The sound of one man clapping II

Mosh pit

Christ, this house music is loud. The bass is punching my heart and lungs, stabbing my ears; it’s probably loosening the nails in the floor boards. My open palms, face down, keep time on my knees.

I don’t know how long he’s been sitting beside me but suddenly his mouth is up against my ear, shouting its hot and spit-speckled beer breath.

Drummer?” the mouth yells. A finger appears in my peripheral vision and points to my hands, tapping away.

I am. Been learning since the age of nine and tapped pens on benchtops long before that. I make drum sounds with my mouth, use the boomy bus floor as double kick practice, thump my chest and cheeks on the way to school, flip acoustic guitars face down and whackitytacktack the backs of ’em.

And although tomorrow night my ears will still be filled with the ringing, high pitched memory of tonight’s chaos, on quiet nights I stare at the ceiling and hear the whoosh-whoosh of the drummer inside me.

Christ, this house music is loud.

The young man repeats his question, whiskered lips brushing my lobe as he barks. “You a drummer?”

I turn to him and nod for one bar. But I’m not really listening.


~ by Daniel Townsend on October 8, 2014.

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