Memory is the gauge by which we measure our lives; and our lives can be seen as points in a continuum that picks and chooses our most memorable moments. Mine involve drums, and this is one of those stories.

I recall walking down 52nd street in New York City, nine at night, with my father, past the Café Metropole where Jimmy Cobb and Nat Adderly were introducing the world to “Mercy, Mercy, Mercy,.” You heard the astonishing sounds from the street and the narrow Metropole bar was packed, the overflow snaking outside, guys with gotees and long-haired ladies sipping out of small brown bags while they waited for a spot at the bar. It was 1961. I was 15. I pleaded with my dad to stay and listen, but he said, “Trust me.”

We crossed Broadway, and he pulled me into Basin Street East, a New York City nightclub owned by Ralph Watley, whose savvy sense of jazz had introduced the public to Benny Goodman, Charlie Parker, Peggy Lee, Dizzy Gillespie, and many more. It was a long and narrow place with a small and narrow stage, and my father had booked a ringside table. He ordered scotch; I had coke. Then out came the Dizzy Gillespie, Dizzy with his crazy, bent-up horn , doing “Shoobie-doobie bop, do bop stop…”

Dizzy did his Latin stuff that, at the time, was new and gorgeous. And he did his Be-Bop. The trumpet and saxophone doing that note-for-note together harmony that knocked your socks off. That alone would have been an unforgettable night.

At this point, a little backstory: I was a newly minted drummer. Well, I had a drumset and a teacher—Jake Jerger, the renowned (and now, retired) Chicagoland percussion teacher whose students now populate symphony orchestras and jazz bands and, even more importantly, those whose memories recall the wonderful times we spent working our way through college because we took lessons from the best.

Dizzy finished his set, the piped-in music came on, and the announcer said, “Next up--The Gene Krupa Quartet. Could you have asked for a better dad? Taking me to see Krupa. I was mesmerized. From three feet away, I watched this amazing man do his magic, with brushes and sticks, all the while as cool as you please. I tapped on the table the whole time, trying to keep up.

When the set was done, ,Krupa sat down with us. My dad ordered him a drink (bourbon) and he said to me, “I saw you workin out.” He was a gentleman of the first order.The photographer took our picture, Gene gave me a pair of sticks. I framed that photo, and Gene Krupa remains an inspiration to me.

I have many more drum stories to tell you. I will tell them all.

- Rick Soll