I was tapping on the dashboard of my mom’s Chevelle with “Jerimiah was a bullfrog” blasting through the Alpine stereo, somewhere around 1979. Mom looked over at me, with an amused smile on her face, and asked “So, you like the drums?”

I don’t recall if i took her seriously, or just assumed she was humoring my annoying behavior, but I do remember my possibly spiteful, and definitely adamant response, of “YEA!”

A few months later, on Christmas morning, I woke up to a four-piece set of Slingerland, gold-sparkle drums, with a Royce crash cymbal, ride cymbal and hi-hats. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. In hind-sight, I wish I’d never let go of that kit. But teenagers aren’t synonymous with wisdom.

The Slingerlands were used, of course, and were obtained through some type of friend-of-a-friend barter transaction, my mom somehow pulled of. We weren’t dirt poor, but even a used drum set wasn’t in the family budget. Consequently, drum lessons weren’t in the budget either, so I spent the next few years with wired headphones plugged into a record player, or a boom box with a cassette deck.

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