The reality of the drummer: a taxing yet rewarding lifestyle.

It’s 9:30 in the evening. Sam Swancott, an up-and-coming local singer, has just left the stage in Cheltenham’s Frog and Fiddle. Almost 150 people stand in front of the creaking, plywood stage, gazing at the four musicians taking to the now empty spaces. As I step out into the stage lights and hear a cheer of both excitement and anticipation ring around the building, I know that drumming is always going to be for me.

Every drummer’s story sounds just like this. But this is only the fun part of the job.

Since I was 11, hitting big round wooden things with sticks has become somewhat of a therapeutic means of self-expression and personal growth, mostly for me to just post onto my instagram. And that is, to be fair, still mostly the case. From the moment that sweet American hickory beds itself into the palm of my hand, it is as though all my troubles have melted away. I can be at blissful peace amongst the deafening chaos. However, when I reached 17, the gigs started. They came and they came fast; too fast for me to keep up. And when I turned 18, I stopped all forms of gigging to focus on my A-Levels. Music would have to resume at university.

After drumming around as much as possible in my first year, I came to find myself in a university band. To say I felt out of my depth would be an immense understatement - these people were literally working towards a degree in music, and I couldn’t tell an F Sharp from an A minor!

And it is through this union of working for a living, attending university and constant gigging that I have discovered the truth about being a drummer:

It’s so tiring.

I have never been more physically broken and exhausted in my entire life. There is no way that I could ever claim to be ‘athletic’, but I feel as though I constantly run marathons when setting up, playing, and tearing down drum sets every night. And this is in fact the reality of the drummer: a life spent constantly playing, carrying or sound checking the very instruments which I hold so dear.

And I think that, truthfully, it is only for the love of music that I choose to carry on. For whilst the inconvenience of constant joint pain has become something that must be endured, and the potential tinnitus creeps toward me every day like a shadow cast behind, I will still always belong to the performance. The feeling of your sweaty hands flinging about as you search for a split second to breathe, sawdust from the sticks flying everywhere, and still finding yourself in a moment of utter Zen... now that is why I do it. Not for the measly pay checks from the venues, or the whining guitarist with a broken string, but for the music. We are but humble servants of our instrument, and I for one could not be happier than when I sit behind my kit of creation.