Paradiddle Eric Deraney

Paradiddle. When someone mentions my father, this is the first word that comes to mind. You see, my father was a drummer, and this term describes the rudimentary basics of his hobby. As every good role model would, he utilized every mention of music, no matter how small, as an opportunity to persuade me to never follow in his footsteps.

He made sure to ramble on for hours about the horrors of getting to “gigs” early and setting up hours before the first audience member even set foot inside the venue. Perhaps, he said, I should learn to play harmonica, because all I have to do is take it out of my pocket.

Of course, as every good son would, I began drum lessons as soon as my mother could arrange them. Understand that my parents were divorced, and I was determined to find every advantage to this separation. This all too common drama supported my growth as an independent person, since I could no longer depend on support from a joint parental unit. It of course came with the added benefit of having two chances to get the answer I wanted. Before I knew it, I began to dream of being the next Buddy Rich or Gene Krupa, dazzling stadiums overflowing with adoring fans, clamoring to witness my peerless drum skills - lighting-fast fills and...