Bang the drum slowly, there's a lot of rust there.

Q: "What do you call a guy surrounded by a bunch of musicians?"

A: "The drummer."

Strangely enough, I've never found that joke to be funny.

Way back in my younger days I played drums. I liked it, even if I was somewhat of a self-taught player and not exactly schooled in the basic rudiments. However, I did what I could with my musical aptitude and learning from my various influences and managed okay in the various bands at school. I even played drums for a couple of years in a military pipe and drum band, but I hadn't played seriously for a number of years. I sold my kit about 10 years ago because I wasn't playing much and I didn't really have anywhere to put it in a 500 sqft basement apartment.

Over the years I've enjoyed a few moments of solutide by air drumming, but the chance to play for real was, I figured, gone forever. Sad, but not necessarily unexpected.

Enter my father.

I'll save the gory details of the somewhat trying relationship we have for another time, but a little while ago he came to me with a favour to ask.

You see, he joined the Salvation Army several years ago and is relatively active with their musical programs. They were quite happy to have a former music teacher and a skilled clarinetist at their disposal, background notwithstanding. Dad, having played a number of instruments well, has played everything for them from trumpet to trombone to stand-up bass. He's often dropped the hint that they were never happy with the guy who was playing percussion and, boy, he'd love to be able to play with me again.

(insert eye roll here, if you've ever had a parent try that trick before)

So Dad called and told me he was in a real bind for an upcoming performance (please mark May 7 on your Calendars) and he was going to fill in on percussion for a concert, but he told the bandmaster that he might be able to get another person to make it less of an octopus act back there. The band is, unfortunately, a little hurting for equipment and it will be a mix of some well-loved tympani of questionable tuning, and the rental of other pieces of specialized equipment (glockenpsiel, chinese temple blocks, etc.)

You can guess who he was referring to when he said "another person".

I must have had some kind of mind control lapse because I agreed to the gig, reasoning that it couldn't possibly be that bad.

Then Dad brought over the music for the one piece.

To say its complex is like stating that the Labyrinth of King Minos was a little tough to get out of.

This beast shifts tempo and time signatures like a F1 driver. It encompasses at least 6 different percussion instruments and lasts an exhausting 12 minutes. Okay, says I. I can probably handle this.

Then Dad brought over the other two pieces.

(other two pieces?)

One is manageable, but the second piece has a rather nasty and quick snare drum rhythm which repeats all througout the tune.

So for the next little while, yours truly will be occupying all of his spare time with a new pair of drumsticks and a practice pad, doing my damndest to crash course myself on reading music, but also making sure that I can sight-read these pieces and play without sounding like a spastic woodpecker. (which is what I sound like right now)

So call it the revisiting of the paradiddle and the 5-stroke, 7-stroke, and 9-stroke rolls until the concert.

I'll keep you posted on the musical carnage.