Page 81 of Shame Me
Zack said, “We sure can.”
From that little exchange, I thought at first that we might have some allies. But as we headed toward the dressing room, one of them said, “You might want to lose the girl. She’d be better beating me off than beating those drums.”
Turning, I tried to think of a good retort, something that would shut up whichever asshole had said it—but all I could come up with was lame replies that would only make them laugh harder.
But Braden said, “Dani’s a hell of a drummer. I’d put her up against any man any day of the week.”
I felt a surge of pride that Braden had defended my honor—but it quickly faded. One of the other guys in their band said, “Women don’t belong in metal.”
“Says who?” It shot out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“Women don’t belong on the battlefield or working as cops or firefighters or any shit like that. That’s why they call them policemen, firemen, servicemen. Girls are there to bear our children, suck our dicks, and cook us dinner.”
God…they were so disgusting, and I couldn’t even think of anything else to say.
Zack said, “You’re missing out if you think that’s all women are good for. Let’s go.”
And, with as much dignity as I could, I walked away with my band, holding my head high.
But after we were a little farther away, I heard one of them say, “I bet she’s gonna take all three at the same time. That’s why they keep her around.”
My cheeks were flaming as we made our way to the dressing rooms, especially when I remembered that time I’d been high on Ecstasy and had actually contemplated that in my love-addled brain.
When we piled inside the guys’ dressing room, I told them what the AR assholes had said, trying not to blush again as I repeated it. Pulling a half pint of vodka out of his backpack, Zack said, “Just try to ignore them.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Zack. They weren’t tellingyouyou don’t belong onstage.”
“It has nothing to do with that. I’m asking you to not make waves. We gotta pay our dues.”
“Youdon’t have any fucking dues to pay.”
Braden said, “She’s right.”
“Stay out of this,” Zack said, taking a big gulp of vodka and setting it on the counter. “Look, I know they’re singling you out because you’re a woman—but you’ll earn their respect when they see you play hard night after night. They’re right—there aren’t many women in metal, so you have to prove them wrong.”
“That’s bullshit.” And I wasn’t about to argue anymore. “I’ve already proven myself.” But had I? Worse than their insults and jabs, they’d made me begin to question myself. As I opened the door, I said, “I’ll be out in the bus.”
Braden asked, “You’re not coming to the party?”
“Fuck no. I’m not going to set myself up for more insults.”
Zack said, “That’ll just make it worse. If you want to be treated like one of the boys, you need to—”
I slammed the door so I wouldn’t have to hear anything else from him. It was bad enough being once again denigrated by misogynistic men in music…but to have my best friend, my boyfriend defend them?
I was furious.
And I decided that maybe I needed to exert a little creative independence once again. I wanted to show them all that I was far more than a piece of ass.
A much more confidentdrummer than I’d been in the beginning, I wondered if maybe part of the reason why I was being dismissed all the time had more to do with my skills and less with my being a woman…although the misogynists I’d encountered would have blamed my basic playing on my gender.
I loved Zack and, nowadays, I was grateful that he’d dragged me along, practically kicking and screaming—but I also felt stifled. How many times had he told menotto get creative?
Well…I couldn’t imagine playing the drums till the day I died if I didn’t get a chance to thrill the audience. Sure, I’d been learning clever tricks like twirling my drumsticks between my fingers and tossing one in the air and grabbing it before the next beat—and I’d thrown in a few extra fills now and then in some songs—but I wanted to contribute more, something differentmusicallyall the time. Most of our songs sounded the way Zack wanted on the album, but why couldn’t I play way differently when we were live?
That would be my argument.
So in the bus on our way back to Atlanta, I started watching YouTube videos on my phone and discovered there were way more drum fills than I’d ever imagined. Several drummers said that the way to get good at them so I could improvise onstage was to practice them—with a metronome would be best, but I didn’t have access to my kit on the road until soundcheck or a show.
