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drum kit

Kits in the Kitchen

Courtesy of Joe Bloggs

There’s a drum kit sitting smack bang in the middle of my kitchen at the moment.

We’re talking bass drum, snare, tom-tom, and a hi-hat.

Why is it in my kitchen?

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

If you ask my Beloved, that is.

If you ask me – well, I actually can’t post my reply here, being a PG-rated site and all.

See, our daughter, aged 8, has joined the school band. And after in-depth testing of rhythm, tone, and embouchure, the music teachers in their wisdom decided that the instrument of choice for our girl would be the glockenspiel … and drums.

Coming from a fairly musical family, I get that she has some natural aptitude. I mean to say, you could pretty much set up a band of any sort using members of our family, across multiple generations. And anyone who knows us will tell you that any time any number of us are together out comes the guitars and gear and the jam session begins. It’s the Irish in us coming out. To be sure.

But glockenspiel?

And drums?

Most kids get given one instrument, however our teacher decided to use Miss V as a guinea pig and have her learn two at once. Kinda like a one-woman percussion section.

When our son joined the band he got the trumpet and followed in my (brief) footsteps as cornet player in the school band, back in my day.  Happy to say I didn’t embarrass myself when he brought the thing home and could still make a noise, even though it was one that may have had the ‘Great Satchmo’ Louis Armstrong turning in his grave (I would say ‘Rest In Peace’ but that’s not likely with us on the trumpet).

So when our little girl decided she too would try out for the band, we expected her to get a similar thing, maybe some ‘girly’ instrument like the flute.

But no, glockenspiel and drums it is.

So glockenspiel and drums are what’s taking up residence in our residence. Albeit in the kitchen.

Thing is, there’s not a lot of space at our place. The 3 bedrooms are already filled with bodies and bits. And the living room is no place to make music that could wake the dead.

Unlike my father when we were young, we’re not about to kick kids out so that there can be a dedicated ‘music room’ (sometimes I swear he’d escape in there just to drown out the arguments of three feisty females crammed in one small room).

So we’re attempting to clear out the old garage, where many a great muso has had their start.

Unfortunately we didn’t do so before we brought the drum kit home. It couldn’t stay in the car, even though the cymbal was playing its own catchy little jazz beat every time I hit a bump (tcch tch tch tcch tch tch tcch). So my Beloved brought it in and dumped it in the kitchen.

You try making dinner with a bass drum between you, the stove, and the cutlery drawer!

I can only say the beating of the skin was somewhat louder than the curses that came out each time I booted the bass, or caught myself on the little lugs en route to the dining table (which incidentally, has a trumpet case sitting on it for some strange reason).

After a number of drum solos inadvertently performed by each member of the family in their turn taking dirty dishes to the sink, I asked my Beloved when he envisages the kit and kitchen might part ways: “As soon as we get a decent spot cleared in the front room to set it up,” is his not-so-promising reply.

Looks like I’m going to have to fine tune my footwork if the family expects to be fed on a  regular basis between now and then.

And if you can’t stand the beat, well, stay out of my kitchen!