More on the lowly status of the drummer in the band, this
time from Sting. In Broken Music: A Memoir, published by Dial Press in
2003, he recalled his days as a struggling up-and-coming bass player on the
club circuit.
The scene is a bar at which Gordon Sumner, the future Sting,
sits with Gerry, a piano-playing band leader, a man he’s just met, who asks him who
Sting plays with.
“Nobody really some friends from school, that kind of
thing.”
“That’ll be 40p, gentlemen,” says Ken the barman.
“Do ye know any drummers?) says Gerry, feigning to have
mislaid his cash.
“Yeah. . . . There’s this guy I play with, Paul Elliott,
plays a Slingerland kit.”
Gerry nods sagely as we both begin sipping the warm beer
from our pint glasses.
“He’s got his own van,” I say, trying to give my situation a
professional gloss, and Gerry, who has been Mr. ****ing Cool up to this point,
is now spluttering beer.
“A van, really? Does he wanna join a band?°°
“What band?”
“The college band, we need a drummer.”
“I’m sure he’d be happy to, but how do you know if he’s any
good?”
“He’s got a van, hasn’t he?”
“Oh, I see.”
This guy is clearly an operator, and aware that he may have
seemed a little too venal, he softens a little. “Oh yeah, I’m, er, looking
for another bass player.”
“What’s wrong with the old one?”
“Oh, nothing, it’s just that he doesn’t have a friend who’s
a drummer with his own van.”
This article appears in Jan 16-22, 2014.
