Laptner Riley's Rolled Up Soul
Laptner Riley raised a hickory stick and struck his snare drum a vicious blow. The report cracked and echoed like a musket shot. The sound took his breath away. It was, Laptner decided, a sonic triumph--a majestic wavelength of raw, undulating power.
Laptner searched for something larger than a spindly hickory stick with which to strike his drum. He tried bowling pins and table legs. Then he discovered that if he doubled over and contorted in just the right way, he was actually able to reach in his mouth and pull out his own soul. Laptner gave the snare drum an exploratory tap with the edge of his soul and the pyrotechnic systems in a thousand unused arenas worldwide simultaneously erupted.
Somewhere in Canada, Neil Peart dropped a book of photography.
"My god," Peart gasped, "what was that?"
Deep in the American South, Carter Beauford raised a window shade and gazed across a mangrove marsh.
"Someone's done it." Beauford breathed, "I do believe someone's done it."
In a pub just outside London, Stewart Copeland set his pint down and promptly burst into tears of joy.
(And in a Los Angeles crack house, Tommy Lee paused mid-thrust, belched twice, and resumed fucking.)
Laptner Riley played those drums with his own rolled up soul for nearly five minutes. It was a rhythmic outburst that shall never be equaled. A drum solo by which all others shall be eternally judged. At its conclusion, Laptner half-stood then pitched forward and sprawled out, stone dead, across his kit.
Such is glory's price sometimes.
10 Comments:
God bless the lonely drummer, for it is he who is comfortable in his own "skin."
tom lee. god bless his skanky fuck sessions.
What of Gene Krupa? I'm sure he was smiling down from drummer heaven.
(Man, do you know more than your share of charmingly-monikered adventurers.)
This tale might be my favorite thus far.
As they say at the conclusion of amazing drum solos, "Bravo!"
That or "Freebird!!!"
Yeah, I caught the last 2 minutes on tape. But it's not the same when you don't have the opening riffs. I wonder if they'll be on eBay someday....
See, this is why I read your adventures. "Neil Peart dropped a book of photography." Only here can we get these kinds of insight into people's lives. Bravo.
While Laptner was tapping into the rhythmic power of his soul on his skins, I suspect Phil Collins was tapping into the power of a razor blade on his skin.
I wondered why Tommy paused...
Uh Dave... Oh hell, I'll drink to that!
Yes Ho, god bless his every one.
With a syncopated grin Monkeypotpie, with a syncopated grin!
Thank you very much Ari. Either one works for me.
Wouldn't surprise me Old Hoss. Might be there now in fact.
Thank you Greg. That means a lot to me. I have seizures you know, and words are on screen when I return.
This is entirely possible Amandarama. The drumming gods snarl at drummers turned singer.
Tee-hee Cindy-Lou. You know he'd wreck you. See 'cause... well you know... that is to say the rumor is... Anyway...
(Good-bye, I'm dead again.)
Sweet-ass Rush drummer NP ref.
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