by Dane Erbach
“Harder!” Joe shouts from his podium, yells over violin bows stuck in the air like an unruly haircut. “Hit that bass drum as hard as you can!”
The orchestra spins toward me—rows of smarmy teenage smiles, annoyed; of middle schoolers wild with amusement, squirming their chairs.
“Have you ever heard Jurassic Park’s soundtrack?” Joe asks, his bald head shining in the fluorescent light. “The big BOOM at the beginning?”
I nod dumbly. The theme invaded my sleep for months after seeing the movie in the theater, but I don’t own John Williams’ soundtrack, nor do I remember the big BOOM.
“You’re a T-Rex!” Joe roars, and all the flutes giggle. “Hit that bass drum like it!”
I grip the mallet, slick and uncomfortable in my hand. But when Joe winds up, points back at me, I pound that drum as hard as I can. The suspended cymbal rings, a couple prepubescent violinists jump, and Joe nods, satisfied.
***
I’m probably the worst musician in my youth orchestra.
Every Saturday, I wander from State Street’s leaf-littered, trash-strewn sidewalks into DePaul University’s Music Mart. The building’s marble floors, its ornate glass and gold fixtures, its high ceilings and hall lined with darkened music store windows, it all exudes a warmth meant for someone besides me, a suburban kid with headphones tangled in his unkempt hair dyed black, a vintage Ramones tee falling apart on his still-scrawny frame. My dad’s old leather camera bag hangs from my shoulder, heavy with just enough room for the essentials—a pair of drumsticks and timpani mallets, a novel, my Discman, my Canon AE-1.
When my dad tosses me $20 for my train ticket, he assumes I’ll spend what’s left on dinner. Instead, before rehearsal, I stop at a record store just inside the Music Mart’s entrance and spend my extra money on a new CD.
Halfway down its main hall, the Music Mart’s atrium opens up to a lower level where folding chairs arc in rows. This is where the Protege Philharmonic rehearses. I ride the escalator down, having already peeled the plastic off the jewel case, having already popped the CD into my Discman, already hiding in the music.
***
“What CD did you get?” Alan asks me, pulling a pair of Mike Balter marimba mallets from a bag stuffed with sticks and mallets—different materials, different hardnesses, different sizes, some still wrapped in plastic for protection. His other bag, packed full of small percussion instruments, is larger than my brother’s soccer bag.
“Know the Blue Meanies?” I answer his question with another. “Chicago band?”
“Never heard of them.” Alan loves to talk about music, but only what he likes—Slipknot, Mudvayne, Sevendust, whatever popular metal bands Q101 plays—and always on his terms.
“Well, I got one of their older albums,” I say. “Kiss Your Ass Goodbye. Crazy ska-core with cool horn parts and noisy guitars. Weird time signatures—good drumming.”
“Probably not as good as Joey Jordison.” He smirks, punches my shoulder, then draws six different colored xylophone mallets from his bag, laying each gently on a towel spread across a horizontal music stand like he’s putting his children to bed.
***
Usually, Daniel gets the epic timpani parts, performs at our rehearsal like he has kettledrums to practice on at home, like he listens to these songs for fun. And, usually, Kristin gets the fun first percussion parts, jumps back and forth between snare drum and woodblock.
Usually, I end up with a dozen triangle dings in whatever Tchaikovsky opus we’re performing, six triumphant tambourine hits at the end of a Copeland suite. Sometimes I sleep through the overture for Wagner’s Die Meistersinger, my internal metronome waking me eight bars before my big cymbal crash.
“More cymbal!” Joe yells to me. “The whole song builds up to this climax!”
Conveniently, the Music Mart’s drum store is located behind the percussion section. When the rehearsal turns tedious, the strings requiring special attention, I stare through the windows at the drum sets and cymbals, the racks of drumsticks, wondering which would fit best in my hands.
Eying the percussionists, gripping and spinning their sticks impatiently, I sometimes wonder if any would.
***
During break, I sneak my Discman and drumsticks into the store. “Could I sit behind that kit?” I ask, pointing to the Pearl Masters Custom set on display, sparkling gold beneath track lighting. “Maybe play a couple songs?” The employee nods, says go for it.
I lose myself in the Alkaline Trio song, hiding in the music. The snare cracks beneath my knuckles, echoes awkwardly off the window facing our rehearsal, rattles the room’s other snare drum. Each cymbal crash strips layers off me like paint on a house, shakes away the boredom, the insecurity, the doubt. The bass drum thumps beneath my foot, the sound waves bouncing back at me, dislodging something deep inside.
I leave the store ten minutes later, my shaggy dyed-black hair stuck to my forehead, my only pair of drumsticks chipped and dented. I’m sure the others heard me, but I didn’t play for them. Maybe I played to get away from them, or to remind myself of why I was there at all.
“Dang, you got chops,” Alan says, punching me on the shoulder. “Had no idea you could play like that.”
I nod, satisfied.
***
I abandon the Music Mart for State Street’s premature dusk, streetlights glowing over my shoulders. The Protege Philharmonic has a way of reminding me that I am a drummer, not a percussionist—a reminder I sometimes resent.
But then I catch the express, slide into a plush vinyl seat just before it leaves the station, my new CD already on its third spin. I hide in the music, find satisfaction in the weird time signatures, the noisy guitars—find myself in the drumbeat.
And by Clybourn, I remember that it’s kind of cool to be a drummer in an orchestra—that maybe it’s exactly what the percussion section needs.
© Dane Erbach
Dane Erbach is a writer from Chicago’s northwest suburbs who teaches English and journalism at a public high school. During the summer, he teaches writing at Northwestern University to gifted and talented middle schoolers. His writing has appeared in Mythaxis Magazine, the Frightening Tales podcast, Sobotka Literary Magazine and JMWW Journal, and his novel FRIDAY NIGHT AT HUMBLE HOUSE was published in 2024. When not writing or reading, you can find him catching Pokémon with his family, raiding his community library, and tending to the pumpkin patch in his backyard.
You can learn more about me at daneerbach.com or on Threads and Instagram @browntowsers.
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