Traditions

There is only one way I can sum up my experiences gigging, and that is that it is laden with traditions. If you ask any performer, they will tell you that they have certain rituals that they do before, during, and after every gig. My performance this weekend at the Royal was no different. Let me give you some insight to some of those rituals.

I like to get to the gig early. So early in fact, that I arrive at least 1 hour before the rest of the musicians arrive with their gear. I guess a big part of this tradition is that I don't like to feel rushed, and I especially don't like tripping over someone else's equipment. If I arrive early enough, then the bar isn't so busy, and I can take my time, relishing in the atmosphere, with only the music playing on the jukebox to keep me company.

Since I do so much singing over the course of a performance, I like to say as little as possible prior to the gig.

If I time my setup properly, I have all my equipment assembled by the time the rest of the band arrives. I lend a hand loading their equipment into the bar, and help set up any gear I know I can properly assemble. This might include setting up the P.A., or fixing lights, or running the odd cable. But during this period, my mind becomes more focused on the gig -- the numbers we will perform, tempos, lyrics, harmonies, or even trouble spots that had become prevalent in prior performances.

30 minutes prior to the gig is crunch time. This is when I use the washroom, get a refreshment, ensure all my equipment is properly tuned, plugged in, and operational. If I have sheet music, it often comes out at this time. I am usually humming along or singing harmony to the music on the house system, warming up my vocal chords. I often grab a pair of drumsticks and begin to warm up my cold muscles.

The last few minutes before the performance starts is almost like an astronaut being strapped into the seat that will give him the ride of his life. I sit down, the hi-hat cymbals are set, the snare strainer is engaged, and I plug myself into the in-ear monitoring system I built. The microphone boom swings out in front of me, almost like the fuel umbilicals that attach to the booster rockets. I test my microphone one last time before the faders to the P.A. go up...

The music on the house system fades, and then I am in full control -- and I mean in control of everything.

Houston might count down, but I count up until I hit four. And from that very moment, I am the pilot of a cyborg that is both man and machine. In a lot of ways, the drummer is the systems analyst that controls the energy output, the rate of fuel consumption, and also the feedback mechanisms.

A lot of drummers call the drum chair the "driver's seat", and I certainly know why. You can push a band; you can pull them back. You can start and stop on a whim. You can even quit when you want to. It's kind of a control thing.

It's also a huge responsibility.

Most talented musicians will tell you the drummer is the foundation of the band; or the rhythm section is the backbone of the band. Like any structure, the lack of a good foundation will cause it to tumble with even the slightest tremor.

To put it into a more literal context, a good drummer will make even a lousy band sound good. Conversely, a poor drummer will make even the most talented band sound terrible. Believe me, I have seen it time and time again.

The only tradition I can sense during my performances is the apparent lack of tradition. The performance itself is spontaneous -- half of it is derived from the response of the spectators, and this is one thing that makes gigging exciting. It can also be a little scary when safety issues become compromised. I have seen dozens to hundreds of beautiful women throw their sexy bodies towards the stage. I have seen people jump the barricades. I have seen drunks crash and demolish sacred and very expensive equipment with one fall. I have witnessed a $30,000 PA system go up in smoke with a power surge, and I have seen band mates throw ego fits and walk off the stage in the middle of the show. I have been cheered and booed. I have been heckled and appreciated. I have been both loved and resented. And I have had to deal with it all in the most professional manner possible.

Once the show ends, the traditions return. There is the moment when you sign off and wait for the crowd to start screaming, for the ashtrays to begin banging, for the fists to pound on the beer-soaked tables.

The encore.

This is the moment where your entire night is critiqued, and summed up in the matter of one minute. This is when you really know whether or not they had a good time watching you. Some nights you feel like you could keep playing all night, and others, you might have burned yourself out. But those cheers can play mind tricks on you, and convince you that you might have the energy to do one or two more songs. Actually, it's more like a reminder to yourself that this is what you love to do, and this is the one thing you do best: entertain.

As for moving out of the club, this is by far my most coveted tradition. I like to return to the club the next day to break down my gear. There is something spiritual I get out of returning to the club the next day. It's like I can still hear the commotion -- the screams and cheers of the previous night, almost as if the souls of the patrons became entrapped within the walls.

It's quiet again in the bar, and I don't have to overhear some testosterone-induced quarrel, or drunken psychobabbe. It's just me -- and this allows me to not only reflect on the weekends' performance, but come down from that natural high that I have become so dependent on.

The hour I spend packing up my gear is rather blissful, yet somewhat saddening, but it's something I know that has to be done. The time has come for me to hang up my proverbial cape.

It's the same metamorphosis Clark Kent goes through after being Superman for three nights.

It's the change back to a normal human being, which is not such a bad thing. It's fun being incognito. I like the fact that I don't have to live up to the world's expectations 24 hours per day. I like to blend in with my surroundings.

I also like coming out of my reclusive shell -- but I reserve that for weekends. Celebrities will often tell you how difficult and stressful their lives are, when you have no privacy; when you are stalked, when the media decides to film and photograph you at the most inconvenient times. It's not easy to live up to everyone's' expectations.

But I will say this: it is much easier than the lives most of us live.