Drumming No More

Yesterday near midnight I sold my drum set – my lover of three years. I sold it for the price of an undiscounted roundtrip plane ticket -- less than half its value when I bought it.

As I helped my friend load it up in a cab and watched them all roll away, the memories came like a movie flashback – one sweet, passionate moment after another moving through the pulsating soundtrack of soft and alternative beats like Burn, 214, Sway, Push, You’re A God, When It’s Over, If You’re Gone…

I knew I was sane when I sold it so I welcomed the pain when it came.

In the summer of 2002, I took up drumming lessons. I fell in love, went a little bit crazy, and bought the instrument not long after.

I bought the drum set because I wanted to impress a cute crush. I bought it because I wanted to do something wild and different. I bought it because at that time, I could.

Today, my crush no longer exists, the “something wild and different” has come to mean something else, and the cash comes in really handy for my itchy feet since I’m bumming once again.

My drum set was a smooth, shiny Puresound maroon pride – well, once you wipe off a year’s worth of dust anyway. It was sleek, it was loud, but oh so completely out of tune because I didn’t know how to fix it.

Nevertheless, we understood each other completely. It understood my need to de-stress from time to time. And I understood its need to be massaged with deep, sharp and hard strokes from time to time.

We learned from each other. It learned that my every heartache scars – as evidenced by the resulting scratchy drumheads. And I learned it pays to be loud to be heard and mend a broken heart.

We respected each other. I discovered long ago that drumming is not that easy. First of all, cleaning the hi-hat, the snare, the base and other drums, and the cymbals to make the sound clear– is no joke. Second, reading through the notes, listening to exercise tapes while making it all come together is just like juggling 3 balls when you barely know how to juggle two.

But because I loved it, I did it all patiently—well maybe not always that patiently. And since it was hard, I came to respect the craft. And because I tried so hard, my drum set learned to tolerate me and did not break when I tried to smash it.

I cannot claim though that we did beautiful music together. But the jam sessions? They were just glorious.

I know the basics, true, but I’ve always admitted that in three years, I just learned one complete song … and it wasn’t even taught to me by my professional teacher but a fellow drummer and friend. The rest of the time were just wacky playing— drumming along as you listen to the radio but not being completely sure if you’re doing it right. Well, I’ve always maintained that the not knowing is part of its charm.

So for a few years, I played. I dropped my teacher yet I continued to play. I wouldn’t clean our sala but I’d meticulously wipe off the dust from the drumheads. I let my whole body dance while drumming and our almost 50-year old wooden house would sway along. I made a racket all over Gorordo Avenue and ignored my neighbors’ hands on their ears. For me, it was like being on top of the surf and only the wave could bring me down.

I cannot pinpoint exactly when the passion faded… when the songs started to sound old… or when the drums started sounding hollow. All I know is that it wasn’t because of another man.

But maybe, like most rocky relationships, it started with not having enough time. Maybe it was because of my constant traveling the past year. Or maybe, I just didn’t have the right teacher.

My heart broke as I saw the drum set grew a bit rusty and a whole lot dusty with time. And it broke even more as I realized that I no longer have it in me to give what it needs.

Have I grown up or have I simply become old? Is the love affair really over even though you love it still?

One thing I know-- I couldn’t stand the sight of my drum set growing old with neglect like some forgotten artifact in a dreary museum. So early this year, I decided to sell it.

And because it was a good friend who bought it – I agreed to sell it cheap. He promised he’ll take better care of it than I ever did or will. God knows, he knows it much better than I do anyway.

I did not play it one more time before I let it go. I figured, what’s the point? But I let the memories wash over me. It makes me sad for drumming has been a consuming part of me for some time. Yet knowing that my drum set is in good hands comforts me too. And the thought that maybe this time, it can finally play more beautiful music under his hands, makes me glad.

Now, if only I can get over my love affair with a man the same way...