The stage set-up and your elevated kit makes you the centerpiece, the focal point of today’s gig, the visual point of convergence, where all energy comes together. Is it on purpose, did the band decide to become miniscule by comparison, minions in a show designed around a massive drumkit and, by extension, you the drummer? You’re high-up, virtually on a throne, looking down on bandmember servants, thinking: ‘oh, you poor people, what did you do to deserve this, how did you end up slaving away for me’. Slowly you bring your drumsticks into position. You’re not counting, not shouting (or even whispering) a well-meant 1-2-3-4, it’s up to them, these musicians below, to follow your lead, pay attention to your rhythm, your rule. Counting is beneath you, does a ruler help her servants? They pay attention, look up, poor followers, admiration on their faces. The vague smile of the singer, technically frontman of the band, indicates more than is meant to be shared.

As the pace of the windmachine increases, lifting your hair into a wave, creating a halo accentuated by spotlight, there is nowhere else to look, no other point of interest. Your bobbing head demonstrates the essentials of wave physics, sometimes amplifying the wind machine, sometimes counteracting it, making your hair drop fractionally before lifting it again. The band plays on. Are they really unaware of the spectacle behind, how you metaphysically rise, leave your throne, become a divine symbol, embracing stage, band and audience, disconnected from drumsticks that seem to operate independently, are they really unaware, and am I the only one observing this? Too far away to properly assess reality, but nowhere else to look, no other place I would rather be visually than right between drumsticks and windmachine.