She bangs the drums

It’s been a while. Four months to be precise. I’ve not really felt like sitting down to write.

The death of a loved one is a rollercoaster that no one can ever prepare you for. I amaze myself if I can string a sentence together, let alone function as a normal adult, but here we are. I’m sitting here on a typical November afternoon, wondering what’s next.

Perhaps this blog is about capturing that… We’ll see.

Death is a massive leveller. It shakes things up. It makes you think about every scrap of your existence. I guess this is where I currently sit. I keep telling people that the world is still turning, except instead of my axis being 23.5 degrees, it’s on a wonk. It’s off from everyone else’s. You still get up, go to work, shower, and do all the things. Except it’s all off.

Those differences, the gaps between you and everyone else, make you question everything. And god, am I questioning.

I’ve raked through every scrap of my existence to see what makes sense, what feels out of place and ultimately what needs to go. But it’s not all about letting go. There is part of me that wants to call back in the things that once made up who I am, things long forgotten. Hence the title of this blog (it will make sense, I promise!).

Of course, there is also the other reason that just a week ago, Mani, the bass player of The Stone Roses & Primal Scream, passed away.

I was not a massive Roses fan at the time. I know, it’s criminal saying that out loud when you live in Manchester.

I openly admit they kind of escaped me in the initial hysteria. I remember them being on Top of the Pops. But I was fully immersed in the rock/metal scene at that point. It was only in 1992 that I actually listened to the whole album. But as usual, I am digressing, sort of.

Some 20 or so years before The Stone Roses was released, I had wanted to be a drummer.

I have spoken about my love of Adam Ant before. Kings of the Wild Frontier was THE album that got me into music, big time. I drove my parents mad with it, and of course, I wanted to be a drummer. I mean, who wouldn’t after hearing the first few bars of Dog Eat Dog?

So off we went to Carlsboro Sound on City Road, and I got some drumsticks. Then I started percussion lessons at school. I was the ripe old age of about 9 or 10.

I reckon my mother still has the sticks, and I am pretty sure if they were in my hands now, I could keep that beat going. But like with many things, they were eventually packed away when I moved up to senior school, never to be spoken of again.

But music never left me. At uni, it came back bigger and better than before.

I bought a bass guitar.

When I say a bass. It had four strings; it was most definitely a guitar, but by god, it was bad.

I bought it from a pawn shop in Sheffield, and it showed. The neck was slightly warped, and someone had painted the fretboard to make it look like rosewood. Except it looked like shit brown gloss paint. Not only that the tuning pegs used to slip a little, so it was always slightly out of tune, only slightly, but my ears picked it up constantly… much to my annoyance!

But I loved it.

I had a musical education, so I can (or could!) read music. I played the clarinet for a while, so musically I am pretty bloody capable. But I preferred to work things out by ear. I’d listen to tracks over and over, then work out the bassline based on what I heard.

I had quite a repertoire.

Somehow, the bass vanished. I can’t remember what happened, but it definitely didn’t make it to the end of my uni years. A lot of things didn’t make it to the end of my uni years if we’re honest!

But here’s the thing. Mani’s passing away, in conjunction with Dad’s (and also Ozzy – it’s been a shit year for it), has made me realise that one of the missing pieces of the jigsaw puzzle is music.

Music has been woven into the very fabric of me since I was a small child.

I remember being in the choir at infant school. I was one of those kids who could hear a tune and sing it back, pitch-perfect. Not now, mind, when you get to the ripe old age of 52, after having repeated throat issues, your vocal cords are fucked!

So what do I do? I mean, that is the upshot of all this, isn’t it?

I have been sitting on Google for days looking at bass guitars. Part of me wants to go bonkers and buy a dooozy of a guitar, like one of Mani’s Rickenbackers, but that is just madness. Though I do like the fact that I am aiming high here!

In terms of neighbourly relations, I think a bass is better than a drum kit.

I also seem to ‘connect’ more with drummers and bassists. I’ve dated a few! They’re the musical world’s stabilisers. They hold it all together when the lead singers and guitar players are off on one massive ego trip; the rhythm section is there. Steady. Constant. Encouraging you to calm your ass down. Or, in the case of Mani and Reni, making you want to dance your ass off.

What worries me about all this, though, to get back to the plot, is this urge to go back in time.

To go back to a time when my dad was here, and there was an element of safety. I say element, because my mental health in the 90s was horrendous. And no matter how much my axis is off, I can’t go back.

I can’t bring my dad back.