I love ya kid, but your drums suck.

Phil Collins. Don Henley. The guy from the Everyday Visuals. There are definitely drummers out there who can sing. And my uncle Johnny? Definitely not.

I remember these great stories of him opening for the Stones, of dragging his first kit home on the green line from Copley out to the end of the D line (that’s got to suck.) The Midnight Suns was his band….great name….I’m still hoping that some random Google search will bring up some clip of him in a bandana and crappy ripped jean jacket. But these stories wouldn’t be complete without a puff of smoke and this gargled hacking laugh in your face. Tremendous individual though. The man was Boston through-and-through. God forbid any other 2^nd tier blood reads this, but he was my favorite of that group. You always knew when Johnny was coming, because someone busted out the ashtray and the O’Doul’s. And if I got home late, I’d hear him plugging away at my snare, over and over again. Then he’d come downstairs with that kick-ass swagger of a man who had a bass drum instead of a heart, and it’d always be the same….”I love ya kid, but your drums suck.” Nothing like a consummate rocker to put me in my place.

He actually walked out of a Who concert back in ’00, shaking his head at the testosterone-crazed youth bouncing around to “My Generation,” shaking his head and muttering, “you kids just don’t get it.” And that damn drum stool! He had this crap woven-topped, weak-legged drum stool, this crappy little thing that obviously hadn’t gotten enough vitamins in its youth. Which was, coincidentally, sometime around the early 70’s, when my uncle first bought it. If you looked at the thing, it just fell over. Like those damn goats (seriously, check out YouTube for fainting goats or something like that…freakin’ hilarious.) So Johnny gives me this piece of crap one year for Christmas, and it’s all sentimental, all eye-water and lung-butter, which was cool. So then I give it back to him the next year, trying to be all sentimental back (or cheap, depending on how you looked at it.) He opens this, and totally deadpans “What the hell is this? What made you think I wanted this back?” This ritual went on for at least 3 more years. The poor guy even picked it during a Yankee swap. Oh well.

Funny thing is, I’d love to have that stool right now.

Johnny never actually claimed to sing, but his band was pretty tight, according to my mom, and my nana used to talk about how much bacon the Jewish guys in the band would plow through after practice at her house on Saturday mornings. I’m not making a direct connection between bacon and singing abilities, because if I were, than my history of bacon sandwiches at the Abbey would’ve made me Frank Sinatra. I guess what I’m trying to say is, his drumming was great. His sarcasm superb. His ability to make himself a better person was truly admirable. But if I had to tell him about his singing, it’s probably come out something like: “Johnny, I love ya, but your singing sucks.” And that’s the truth.

My uncle Johnny died this morning.

I miss you Johnny. Keep the beat, wherever you are.