Roland SPD-6

Back in 1985 or so, Gary Bettum and I (you out there somewhere Gary?) worked together at a midtown recording studio called ERAS. We were helping to build a little room, and when it was done, the first piece of gear we put in was a set of Simmons synth drums. Very 80s.

The Simmons bass drum was a huge hexagonal pad, about as tall as an actual bass drum. We got to thinking about how there was no reason for the size. It could just as well be a tiny area big enough for only the beater ball to strike. Soon we fantasized about a suitcase sized drum trigger unit with some rubber pads that could fire off drum sounds like the Simmons, but be really portable.

Well, of course we were right, that would be cool, and soon enough, may companies started to make our dream come true. The Linn drum was out, and then you had the Akai MPC triggering samples and redefining music production. These days I own the very capable Triggerfinger, and any number of tiny controllers are on the market. But for a while, it was just the Octapad, and eventually this, it's baby brother, the SPD-6. I got one, mainly because it was so cheap, a few hundred bucks.

6 pads and internal samples. Tough enough to play with sticks, and sensitive enough to play with your fingers (it had a sensitivity switch). It was cool. Especially if you really knew how to play the drums. I finally had my suitcase-sized drum kit, ready to throw into a bag and take anywhere.

It had some limitations, however. First of all there was no midi in. So you couldn't trigger its sounds from midi data. You could trigger your sampler from it, and program midi tracks. But you couldn't use use it as a midi playback unit. The sound set was small, only 113 samples.

If only they had bundled more of a variety of sounds and a drum machine in there. As it was it was just a bit too limited to really compete. It was soon discontinued.

Maybe a full kit of V-drums can be played with some body-feel, but listening back, I couldn't tell the difference between drum parts I programed on this unit and the ones created on a piano-style midi keyboard.

On to ebay it went, and in turn I purchased a drum machine with tons more sounds and over the top programing possibilities and full midi capability: the Boss DR-770.

Cherry Red Premier "Resonator" Drum Kit

Premier Resonator kit, in the backyard, 1978.

These drums represent a true turning point for a young Smokotalky. For the first time, I set a goal, and met it. And what was that? To get myself a off of the crappy beginner drum set I'd started on (no-name, $75 used) and into a heavy duty rock monster, able to cut through during those ear-ringing basement jams.

So, into Jack Spurt Messenger Service (the owner's real name) I walked, a clueless 10th grader with his earth shoes and surfer hair. I took a seat beside a dozen or so young inner city teens (a few of whom where pregnant) and awaited orders to pick up or drop off packages around midtown Manhattan. The pay? Minimum wage circa 1978 = $2.65 per hour.

At first I was an office curiosity: ("Yo, what the f*ck you doin' here?"). But my coworkers and I eventually became friends. I got the long runs and the pregnant girls were treated more gingerly, given easier deliveries.

I didn't mind. I liked walking around the city, watching the people and I enjoyed the clang of a pocket full of quarters against my thigh (provided to us for phone calls back to the office). I got to know Manhattan, street by street, and got to move within some of the great architecture of the city. I loved it. If I was careful not to buy hot dogs and soda from the street vendors, thus instantly killing an hour's wages, I was o.k. I might add that as a young virgin I experienced a guilty excitement in the proximity of my female co-workers, many of whom had obviously "done it."

By the end of August I'd gained an appreciation of the pleasant, middle class suburban Queens neighborhood I returned to every night. My coworkers were at Spurt Messenger Service because they had few other opportunities. I, on the other hand, was simply clueless. Ccushier options must have been available. College application rich summer internships or working at some wholesome summer camp, for example. Even the local Carvel would have saved me subway and bus fare.

At the end of my last day I walked into Sam Ash Music on 48th Street, and there, up on a riser, was my shiny red Premier Kit. I'd saved up about $500. It was on clearance, I had just enough. I put a down payment on it, and the next day my dad and I drove the drums home to Queens. I photographed them in the backyard late that very summer.

24" bass drum, 13", 14", and 16" toms and a chrome snare.

I loved them so. They played in many a garage, attic and cellar, and on even on a few stages in New York and Boston while I was in college. Eventually I stripped the red wrapping off for a funky home brew natural finish. When I moved to apartments and got married, they followed, but always in the closet or attic. They eventually got sold, amazingly, for the same $500 I'd paid, to a newly divorced thirty-something who was "trying to get back into playing weddings."

Interesting, I thought, for a newly divorced guy.