Issue 3

The first thing you need to know about Jam
Group practices, is that they smell. Before you
have even stepped into the room, the ripe odour
will meet you at the door; overwhelming your
senses and engaging with the primal part of
your nature that can detect tension. It is enough
to have you turn on the spot, and beg off the
whole thing for a round of drinks at the pub.
The room is entirely unventilated, save for the
few people whose opinions of their playing
ability pushes enough air into the room to allow
some fraught dialogue. I have to shove through
this stink to the very back of the room to get to
the drum kit. Per usual, someone has already set
themselves up on the stool and is loudly
overcompensating by performing a one-man
show of Metallica classics. (Much to the chagrin
of the rest of the room, who are tuning or simply
value our hearing.)
Around the kit stand the other drummers. All of
them are boys and all of them clutch their
drumsticks with white-knuckles. Their eyes
slide to my entrance with an undisguised
distrust and animosity, that would have
reduced me to a puddle of mush a few years
ago. But I don’t need to prove myself at this
early stage of the evening.
The practice kicks off. Out of the people that
turned up tonight, I am one of three women. We
all sit watching as the boys play Red Hot Chili
Peppers cover after Foo Fighters cover, in what
can only be described as a dick measuring
contest. Each instrument is soloing over the top
of the other, with our friends on the drums
cutting over it all with more unnecessary
cymbals than a mathematical equation. Each of
us have already been asked if we sing, despite
having come to the practice to play the drums,
guitar and bass respectively. It’s enough to get
the blood boiling.
Part of this is a tactic. The boys exhaust their
limited repertoire very early on and they start
struggling for songs to improvise. This is when I
get on the drums. I can feel the eyes scorching
over me. I would almost be inclined to check for
singe marks, if I knew that wouldn’t bring its
own fresh ire from the boys. Before I even begin
to play, I am told that my drumsticks aren’t
good enough and that I need proper ones (I play
with hot rods for these practices). I also receive
eyerolls when I remark that I don’t know how to
play a particular RHCP’s song. The effect is to
take tiny chips at the armour I’ve had to
surround myself with to get up and play. Their
comments fracture, and that hot smell rises in
the room as the bile of undermining remarks
land heavily on my shoulders.
From the moment I decided I was going to play
the drums, I have known that I am a part of a
minority; a girl that plays the drums, and a girl
that plays an instrument. But the decision was
never one that I had thought would become a
defining characteristic of my attitude towards
playing. In fact, the decision was mainly
influenced by having heard about my mum’s
own time playing the drums in a punk band
throughout university. to the stories of how
she’d played in some bar or, actually getting to
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