HELL DIASTER

"Hello, my name is Hell Disaster."

That's how the nametag read last Saturday, where Strikes Again! played a blistering show at Sin-e. The room was crowded with friends, but we were on. On's a tricky switch in a band--there are notches, bumps and shorts, and when the switch flips, a good 15-20 minutes can go by before you know it's working.

But back behind the drums, I get a great view of what's unfolding. I know within 5 minutes what's in store. Facial expressions of my bandmates are pretty good indicator, but the infinitywatt/governmentissue stage lights turn my eyes into sweatpots within a few minutes. It doesn't really matter. If the energy's there, I can feel the band push out into the audience, and in the split seconds we give them to react between songs, I know immediately whether it's pushing back.

At the tough gigs, it doesn't come back. You rely on your bandmates to keep pushing and make something happen. If it does come back...well, that's it. It's everything you've worked for. It's beyond description. It's true beauty.

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I've been on both sides of the bass drum for many shows, and none of this happens to me when I'm in front. Singing, playing guitar or just following along on bass, all I can smell is chaos. I can't think. I can't make sense of what's happening. I have to rely on eyewitness reports and check the stage floor for chalklines. Everything's a blur.

On the surface, this is an easy argument - drums add a barrier between me and the crowd. Even an out-of-petrol John van Atta can't keep me from playing drums; at last Saturday's Strikes Again! show he fell into the drums and took out a crash, a ride, and the floor tom. But I had plenty left to play with.

But it doesn't matter. The whole point is that it doesn't matter. If you get 30 minutes a month to forget everything you'll make it through that month.