The 9 Main Rules Of Playing Drums
(And Writing)

I’ve played a lot — with really professional musicians, with really unprofessional musicians. With the unprofessionals, I get frustrated. They’re late to the gig, aren’t prepared, want to talk a lot. Of all things I hate, they waste my time. They ruin the most sacred practice in my life: making music. Writers do it, too.

Can’t speak to other musicians. But, for drummers: apply these now.

1.) Tools Matter
What you come with to a gig is half the battle: and I don’t just mean remembering to pack the extra snare or the extra heads. What are you working with? What quality of drums and cymbals are you playing, and have you worked the part-time, night shifts long enough to pay for the quality of equipment you need to gig with? Have you equipped yourself with every conceivable tool (stick type, drum size, drum key, metronome, ear monitor, timbales) you need to suit the gig? A good drummer utilized about 3% of what they have behind the curtain — or back at the parking lot in their car trunk….

And damn you if that 1% you left at home was exactly what the tune needed.

By this, I mean strategy: in writing, you need to be comfortable with genre conventions, with an awareness of how to connect with an audience. You have tools to do this: analytic reading, genre awareness, analyzing information quickly and efficiently so you’ll know how to write about it. You don’t learn this stuff on the spot, but you learn it through countless hours of your own time practicing, preparing. How many hours have you spent on the night shift of writing, saving up your money, needing to have the right tools?

2.) Your Hands Matter Even More
A drummer is only as good as his or her hands. Too many times I’ve seen kiddos show up with gear that costs thousands of dollars more than mine. Yet, you see immediately that they don’t deserve to play them. It’s daddy’s money. And daddy can’t pay for the hours it takes to learn how to play. That’s your responsibility to earn the gear.

In writing, I see this as the kind of person who can talk all day about the novel they’re working on, the book they’re writing, all the ideas that they have(!). I Do Not Care. I care that you show up with the work in hand. Don’t want to hear about the practice, the late nights, the tedium, the problems you need to figure out. Solve them. Show the product.

3.) Show Up on Time
A punctual player is a player I (initially) trust. Show up on time. Better yet, show up before the gig and be ready to go on the downbeat. Waiting around before the gig is good quality.

What I dislike is a writer who needs too much time to “get ready to write,” someone who hasn’t done the research, needs to wait on juju, who shows up late with the research they need once they’ve realized they needed it.

4.) Tune the Drum
When I show up to a gig with my own drums, sometimes the weather has changed the consistency of my kit, or they’ve had to wait too long in the car — warm, expanding the wood; cold, contracting. So I tune the drums. (And I make time enough for this so I’m not tuning when everyone else is ready to go; dear guitarists, tune before the downbeat). And when they’re not my drums, my goal is to leave the gig with the drums sounding as good as possible for the next drummer who plays them — even when I’m done playing. That means retuning the drums after the gig.

Know that, when you touch a piece of writing — drafting, editing, submitting — ten other people will likely have their hands on it before it’s published. If you need to give mile-markers, comments: do it. Give them the best sounding drums they’ve heard — the best writing they could imagine editing. You are only as good as your editor; they don’t make their living polishing excrement. Give them your best.

5.) Chart the Tunes
This could be most important. If you’re showing up and don’t know the exact arrangement of the songs, chart them out beforehand. Come prepared. Know your stuff. And, okay: if you don’t get to hear the songs before the gig, then take your time to listen to the song once without playing. Chart everything out. Write it down. Build a map.

For writing, this means figuring out key points, audience, tone, eventually developing structure, keeping in mind — always — what you’re trying to do through a piece of writing, who you’re trying to help/influence. If you don’t know the chart, you won’t follow. Simple.

6.) Listen Up
First thing after charting: get out of the way and listen. Play what’s most simple. Listen to patterns, how each person is playing. You’ll notice faults and talent immediately — both at the same time — if you’re listening. Pay attention. Figure out how you accent those or play them down. When the bass player just can’t hang, get your right foot going and cover for him. When the guitarist knows his stuff, start letting him take some of the rhythms you would normally play with your grace notes — bow out.

Play to the people you’re working with and writing for. They have strengths and weaknesses both, and your job is to figure out how to cover for, or accentuate. Don’t edit only to your personal tastes — nor write for yourself as a singular audience. Listen to what’s going on around you. Remember you’re a conduit, not the electricity itself.

7.) Don’t Listen Too Much, Though
Remember how much damn time you’ve invested in this — practicing, paying for lessons, looking at your hands and how they move. So play with confidence, play for yourself in the end, and don’t do whatever the hell the bass player thinks would be a cool kick phrasing. You sit in the chair, you make the call. If you do it well enough, they’ll follow suit. If you lose the gig, wasn’t your gig to play.

In writing, confidence is your biggest ally and is the hardest ally to win over. There comes a time when you have to throw your hands in the air and try something new. Innovation breeds a lot of success and a lot of failure — both. What you have to do is pray to the drum (writing) gods that they give you a success. If it’s a failure, you learn from it.

Can’t lose.

8.) Critique the Gig
If you ain’t happy with your playing, doesn’t matter what anyone else has to say. Your momma will always tell you it’s the best drumming she’s ever heard. Unfortunately, her opinion — at least on your drumming (and writing) — doesn’t matter. After the gig, even with the adrenaline of being done, now’s the time you critique every fill, every song, every measure, and think about how it could be better the next time. Even if you never play that song again in your life.

Whenever I’ve told a great author about how much I enjoyed their work, their first comment is generally about what they did wrong and what they wish they could correct. You are your greatest critic, and, after every piece of writing, you should be rereading and razing the thing to figure out how it could be better — long, long, long after it’s been published and read.

9.) Pack Up
Nothing makes a stage manager happier if you get your kit offstage as fast as possible. Don’t talk to anyone. If you play a gig so big and you play so well that you have people coming up to talk to you, give them your used drumsticks, say, “Thanks,” and then get back to packing up your stuff. If you’ve got drum techs, spend your time hanging out with them, packing up your own stuff.

When a piece of writing actually works, then it wasn’t your doing. The Writing Gods chose to bless your hard work. If the piece was good enough, you’ll know it feels like a predestined, Dionysian experience — and you won’t feel that your talent or practice was responsible for it. Pack up your stuff. Get on the bus. Get out of town. Pray you can do it again.