A Cymbal of Our Love

I have already mentioned my son the drummer and the little drum kit we got him for his third birthday. At first, we hesitated to get it for him, because the catalogue indicated that it was for “ages four and up.” Maybe he wouldn’t be ready for it. Quite the contray, it was not ready for him. Within the first month, he busted the head of the snare drum. We brought it into the local drum shop and they worked hard to find a replacement head that fit, finally landing on the ingenious idea of using a banjo head. About a month ago, the cymbal broke, though this was no huge loss given that it was always the weak link in this cheap little kit, sounding tinny and thin even in its prime. We shelled out a little over a hundred bucks for the kit, and I guess we got what we paid for.


Last week, O’s replacement cymbal came, an honest-to-god Zildjian cymbal and stand. O. was beside himself with excitement, and since then he has told just about every person he’s talked to about his new cymbal. Ever since the day he got his drums, O. has gone through the same ritual each time we walk down the basement stairs to go “rock out.” He crouches as he gets to the middle of the stairs, as if to be able to see his drums just a moment earlier, and then exclaims “there’s my drums!” as though he wasn’t 100% sure they’d still be there. Now he’s added a new element to the ritual, the earnest profession “I love my new cymbal.”

I can see why he loves it. It truly is beautiful, both to look at and to hear. Instead of a thudding little tin shot, it has a clear, sonorous ring and responds to different intensities of impact with a variety of sounds, from a soft, clipped tsk tsk tsk to a full, echoing crash. It’s a good thing it sounds so nice, because it was damned expensive. It would have cost about $100 if it hadn’t been for our friend’s discount at the music supply company he works for (thanks big O!). As it was we paid merely $50. It’s a good thing I didn’t realize how fucking expensive drum parts are, or I might not have been as exuberant in my desire to encourage little O’s percussive proclivities. But really, it wouldn’t have mattered. This is any rockstar-wannabe mama’s wet dream.