It started long before I knew Dave. The story he always tells me is this: Dave was in elementary school and one of his cousins had a drum set. Every time Dave would go over to his cousinıs house, he would bang on the drums until he was told to stop. This was the warning sign. The tell-tale blinker indicating to his parents and other relatives that Dave was not right in the head.

Because, you see, Dave is a drummer.

Iım sure he would like to be called a percussionist, because ³drummer² gives off the impression of a Neanderthal beating an animal skin into submission. But the label is always drummer in my mind. Because I was a drummer. Or maybe I just havenıt transcended the drummer vibe.

I met Dave in high school. He was a year below me in grade, although heıs only about five months younger in age. I was a junior, fresh off sophomore triumphs of making the top high school band and being the only sophomore snare player on the marching band drum line. Snare was prestigious because it was louder than all the other drums. Which meant that if a snare player screwed up, everyone heard it. Dave also made the snare line and top band in his sophomore year, which meant he was gunning for my ass.

Even way back then, Dave practiced his ass off. Unlike myself (who was considered a phenom merely because I started playing drums before I started playing in a school band), Dave was never given preferential treatment. He had to work and scrap and practice practice practice.

Practice is the difference between musicians and non-musicians, I think. I never liked to practice. Whether or not Dave likes to practice (he does) is irrelevant. It is something that must be done‹many times at the expense of everything else.

Nine years ago, Dave started college. He wasnıt the best student, but he had the raw talent for music‹and college is all about refining the raw talent within. Okay, so maybe college is supposed to be about expanding your horizons, meeting new people, drinking a lot and still getting up in the morning to do homework. But mostly itıs about finding that one thing you are good at and focusing. Becoming the best at that one thing and then (after college is all done with) trying to make money at that one thing.

On Thursday night, Dave gave his senior recital. He was relaxed, confident and phenomenal. A recital is a lot like a thesis. It is researched, practiced and honed into a fine product. But unlike the thesis, which is read by two or three people tops, the recital is given for everyone who wants to check it out. But mostly the recital is for the percussion department, family, friends and music students who must go to three music events as part of their music class grade. In other words, a recital is a performance. Dave performed.

But this isnıt really a review. Iıve seen Dave perform more than any other drummer in the world. Not to say that Iım tired of seeing Dave play. More than anything, it gives me hope that one day Iıll figure out what that one thing for me is. College, unfortunately, did not solve my career schizophrenia problem.

Thursday night, however, was the end for Dave. The end of years of practice. The end of the question ³Should I get my degree or join the Army?² The end of fights with teachers, parents and friends about ³What should I do with my life?² Or maybe itıs just ³When the hell are you going to graduate?²

I have tons of stories about Dave‹and a great many of them are not drum related. Cross-country treks on too much caffeine and lack of sleep. Getting cars stuck in the mud. Walking all the way across town in the middle of the night. Driving around Albuquerque for hours, trying to put life back in the right perspective. All the girlfriends, all the drunken nights, all the macaroni and cheese.

But mostly all the drumming.

Because when I think or see or hear about Dave, there is only one thing that consistently pops into my mind:

I know the best drummer in the world, and his name is Dave.

Matt Worley can play an amusing little shuffle beat from time to time, but heıs no Dave.