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.