Carnett: Drummer in the park gets my mind wandering

I have a friend who’s a drummer –- a really, really good drummer.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve slightly embellished things, I’m afraid.

Not the “good drummer” part; that’s spot-on.

It’s the “friend” part. The guy’s really not my friend. To be perfectly honest, we don’t know each other. In fact, I’m almost certain we’ve never made eye contact.

But one or two early evenings each week, he practices his drums at a nearby park where I walk. For an hour or so, his drum set is smokin’.

My drummer “friend” has developed a following. Walkers and joggers pause to watch and listen.

They invariably shake their heads as if to say, “This guy’s remarkable!”

He wears earbuds while practicing, so I’m guessing he plays along to a recorded track.

Now, what I know about drums you can put in a thimble and still have room for your weekend laundry. I may know zilch (or is that Zildjian?) about drumming and percussion, but it seems to me he’s darned talented.

I’ve taken to labeling him “Buddy.” That’s his name in the World According to Jim (my wife claims I manufacture way too much stuff in my noggin). I’ve named him after the legendary Buddy Rich. Rich, in my humble opinion, was the greatest drummer of all time. Again, don’t trust me on that because I know nothing about drumming.

Back in the 1970s and ‘80s I had a backstage pass to the annual Orange Coast College Jazz Festival. One year, probably in the late ‘70s or early ‘80s, Rich was the festival’s featured musician.

I watched his performance from the stage’s wings. He was truly amazing. The power and energy that he displayed was astonishing. And at the time, he was not a young man — probably in his early 60s.

As he played, his lips were pursed and moving rhythmically as if he were lazily working a chaw of salt water taffy. His lumberjack arms were flying and his wrists snapping. Perspiration poured from his brow and dripped off his chin.

The appreciative audience loved him.

He finished his final riff with a flourish and the curtain went down. The audience couldn’t see what I saw. Rich was completely spent. Absolutely exhausted. He’d given his all.

He slowly arose from his drum set and acknowledged the applause from the rather large contingent of stagehands, musicians, backstage pass holders and groupies.

Two large men quickly showed up by his side. Each gingerly grabbed an arm, slung the arms across their shoulders and walked Rich over to the stage entrance and out to a large recreational vehicle parked just steps from the building.

All the while, he exhibited a big smile.

Rich’s assistants opened the door to the RV and he went in, accompanied by a coterie of attendants. The door to the RV closed, and I walked back to the stage still savoring the post-concert glow.

“Man,” I muttered, “that guy is great! What a performance. I’ve just watched Mozart. Or Babe Ruth. Or Michelangelo.”

My new friend at the park has also earned my admiration. He’s good. In fact, I’ve invented a narrative for him.

The guy’s got to be a professional musician. He’s no longer a kid –- I’d guess in his mid-40s –- so he’s a seasoned veteran. He no doubt lives locally and uses the park as a space for practicing — and working out — without disturbing neighbors.

He needs his park time to remain in top form. As I’ve watched him over the months, I’ve come to realize that playing the drums is physically taxing. Like any athlete, a drummer must stay in shape. Mike Trout works out all winter. Buddy keeps it together at the park.

Sometimes I’ll go two or three weeks without seeing him. Buddy’s probably on tour with his band, I’ll surmise as I walk my appointed route.

Hmm. Who does he play for? The Dave Matthews Band? Billy Joel? Aerosmith?

Or maybe he’s a CPA with a hobby … and no garage.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.