There’s a drummer downstairs, and every now and I then I hear him tapping out rhythms on the walls, and I tap back. Matching, improvising, changing, challenging.
He came upstairs today, poked his head around the door: “Who is that? Is that Rose? You’re really good!”
I said, “But give me an egg shaker on stage and I’ll lose the beat.” Which is just bullshit.
And isn’t that a true delight: a spade’s a spade, and an old lie doesn’t hold up to daylight anymore.
When the truth knocks and asks if you can come out and play, you should answer with a Yes.