Stupid 64th Note

I still don’t understand why everyone thinks he’s so good. I can see him in the corner of my eye surrounded by dozens of people. It’s mind boggling when you think about it; just because the guy has won so many competitions he’s automatically placed on a pedestal for everyone to worship. Well, that’s about to change, the attention, the admiration, it’ll be mine after today. The past few weeks practice has been intense. My instructor, John, constantly has been pushing me to my limits. My fingers still covered in blisters, well, just my index fingers. But still, my index fingers are very important. The repetitive motion of a wooden stick vibrating at 160 beats per minute (bpm) needs to be controlled somehow. That’s all I can think about right now, standing in the open stadium. Granted, it’s a high school gymnasium, but for the moment it’s my stadium.

The bleachers are packed tightly next to one another, filled with excited fans. They all came for a show and they got one. Our Drum Corps, Rage was the main attraction. We performed magnificently. For the eleven minutes that we played marching around in tight formations while the color guard danced around with their vibrant flags waving through the air we captivated the audience. Even though we’re thirty unique drummers, each with our own style and technique, we were one for those eleven minutes. No one missed a note or a footing. Coming off a win I should be excited and happy, but I’ll be honest that’s not my main focus today. Today was finals and our season would come to an end at the conclusion of this day. But with finals comes the opportunity to participate in Individuals, a moment where each performer will be recognized as a unique and talented player, instead of being seen as part of the drum line. Mark Iovino, Rage’s poster boy snare drummer had already gone. Per the usual, he exceeded everyone’s expectations with his typical flair. It was hard to view it as anything other than boastful arrogance expressed through showboating. I mean seriously, just because you’re able to extend your right stick around your back and hit the ivory head of the snare from underneath your left arm, all while not missing a beat doesn’t mean you deserve to be placed on a pedestal of glory.

I’m supposed to start soon, five minutes to be exact. All I’m able to think about is Mark’s performance. As expected he filled the audience’s ears with double paradiddles, seven-stroke rolls along with hard-hitting sixty-fourth notes. But the way I see it, it’s not that hard. The man’s doing all of this on one drum, one drum is nothing; I work with six. I’m a tenor player, which means I play on six different drums all connected together. Did I mention they’re heavy? Because, they’re pretty damn heavy, the harness has this annoying habit of pushing into your shoulder blades from the weight. It’s not exactly comfortable. Two of the six drums are six inches in diameter and they’re located just under the harness. At a speed of 160 bpm, it can be pretty difficult to hit them without smacking the edge of the stick against the rim. I’ll agree that Mark is talented, but that being said, can he do what he did on six drums, without scratching a rim or missing a beat? I think not.

The lights begin to shine brightly in my face; the abrupt change in vibrancy quickly hurts my eyes, making them cringe. They are quickly shielded as I position my right arm up against my forehead. I can slightly make out what appears to be my parents in the front row, glaring back at me with their camcorder. That feeling takes over my body once again, a frigid torrent of fear spreads across my arms and back. The slight tensing up of my nerves remind me that the next few minutes are going to be the longest I’ve had to endure in a long time. Sweat slowly rolls out from my pores, cold and hot at the same time, that can’t be good.

My tenors are already waiting for my arrival. My instrument has been set up for me in the middle of the glossy wooden floor. My mind can’t help but wander in an attempt to calm my nerves. I can see mark still surrounded by spectators, fellow players and instructors alike. They’re praising him again, as if he was some sort of drumming God. He’s so arrogant that he can’t even take the time to watch me now that it’s my turn, like I’m not worthy of his attention. I’ll allow him bask in his glory for now, I guarantee once he hears me playing, he’ll have no other choice but to look my way. Without even realizing it, I was in front of my drums; this was the moment of truth, the moment where I’d entertain the hundreds of people who came to watch.

My stadium became quiet, even the crickets outside managed to shut up for once. It truly had become my time now. The official nodded to me, it meant I was able to start. Suddenly all my inhibitions faded once my fingers wrapped around the lower edge of the Pearl endorsed stick. For a brief moment, five seconds I think, I shut my eyes, quickly going over what my routine would consist of. With a final deep breath I became focused and determined. Next thing I knew, I started. My fingers began to apply slight pressure to the sticks while my arms moved in subtle motions across the covered layout of my drums. I started out slow and soft at a pianissimo level, the tips of my sticks hitting the heads of each tuned drum making a rhythmic beat. With each bar of music that passed, my body eased up. My arms, wrists and fingers started to move with more grace and fluidity. I knew I could go faster now, and so I did. My fingers vibrated quickly, causing my sticks to bounce off the head of the drum. In small increments I moved to a more fortissimo level at greater speeds. I hit 160 bpm, I could feel it, and I knew I could go faster. My double paradiddles and other rudiments were on point, never sounding cleaner in my life. I soon reached the most exciting part of my routine. I began to play rapid sixty-fourth notes across all the drums. The sound and melody that it made was audibly pleasing.

Mark was able to play behind his back on one drum and the audience loved it. I knew I could play from behind my back as well, but with six drums at my disposal. My right hand moved away from the playing surface, I arched my arm around the lower curves of my back. The adrenaline was pumping vastly through my body; nothing was going to stop me now. Just as my right stick hit the fourteen-inch drumhead on my left my left hand missed the next beat. That one beat, the one sixty-fourth note screwed up my rhythm, it wasn’t something I couldn’t fix, but I knew it would affect my overall score. I was taught to never cringe at a mistake. Once you do that, the mistake becomes even more obvious, creating a snowball effect that you would struggle to come back from.  So I kept playing and managed to finish up my routine. With the final strike of my sticks hitting the drums simultaneously the crowd roared with applause. It was hard not to smile, to stay at attention like a professional drummer would do. What surprised me the most though was that Mark was standing directly in front of me, his hands colliding together in a rhythmic beat.

I left the floor only for Mark to come running up to me enthusiastically.

“Hey! That was amazing man. I don’t think I could ever pull that off on anything else but my snare.”

I began to chuckle, I had to admit I never expected Mark to say something like that to me before.

“Thanks, but I screwed up during the behind the back routine.”

“Come on, do you honestly think the audience cares about one note? Anyway, I really think we should do a double’s competition. Think about it, you and me? We’d be unstoppable!” I was still in shock over the sudden burst in enthusiasm.

“Yeah…that could be fun,” I replied. It’s funny; this person never said one word to me before today. I look over my shoulders as the scores for the Individual Tenors competition is shown. I came in second with a score of 93.8. I don’t even care who came in first; all that matters to me is that I came in second because of that stupid sixty-fourth note. But even that doesn’t really matter to me anymore, he finally acknowledged me.