Jesus would be a drummer if he weren't already a carpenter and, you know, Jesus

I don't play a musical instrument, unless you count that time I dropped the turkey pan down the back steps.  I have always secretly dreamed of being musically gifted, my vast talent laying dormant until just the right instrument presents itself to my waiting grasp.  I  harbor this dream because my singing is slightly less great than my musical ability or, as Husband lovingly puts it, "awful."  As for instruments I have ruled out, that list includes the flute, the penny whistle, guitar, kazoo, clarinet, piano, electric keyboard and the Moroccan Tamtam.  I had high hopes for the latter but the Universe, apparently, has a ferociously unfunny sense of irony.  


I had nearly given up but everything changed after Husband and I attended a concert on Friday night. The band (name-dropping alert) styled themselves 21 Guns and to put it lightly, they freakin' rocked.  Their show was a salute to Greenday and they nailed it, let me just tell you. Great energy and the singing was top notch.  Husband started singing along from the very first song and when they trotted out the electric leaf blower/toilet paper cannon I think I actually heard him squeal like a little girl.  


These guys were fantastic, they gave the 50 odd folks huddled in the centre of a theatre smelling strongly of litter box and run by a coven of old lady seat Nazis, a show worthy of a fairground filled with screaming college students.  The energy level didn't drop for one second and I dare say we all left feeling as though we had just spent 2 and half hours with Billy Joe Armstrong's biggest fans.


I'm taking an awfully long time to reach my point but I had to gush a little bit, that's how much fun the concert was.  And I am now unrestrainedly in love with drums.  It's the hitting stuff part that I like so much.  Also, the fact that I only need to be able to count to four is a big plus since I'm not that great with the numbers and the math and such.  We don't need to discuss the fact that I have the natural rhythm of a bag of rocks or that I can't pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time.  I also will not tolerate any discussion of 'the incident with the Tamtam' again.  Ever.  But after watching the drummer gently smiling like Buddha seated beneath the Sacred Fig, all the while smashing the crap out of everything around him for hours, I have to say, I want to give that a try.


Husband thinks this is a great idea, as long as I promise not to sing while I do it.