Music

There’s something deeply human about drumming.   It’s ancient. Primal. Unapologetically loud.   It keeps the song together – or tears it apart.   I can’t say exactly when my love for drums began, but I have a hunch it had something to do with Walter Payton.   That’s right – Sweetness himself.   Before he became one of the greatest running backs in NFL history, Walter Payton was a drummer in his high school band. That little fact stuck with me.   It said something about balance. Rhythm. Focus. Discipline. The kind of traits that could make a man great – with or without pads.   And let’s face it – football and drumming aren’t so different.   They’re both about tempo.   They both thrive on rhythm, aggression, and a relentless forward drive.   And they both suffer when fear slows you down.   Why Drummers Were Always My Rock Stars   While some people idolize the lead singer or the flash of a guitar solo, I always kept my eyes and ears locked on the guy in the back. The heartbeat. The backbone.   Guys like: Neil wasn’t just a drummer. He was a technician, a poet, and a philosopher on the throne.   They didn’t call him The Professor for nothing.   When I Finally Bought the Kit   Late in my marriage, I did something a little bold. I bought an L.A. studio drum kit.   It was set up in my office above the detached garage—my own sacred soundproof sanctuary. When work got heavy or life got loud, I’d go up there and hit reset. Not with a keyboard or a screen. With sticks.   I wasn’t playing for anyone. I didn’t need to be perfect.   I was chasing tempo. Finding groove. Making rhythm where there was none.   There’s something healing about that. The Beat of the Ride   One of the most moving books I’ve ever read – and one that belongs on my essential reading list – is Neil Peart’s Ghost Rider. After losing both his daughter and wife in heartbreaking succession, Neil hit the road – on a motorcycle, alone, across North America.   He wasn’t looking for adventure. He was trying to outrun grief. Or maybe catch up to some kind of peace.   The book is a masterclass in endurance, vulnerability, and rebuilding a shattered life one mile – and one mile marker – at a time.   Every page felt familiar.   The motorcycle. The silence. The beat of the engine like a metronome against your soul.   I get that.   Why Drumming Matters to Me Now   In a world full of distractions, algorithms, and noise, the drum reminds me that simplicity is power. Whether it’s on the field, on the slopes, or behind the wheel on a winding road, I’ve learned to appreciate the rhythm of life.   To feel it. To tap into it. To steer by it.   It can be symphonic; the chase for orchestration and harmony.   🥁 If You’re Curious: Here are a few tools and inspirations I recommend:   Final Thought   You don’t have to be a musician to feel the beat.   You just have to listen.   To know when to slow down, when to press forward, and when to kick into high gear.   Whether I’m behind a kit, under a helmet, or in front of a grill, I’m still keeping the tempo.   And I plan to ride that rhythm for as long as life lets me.   – BrianDrummer of thoughts. Rider of roads. Always livin’ best life, one beat at a time.