E-Mail This Article to a Friend I’m not with the band I don’t want to be a rock star; I just want to play my drums. If only I could find a group with similar dreams of mediocrity. BY ALAN OLIFSON

I KNEW IT WAS coming. The writing had been on the wall for weeks. Even so, we both had problems accepting the finality of it all. There was the standard rationalization, "It’s me, not you. You just can’t give me what I need." We made empty promises to see each other again, told each other it was for the best.

I had just been fired from the band.

Not again. This was the second band in three months. The first band fired me over e-mail. This one was by phone; at least I’m getting a little more respect each time.

I’ve been playing drums since I was 13. Like a lot of kids, I was drawn to the idea of instrument-playing that basically amounts to hitting stuff with a stick. Plus there’s something very appealing about the nihilistic rock-and-roll-drummer image: Keith Moon, John Bonham, Animal from The Muppets Show. Drummers are the wild ones, unfettered by the artistic sentimentality and subtle poetics of a singer/songwriter or pianist. And drummers often burn out quickly, in a fantastic blaze of hedonistic glory involving vomit, booze, cars, fire, and hookers. Throw in some Star Wars action figures, and that’s exactly what heaven would look like if designed by a 13-year-old boy.

However, I quickly learned that it’s a long road between signing up for drum lessons and burning down a hotel room by dousing a hooker in grain alcohol. In fact, it’s a long road between signing up for drum lessons and actually playing the drums at all. Much to my 13-year-old self’s chagrin, drum lessons started with the decidedly emasculating practice pad — a little drum head about eight inches in diameter and three inches thick, stretched across a bland gray plastic holder. Not something you can really play "Black Dog" on.

First you have to learn rudiments. Quarter notes: 1-2-3-4; eighth notes: 1-and-2-and-3-and-4-and; 16th notes 1-eee-and-a-2-eee-and-a-3-eee-and-a-4-eee-and-a. Then there’s proper stick grip, accents, triplets, rolls. It was close to two months before I was let loose on a real drum set. So, despite the live-fast-die-young image, drummers actually are born out of patience. Maybe that’s why they burn out early — like Catholic schoolgirls at a frat party. Guitar players may be more suave, but when you’re learning guitar you don’t start out on a piece of twine tied to a broom handle, you get a fucking guitar. Pansies.

I made it through rudiments and haven’t looked back since. I love playing the drums. I wouldn’t want to play anything else. But being a drummer presents two very serious problems.

1) Drums are loud. Really effing loud. It’s not like I can just sit on the edge of my bed, plug in some headphones, and silently strum away whenever the mood strikes me. Unless you want to move a lot, playing drums in an apartment building is simply infeasible.

2) Drums are not a solo instrument. People don’t see a drum set and say, "Oh, cool, do you know ‘Stairway to Heaven’?" And you can’t just walk into a party, pick up a drum set that’s lying around, and say, "Here’s a little beat I wrote for Jessica." By themselves, drums are at best a party trick, at worst a self-indulgent room clearer.

And don’t talk to me about bongos. That’s percussion. And real percussion is great, but asking a drummer to play your pair of Toys "R" Us bongos around the campfire is like handing a guitar player a ukulele: "Here, your guitar is too big and loud, but impress us with this."

So to really play drums, you need a band with a rehearsal space. And therein, as they say, lies the rub.

I don’t want to be a rock star. As I head into my mid 30s, the idea of developing a gallon-a-day vodka habit has lost some of its charm. Besides, I have other unrealistic artistic pursuits I’m desperately clinging to — music is just for fun. At most, I want to practice a few times a month and play the occasional show at some two-bit club to a crowd of obligated friends and family. But it has proven surprisingly difficult to find a band with similar dreams of mediocrity.

Which is why I keep getting fired. Lack of commitment.

The last band seemed so promising. The whole thing started when one guy simply said, "Hey, my new apartment has a garage." Perfect. Plus, everyone else in the band worked at Starbucks, so I figured, how much motivation could these guys possibly have? Bad logic on my part. I should have realized that when everyone else in the band is a barista, things are going to get serious quickly.

We started with covers, segued into a couple of songs the guitar player wrote, and next thing you know, the bass player’s bringing in songs and everyone’s talking about touring and how we’re going to split up royalties. Meanwhile, we’d practiced three times. What was born of a quirk in residential zoning turned into The Next Big Thing. They wanted to practice twice a week and put together a demo. I just wanted a free Mocha Java.

I mean, even if the band were good, and even if they somehow got a record deal, it’s still no guarantee of success. Bands are volatile things, and I’m not planning to quit my day job to tour bowling alleys in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan when the band could still implode at any minute. When professional bands break up, the drummer gets screwed. Singers and guitar players go on to solo careers; bass players go on to produce. Drummers, with no understanding of chord structure or keys or notes, go on to sell shoes.

I just want to play, drink some beers, and maybe occasionally light a hotel room on fire. Is that too much to ask? Next week I’m meeting with another band that needs a drummer, but I don’t have high hopes. I told the guitar player I have a job so I can’t practice during the day. "No problem, man. But, I mean, you’d quit your job if we got a record deal, right?"

Sure, dude. Totally.

Bands with little motivation and no drummer can find Alan Olifson at www.olifson.com