It started the way it usually does - tapping my hands on the table from a wee age. Then came listening to The Police on the radio late into the night, long after everyone had gone to bed. Then came the marching band. The jazz band. The school orchestra. Driving 50 miles in a beat up truck from the 80s with a beat up drum set from the 70s for sixty minutes of pure, hard-rocking bliss. Cheap coffee in dimly-lit studios laying track after track. Ludicrously expensive beer in brightly-lit clubs backing bands who didn't know who your name.
These days the gigs are fewer, but nothing's really changed. I look up mid-set, and there's my daughter tapping her wee hands on the table, and I know it's already started.