THE OTHER DRUMMER by Jeff Ewing
Jeff Ewing THE OTHER DRUMMER Muriel’s already at the site, waiting for me. I drop my gear on the ground beside hers. The heat is oppressive, the sun’s fist bearing down. Why the festivals all choose summer is beyond me. Kids are out of school, sure, I get that, but for God’s sake find a place farther north. Where the sun has some mercy, and there are no rivers to dive into and never come out of. “What’ve we got?” she says. “Bass player?” “Drummer,” I say. She shakes her head with a complex mixture of affection and resentment. As a teenager, she’d fallen in love with a drummer passing through, the laconic anchor of a closing band chosen by the festival for their ability to clear a crowd. She told me about him one night over beers at Cleveland’s—his swan dive from the bridge, the long fruitless wait for … chop! chop! read more!