Khajuria 1

The Right Reason

Statistics show kids who play classical music tend to do better in academics. My parents
used this as their driving force behind their suggestion I join orchestra. At seven years old, I had
little to no say in what I wound up doing. From the first day of playing my violin, not all of my
expectations were met. It just wasnt right.
Practice records were the bane of my existence. My orchestra teacher implemented them
to make sure we practiced. Daily. These will be taken as a grade, so be sure to follow them!
shed say. This whole practice record deal didnt make sense to me: I was forced to practice?
After all of the work Id put into orchestra- the countless nights studying key signatures,
the hours getting better fingerings, the labor of instrumental upkeep- I had high hopes on my
personal achievement. As sophomore year passed, I was let down like Beethoven when he
became deaf. Every day I went to orchestra, I swear I heard Samuel Barbers Adagio for Strings
playing in the back of my head, syncing to the real world. The music told me what to do. It was
the puppet master and I was nothing but a marionette. Desperate to cut myself free, I searched
everywhere for a solution.
While brainstorming for ideas at the Guitar Center, I had my first encounter with a drum
solo. It was your average drummer: An up-to-no-good-teenage-drug-abuser-looking-kid. I
walked away, thinking Im not some stupid teenager. But after passing a battery of drum kits
on the way to the exit, I finally gave in and went to the studio in the back. I picked up the sticks
and struck everything. Something about that jumbled mess of sound made me stay for about an
hour. I was at home. I found the solution. I craved more.
After summoning all of the guts and power in me, I asked my parents if I could sign up
for lessons. To my surprise, they agreed. By the end of junior high, the Progressive Rock

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Drumming series and I were one. I had mastered the rudiments, out-drummed two instructors,
and rolled through a four book series: all in less than a year. I upgraded my kit from a First Act
to a Pearl: Vision Series. I needed no enforcement; I was in my prime.
One Saturday morning, I arrived at Millard Music House for what seemed to be the
billionth time. I walked in and greeted my instructor, Chuck, with the usual What-up and took
a seat on my kit. I propped up my Advanced Jazz Studies book on the stand, ready to play what I
had practiced the week before. Immediately, Chuck slapped the book off the stand. I jumped: My
palms became sweaty and my body felt weightless. My head was flooded with thoughts: Whats
going on? Whats wrong? What did I do? He stared me in the eyes and said Show me what
youve got. I just sat there open-mouthed and brain dead. Well dont just sit there, play!
Whatever he said seemed to snap me out of my trance. I grasped my drumsticks and prepared
myself for the worst. Despite 5 years of practice, I flopped from the start. The hi-hat was off-beat
and the snare played like a trash can lid. Somewhere in the mess was a double-kick, and a fill or
two later I found myself torn between limbs. My right half wanted swing but my left half was
stuck in funk. The color drained from my face; I became Caucasian. I filled my head with
unwanted thoughts of what my instructor was probably thinking of me. As I finally reached what
seemed to be rock-bottom, I didnt stop playing. Something in my head told me to push forward.
I felt a buzz in my fingers, a kick in my arms, and instantly regrouped the thoughts in my head.
The rhythm rolled right out of me. It started with a simple kick on the one and snare-kick on the
3. The old finessed hi-hat became a template and the snare sounded shrill. A little under a bar
later I produced a fill worthy to challenge even the works of Dennis Chambers. I wasnt done
yet, though. I hopped off of the hi-hat and went straight into Samba. Trip-lets took over the kit
and the bass drum introduced itself on the 1 and 4. This was it: I owned my skills. I owned the

Khajuria 3
kit. I owned the music. At one point, I remember having no idea what I was playing: was it still
Samba? Swing? Jazz? Rock? Metal? Pop? Whatever it was, it felt incredible. 4 bars and yet
another godly fill later, my hunger was satisfied. I ended my streak with a ringing crash-- blood
rushed through my brain, my ears stung with pain, and my lungs pumped air faster than I could
handle. I turned to my instructor, not sure what to expect. I couldnt believe it: he was smiling.
Before a child can walk, he must fall face-first he preached. But you didnt stop to walk. No,
you ran. He was right.