I’ve mentioned two or three times that back in the early ’70s I played drums in a band that was alternately called The Golden Rockets, The Sludge Brothers, Dog Breath and Blind Pig Sweat. At the very best I was semi-competent. Style-wise I used to remind myself of Doug Clifford, the Creedence Clearwater drummer. I never got beyond that, and I tended to drag at times. I never took drumming lessons and could never even do a roll. To this day I can’t manage this with sticks, and that’s very irritating.
If only I’d taken lessons as a kid, but either way I was a mediocrity and knew it. It was always a little painful when we did a gig because I knew that a certain percentage of the crowd would be shaking their heads and muttering “whoa, that guy isn’t too good.” But I’ve always been a better-than-decent thigh drummer. No shame in that regard. I use dimes and quarters in my right pocket so simulate a high-hat sound.
If I lived in a big soundproof McMansion I’d buy one of those electronic silent drum sets that you can only hear with earphones and wail away at odd hours.