Kicking out the jams

The last time I played music live was around three years ago in West Monroe. The crowd was full of apathetic punkers who liked their music with a dash of The Misfits. The only applause I got was from two 14-year-olds sitting Indian-style two feet in front of me.

The other night I snagged a second chance. This time, I wouldn’t be fronting a band and playing my own original tunes. I’d be going up to Northgate Tavern’s open mic jam night and signing up for drums.

As I drove to the small bar on Chimes Street, my palms were sweating. All I could think about was dropping a drumstick mid-song and annoying the guitarist. I would play too fast. The crowd would laugh and call me “chubby boy,” then leave to party elsewhere.

These little pressures stacked high like the turrets of a Lego castle. I thought my first live performance in three years would be like going back to junior high.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Your chance to feel like a rock star.

SUNDAYS: Brew Ha-Ha (6 p.m., myspace.com/ melovecoffee)

MONDAYS: The Roux House (10 p.m., rouxhousebr.com)

TUESDAYS: The Caterie ?(10:30 p.m., thecaterie.com)

Mellow Mushroom (10 p.m., myspace.com/ mellowmushroom batonrouge)

Phil Brady’s (8 p.m. Acoustic and comedy. philbradys.org)

WEDNESDAYS: North Gate Tavern (9 p.m. Jam. Sign up by 8 p.m. myspace.com/ northgatetavern)

Teddy’s Juke Joint (8 p.m. Blues. teddysjukejoint.com)

THURSDAYS: Phil Brady’s ?(9:30 p.m. Blues. philbradys.org)

The crowd had swelled to 100-plus patrons. Already, a young group of kids were signed up to play. Jam night had gained steam.

When the first band played to their fraternity brothers and girlfriends, my competitive side took off like a boar being chased through the Arkansas woods.

My objective for the night: Make this crowd stay and witness to my drum savvy.

After the first band finished, I stood, then sat, then stood, then sat in a nearby corner, playing beats with my palms and feet, humming what could be the most awesome jam I might play. As soon as they carried off their guitar cases, I stepped up onstage, anxiously awaiting my chance to prove some grit. And I couldn’t have picked a better set of musicians to help me succeed.

A guitarist and bassist I had known only through an alt-rock forum were there, preparing their axes for battle. Then, a saxophonist, a trumpeter and a clarinet player made the stage even more crowded.

As the guitarist shouted the notes of the riffs to the other musicians, he looked at me and said, “Gimme something nice, not too fast.” I took my last sip of beer, glanced at the hi-hat and counted off. My first performance in three years sounded equal parts TV on the Radio, Arcade Fire and blues revival.

The crowd didn’t call me “chubby boy.” They whooped and hollered for more. They stood there as we played with the chemistry of The Band during The Last Waltz. At least, that’s how it felt, and I never once dropped a stick.