Drummer: Musician Third-Class

Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap! "Three!" "Four!" "One!" "Two!"

That rhythmic tapping of drum sticks.

That baritone call-out "Three!" "Four!" . . .

Explosion!

And the little drummer on the left end went maniacal. Arms flailing. Crossing. Drums. Cymbals. Throwing his head back. Mouth wide open. Feet pounding the bass.

That eruption of jazz cacophony was loud, lavish, luscious, lively. . .

And the Navy Northwest's Big Band, "Cascade," had just exploded!

This is the U.S. Navy's premier jazz ensemble in the Pacific Northwest region of the United States . . . giving one of their 400+ performances for the year.

It was the drummer that just had me spell-bound. Found out his name is John something, didn't catch his last name, and from some town in Texas I didn't recognize.

If he was twenty years old, he wasn't a day older. And probably half the age of everybody else in the group. A Musician Third-Class which probably means a rank of E-3 or Private First Class in Army lingo.

A little guy. Perched on his stool.

Sharp as a tack. Actually had hair. One of the few that did. Most had their heads shaven nearly clean. At least the parts that weren't naturally bald. But he did have hair. Dark brown hair. Parted-down-the-center hair. A characteristic that I think is an outward sign of significance.

The "Chief" who was the leader of the group didn't actually "do" the leading.

It was the drummer.

Setting the cadence with the tap! Tap! Tap! and the call out of the "One!" "Two!" "Three" "Four.

In some respects, the Chief seemed to ignore him. The solos were from the trumpeters, the trombonists, the guitarist, the lady who brought us back into WWII with her big-band lyrics and Champagne-smooth vocalization.

Most everybody in the audience was of the nursing home generation. This concert was big-band. The stuff of World War II. An hour of re-living the past.

But the kid sitting in front of me, and one seat over was out of place.

He wrote copious notes in his little notebook

Why, I wondered.

Class assignment?

Studying a genre of music? Maybe the mechanics of how musical ensembles actually do their performances? Maybe a spin-off of history? Perhaps documenting how the United States Government invests its money in public relations . . . goodwill with the populace? Maybe a hobby?

Whatever, he didn't stand with others in appreciation. He never clapped

But it was that drummer that captivated me.

With that little-boy look. With that skill. With that intensity. With that incredible talent. My God! Please let him be.

The soloist sang for the last time. A change of genre. A very smooth, jazzy, rendition of "God Bless America.

And then the Chief says they will play one more. A medley.

And Musician Third-Class tapped the cadence to get it started.

Tunes I have heard before . . . but don't know their names. And then . . . instruments down. Fifteen performers rise and leave the stage.

Musician Third-Class continues on . . . becomes the soloist.

Probably five full minutes of incredible drum solo.

I was mesmerized. Awestruck.

The kid was infused with fervor. It was like he was possessed.

And then the others came back. Took their places. And the Chief asked us if we would like one more.

Of course.

And the ending was as explosive as that opening bombardment.

We rose. People started to file out.

I stood there to watch.

Musician Third-Class reassembled his music folder. Got up. Extended that navy blue sailor suit. And it became apparent that his second job was taking care of the music. For he started to collect and arrange all of the music folders.

And I suppose doing that several hundred times a year in the service of his country is not as thrilling for him as it was for me.

But I simply can't help but believe . . . there simply had to be a warm glow in his heart.

Knowing . . .full well . . . a job well done.

The Refectory Manager