I was foreign to jazz when I met you, it was only used as a tool to portray coolness at parties. If you had it on vinyl, extra points. It was the millennial equivalent to sneaking Johnny Cash onto the playlist. I didn't know dick about jazz, nor was I really concerned about the amount of pretentiousness I could display. I looked at music the way I listened to art, if it made my ears happy I didn't care. When I met you, I was going through a musical transformation. I had a pretty mixed bag of tunes on my playlist, but I kept mainly to the basics and, as all things men, I wasn't unpredictable with the migration to new musical genres, the latest was the immersion of techno and it's quick omittance after a breakup which would bring me back to---goth, punk, industrial, you know the usual suspects.

When I met you, you had just gotten back from Berklee School of Music in Boston. Apparently the winter there was too much for you and I think you had a healthy fear of the Music Theory class. Much to my newfound happiness, you would be pursuing those endeavors at Virginia Commonwealth University. I honestly had no idea anyone could major in jazz percussion. All I kept imagining was you in a penguin suit at the back of the orchestra banging that really big bass drum --- how silly you looked in that image, but like most things of that time, I was a young adult trying to find her way through ramen, a breakup, and who my BFF was that week.

I had listened to music my whole life. My parents were avid fans, and weekend mornings were filled with the crackle and pop of Motown, the Blues, Zydeco, Latin music, and power ballads...yes, my dad, loves the power ballad, nicely juxtaposed between Glen Campbell and Scott Walker and my mother had a massive crush on Neil Diamond and could sing ABBA's "Fernando" til her voice gave out. The point is, I was no stranger to music, but it was rather routed in my blood from early on.

When I was in third grade I was given the xylophone, made of steel pipes because our school couldn't afford a real one. In 4th grade, I migrated to this little organ my parents got for playing Christmas songs around the house. In 5th grade, I surrendered to peer pressure and joined marching band. We all had to pick which instruments we wanted to play. I did not hesitate in my want to play the drums. I loved the drums. "You can't choose the drums. You're too small for the drums," I was told. My music teacher did not think I was apt enough to carry a snare drum and march at the same time, even though I could place First doing a gymnastics bar routine at the Junior Olympics. "Flute?" He responded with, "No, you don't have the lips for flute and there are a ton of flute players already, how about trombone." I stared off into space on that one. Trombone? How is a girl to look remotely cute carrying a trombone?? It wasn't until I got to the cliche clarinet that the excuses stopped.

So, you wanted to play drums huh?
Yeah, I mean who doesn't want to learn drums?
Well, I know a good drum teacher if you are ever looking to learn.

And that's where it all began with you and I. Between paradiddles and double flams, I fell in love with you and in love with jazz. You taught me so much about the construction of music. I have never listened to it the same again. We would listen to Miles or Coltrane in your room and talk about different movements in a composition. It fascinated me, as it was "math" I could understand. It wasn't just because I was crushing on you hard, but it deeply changed my listening capabilities. You were a great teacher and it was difficult to have to stop learning. I had discovered that all these "flirtings" I was experiencing were imaginary, for you, I discovered had a very real girlfriend. It was too intimate and romantic for me to be listening to jazz with you and having you teach me proper stick holding technique. I adapted quickly and decided to have a friend who loved music as much as I did and would soon become a fan of your playing instead.

I've always gravitated towards men in bands. It wasn't something I seeked out, but rather a product of my environment. In high school it was skaters and in college it was musicians. Right after we met, I had one break my heart. It was fortunate that his band dissolved shortly after. It made things easier going to their shows because I loved that band. It has been rare, if even at all, that I've dated a band member whose group I didn't like. Ultimately and honestly, I tend to choose music over men. Robert Smith won a place in my heart long before I started dating, and would always be there with every breakup.

During the early 1990s, as emo started taking over the aggressive hardcore scene here, I was getting introduced to some new sounds and your band was no exception. I have to say it was a bit more civilized than the environment I was coming from --- less wifebeaters, more cardigans. I also retreated from said "scene" due to some unfortunate circumstances and it left a very bad taste in my mouth. Let's just say, boys will be boys and I didn't believe in the cause anymore.

I started going to post-punk shows during this time with reunited friends while attending Goth dance night at the local spot. You would casually tell me when you were playing, and I casually made my presence known. You guys were good. You guys were tall. I didn't have to get punched in the stomach listening to you, so that was nice. So there you were, a jazz percussionist in a post-punk band. I asked you about it, what it was that you were aiming to do, and you plainly said, "Play drums." You aspired to be Elvin Jones, but you would have to settle for Matt Chamberlain if you wanted to see any real success. It wouldn't be until a year later that I would learn just how dedicated to your craft you were, but I was your biggest cheerleader from the beginning. I enjoyed watching you play and picking out certain mannerisms that had become quite common in your playing. You were infamous for sticking out your tongue!

You showed me a whole different side of you one night in Bogart's backroom. I got to really see your talent as you sat in with a jazz quartet. You could really play. I was proud of you in ways I'd never been proud of a friend before and although I enjoyed your rock shows, the jazz ones were the ones that got me. A year would have to pass before you and I made any kind of music together and within that, we found our rhythm.

Emo. The first time I ever heard this term for music was in 1991. The first "emo" band I was witness to were a quartet from New Jersey called Policy of 3. Emotional punk rock. Meh, it had some build to it and instead of barking there was wailing, but I did love it! What music that was deemed "emo" after 1995 was, in my opinion, not emo. Semantics I suppose, but you and I grew up with skateboarding, punk rock and good hip hop, we didn't give the glammed up kiddies any street credit for these things. I think you and I were also entering an age where we were being exposed to new bands constantly. Richmond had become a haven for bands, touring and residing.

You started playing and touring with some notable bands during this time. I never thought that it was serious business. I just thought, all of you guys, in your Vans and corduroys, were having a good time. I know, I was having a good time. I loved going to shows at that time and I love going to see you play. I was always up front, rockin' out and of course always with the perfect outfit. If Gwen Stefani did anything for us girls at the time was allowed us to don chokers, baggy cargos and show off our midriffs or was it us who did that for her?

That year you and I remained close. You kept teaching me, playing for me, exposing me to develop my relationship with music. It was a hard fight not to fall for you. You were smart and I felt more comfortable with you than I did with anyone else. You had become beyond a boyfriend. You had become my friend who I adored and wanted good things for. That was the most resistance I ever allowed myself in my life. I am always the person who visualizes success in her endeavors and I tend to make them happen, but with you, there was something in the way and I respected that.

You entered my bedroom in a huff. My heart literally fluttered at the site of you. Tall, hovering over me. I hugged you and welcomed you home from your cross country trip with your boys. You had sent a postcard or two and inside me, I knew you cared. You handed me a tape.

Listen to this. I made it and put some new music on there for you.
Wow, thanks!
I gotta go, but hey, have you ever been to New York?
What? Um, no, why?
We are touring there in a couple of weeks, you guys should come with us.

Before I could answer, the tape was in my hand and you were gone with nothing more than a "Later". How mysterious, and I was kinda upset that you left so quickly. I immediately and religiously listened to that cassette. My roommate came home and I tackled her with the request we go on this mini-tour. She agreed, as she was gaga over the guitar player. I felt like this was one of those moments like in Some Kind of Wonderful, where Keith (Eric Stoltz) is chasing after Watts (Mary Stuart Masterson) because he's realized that he's in love with his best friend, but instead of John Hughes I got Aaron Spelling. New York is another story for another time.

I would soon see you share the stage with Jimmy Eat World, No Knife, Fugazi, Piebald, and other notables of the time. You continued to open up my world musically and I continued to pine wishingly, but as the universe weaves it's plan, we would have to wait for our song to be written. I never missed your band play and it is you who gave me the spectator sport of watching drummers play. I don't listen to jazz anymore, but I still hear you on your practice pad --- Left-Right-Left-Left Right-Left-Right-Right...and the beat goes on.