Free The Gift of Fire by Dan Caro Page B

I’d be able to hit the skin of the snare drum another five or six more times than I had the day before. I was on my way!
    My mother was happy that I’d found something I loved doing so much, but I know that she would have preferred I’d found a less noisy hobby … perhaps stamp collecting, or maybe mime! But my father, a dyed-in-the-wool musician, couldn’t have been more pleased by the way I threw myself into making music.
    Dad didn’t hear a racket when I practiced; he heard my passion … and he heard improvement. When it became obvious to him that I wasn’t going to give up on the drums, he invited an old buddy of his to drop by the house and listen to me play. His name was Glenn Diecedue, and he became both a good friend and my first drum teacher.
    G LENN HAD BEEN A PROFESSIONAL DRUMMER for years and had gigged with everyone in New Orleans. He’d performed at all the big jazz clubs in the French Quarter, toured with different groups, sat in on recording sessions, and even played on riverboats up and down the Mississippi. Although he originally came over to the house to help me out as a favor to my dad, I couldn’t have asked for a better first teacher.
    Glenn knew how serious I was about drumming and that I dreamed of being a professional. He was straight with me right from the start. “Listen to me, Danny,” he said during our first lesson, before I’d even picked up my drumsticks. “Being a drummer is tough. There are a million guys trying to do the same thing as you, and they’ve got their hands. For someone like you, it’s going to be unbelievably hard.
    “I’m telling you right now, don’t worry about what other people say. If you’re going to be a drummer, you have to focus on the music, and you have to play for yourself. You’re never going to be like any other drummer, so don’t try to copy anyone else … if you’re going to succeed, you’re going to have to find your own technique, invent your own style. That’s what I’ll try to help you do.”
    That was some of the best musical advice I ever received, and I took it to heart.
    Glenn was hugely encouraging. He often told me that I had genuine talent and urged me to practice as much as possible. He came by the house once a week and showed me all the basics, such as stick control and how to read music. He also set up a regimented practice routine that not only tripled the pace at which I was learning, but built up the strength in my arms and thumb as well, which allowed me to work twice as hard.
    Just three months into my lessons with Glenn, I was holding the stick in my left hand for minutes at a time, rather than seconds. And the wristband that had at first seemed a bit awkward as it pressed the stick against my right arm soon felt like it was a part of my body. I was improving so rapidly that I was growing frustrated at only being able to practice on the single snare drum my father had bought me at the pawnshop.
    Sensing my impatience, Glenn had a little chat with my dad. Not long afterward, my teacher showed up at our house with one of his old drum kits for me to use. “They’re yours, kid,” he said with a smile.
    My creative world, which had been limited to the rhythms I could tap out on a solitary drumhead, had just exploded into a universe of possibilities. Instead of focusing all my energy on one lonely snare drum, I now had a bass drum, a floor tom, an extra snare, and tom-toms to whale on; not to mention the shiny brass crash, hi-hat, and ride cymbals that were suddenly at my command. I was euphoric that day … but my poor mother! The noise that began echoing through our house that day didn’t stop until I moved out years later to go to college.
    Glenn also helped me set up a stereo system, which allowed me to practice along with the recordings of some of my favorite songs and musicians. Soon my father and older brothers were coming by for impromptu jam sessions—Dad would play trumpet or harmonica, Johnny would play