remember when either. But I’ll bet the audience member who, when Deryck Whibley, (their lead vocalist and second guitarist) asked if he could play the guitar said;

Yes

Remembers every detail. Next thing he knew he was up on stage and running through a quick check of All Messed Up with a spare guitar before playing the number alongside the band for the assembled masses. Excellent. Or the time I saw Joe Cocker at the Cattle Sheds in Stafford; he came on to about 250 of us (the place holds about 2,500) obviously pissed and gave a Class ‘A’ gig…Class ‘A’.

Other gig night’s to remember include inflatable props floating off into the wide blue (Pink Floyd) a surfeit of pigeon shit (Kings of Leon) and the on-stage murder of the lead guitarist (Damageplan); this latter example is, I’ll admit, a little extreme. These are all things beyond the band’s control. However, there are live events bands still make a hash of, no matter how many times they’ve done it; like today’s choice specimen. T’was on this day in 1992, that Nirvana bassist Krist Novoselic, during a live, televised performance at the MTV Video Music Awards, threw his guitar into the air at the culmination of the song; he tried to catch it with his usual flourish, missed it completely and took the full force of the sold-wooden body on his head. Difficult to look cool after that and in front of millions of viewers, but he soldiered bravely on, bless. Well, to prove I’m not a gloater and that it can happen in the best of bands and at all levels, I offer up the following, true tale.

The Image was a band I was drummer for back in the mid-late 60’s. Decent outfit, always employed and gaining a reputation as having a half-decent stage show to go with our outlandish stage clothes and tight set and trousers. Don’t remember the venue, possibly the Hen and Chickens on the Birmingham New Road…? Not sure. Anyhow, unimportant, what was important was that it was the first night our vocalist had been entrusted with a guitar. See, he’d been whinging at our lead guitarist (a real guitar lover; not only playing them, I mean collecting them and… just…holding them; they’re a strange breed, guitarists; not well grounded like drummers are…) he’d been whinging at him for months to let him use one of his collection of guitars as a front for his act. A front? Yup. See, he couldn’t play a guitar, he could do bar chords but that was the extent of his guitar wizardry. That didn’t stop him, however, as he thought it would further his and the band’s image (see what I did there) and this was the line his Olympic level whinging took. After we had joined in with his request against the lead guitarist (not because we sided with our vocalist but because we just wanted him to shut up) it was finally agreed that, the coming Saturday, he would be given a Fender Strat to use which would be tuned to ‘E’ and with which he could pose and strut with; quietly as it wouldn’t be plugged in. The proviso was that he look after the guitar as if his life depended on it (which it would if it got damaged) and this was readily agreed to. I mean, what could possibly go wrong? Thing is, you see, our stage show…well it was quite left-field (one of the reasons we made an impression) and it had an element of risk involved in it, but, as long as the various members stuck to the rehearsed routine all would be fine, had been since we’d been doing it; so; fine.

One of the routines we used to do, last number first half, was for the vocalist to kick in the front skin on my bass drum. To facilitate this and make sure that

a) it broke and

b) no one got injured

we used to put a false skin (grease-proof paper covered with clear sticky-back-plastic…very Blue Peter) on it which, when it was cannoned in by a flying boot looked quite expensive, carefree and dangerous.

I had wanted a second kik drum for quite some time to augment my kit and, on the Friday prior to the gig in question, I managed to gather enough cash together to buy a second-hand Premier 26-inch kik drum in white pearl finish with a real hide skin on back and front that set itself off well against the red-and-blue kit I had at the time, which was also a Premier kit. Loading the van, I was full of the news of the new acquisition which didn’t go down well because I’d sprung it on them and they had to do a complete re-pack in order to accommodate it which, considering the difference it would make to the back-line sound, I thought was pretty shitty of them, moaning about it like that. I also drew attention to the fact that the extra guitar was also taking up space, space that could have been given over to someone who could at least play the bloody instrument we were being asked to tote around. It fell on deaf ears (and empty heads). No matter; off to the gig.

Band set up and rockin’ some five hours later, our vocalist now well into his element, was thinking himself a dead ringer for Stevie Marriot (Small Faces) or Chris Farlowe (Thunderbirds…not as in …are go but as in Chris Farlowe and the Thnderbirds); in looks he was, but in guitar talent he wasn’t, he wasn’t. What he was doing with more arrogance than his usual level of arrogance, which was usually sufficient to power a small rocket, was struttin’ his stuff, faking to be on the cusp of the blow-job solo in front of the girls who’d gathered at the front of the stage. So engrossed with his own self was he that, when the drum-breaking section arrived, it caught him off guard. Turning swiftly he was faced with a startling sight; two bass drums and you could see the cogs whirring. Which one to demolish? The right one. How to do it? Kick it in, as usual. Right. The guitar, slung low on the strap, would impinge on his kick. Not gonna be enough strength in it…make it and him look girlie… I know, use the guitar head.

He swung the guitar back on the strap and plunged it into the head of the kik drum.

The wrong one. Should’ve been the left one.

The stretched-taut hide dented inwards as the head of the guitar lunged into it…then it snapped back like a well-tested trampoline and sent our vocalist stumbling backwards onto his mic. stand and onto his arse…the kik drum was almost smiling at him; certainly the bass player and I were. Red was the colour. Up he gets, slings back the guitar and takes a run at it. Whack! Straight through the skin! His face was wreathed in smiles at his success which abruptly changed as he withdrew the guitar head only to watch the tuning head flop off at the neck and swing gracefully on the end of the strings. No smiles now…not from lead guitarist and vocalist; both stunned at the outcome but for completely different reasons. They fumbled their way through to the end of the number, even more difficult for our vocalist to look cool now with a shattered guitar in his hand; less like Stevie Marriot, more like Pluto.

Our lead guitarist, on the other hand, was beside himself with an interesting mixture of grief and rage, like he’d got the winning lottery ticket but had accidentally flushed it down the loo. OK, I say, I'll resolve to try and mediate during the interval, use my intellect and negotiating skills in order to diffuse the situation and keep one or other of them from storming out. When the debrief came it was an interesting one. Tears and rage in equal measure. Our vocalist blamed me; I told him he was a fuck-wit of the first order. The lead guitarist blamed our vocalist AND me: I told the lead guitarist if brains were shit he’d be constipated. Then they ganged up and both blamed me for springing the drum on them in the first place. I told them they weren’t worth a bucket of pig-wank and that they should both grow up. That’s trouble-shooting drummer-style.