The Remix No One Asked For
How a kid with a drum set, a cassette recorder, and big dreams found rhythm, redemption, and a really patient dad.
“Music is a world within itself, with a language we all understand.”
— Stevie Wonder, “Sir Duke”
In our house, music wasn’t just background noise, it was the heartbeat of our family. My father sang bass in a quartet called The Pleasant Five, a group of four singers and a piano player who shared their harmonies with churches all over Western North Carolina.
As a kid, I watched them rehearse with admiration, preferring their upbeat songs and dreaming of joining in.
I couldn’t sing like they could, but I had developed a plan that included a cassette recorder, a drum set, and a wild imagination.
What started as an innocent attempt to contribute turned into a moment I’ll never forget. One that taught me about creativity, mistakes, and the unexpected joy of being heard.
My Musical Heritage
Our home was filled with more than just family and furniture, it was filled with harmony. Music wasn’t something we scheduled. It was something we lived.
The radio was always on in our home and our car. I also sang in the kids’ choir at church and played the bass drum in our kindergarten “orchestra.”
My father’s quartet practiced in our living room, their voices blended tighter than a pair of jeans after Thanksgiving dinner.
The vocal parts consisted of tenor, lead, alto, and my dad’s deep, steady bass, and their incredibly gifted piano player tied it all together like a one-man orchestra with lightning in his fingertips.
They weren’t famous, but to me, they were stars. I admired their dedication and how they carried themselves with purpose.
I didn’t just hear their music, I felt it. And somewhere between the verses and choruses, I started to imagine myself as part of it.
My Imagination (and a Drum Pedal)
One year at Christmas, I unwrapped a cassette recorder. To most kids, it might’ve been just another gadget, but to me, it was a doorway into the world of music.
I recorded everything: songs from the radio, to me and my friend acting goofy, singing made-up songs. My dad even used it to record his quartet songs.
The next Christmas brought the real prize: a drum set. Sure, it was a kid’s version, but it was mine. The kick pedal thumped like thunder, and the cymbals shimmered like they were in a competition with the Christmas lights.
With my new tools in hand, I saw my moment. I was a musician in the making. I grabbed one of Dad’s quartet tapes, cued up my favorite song, and hatched a plan.
I’d add drums to their performance, make it better. All I had to do was push “Play” and “Record,” step on the pedal, and let the rhythm fly. In my mind, I was elevating the music. In reality… things were about to get interesting.
The Remix No One Asked For
So I picked a fast song from one of Dad’s recent performances, fast-forwarded to the chorus, and hit record.
Showtime.
I stepped on the kick pedal with all the confidence of a seasoned studio drummer. BOOM, B-BOMB, B-BOOM BOOM! I was in the zone. I imagined the quartet nodding in approval, the piano player giving me a thumbs-up mid-riff.
I stopped the recording, rewound the tape, and hit play, grinning ear to ear.
And then… silence. The beautiful harmonies and piano cut off like someone had yanked the plug. Then came my solo: BOOM B-BOMB B-BOOM BOOM! More silence. Then the music returned, blissfully unaware of the percussive ambush.
My stomach dropped. I didn’t add drums, I erased part of the song. I stared at the cassette player like it had betrayed me. I’d messed up Dad’s tape. And I had no idea how to fix it.
The Hardest Beat to Drop
For a couple of days, I carried the weight of that drum solo like a backpack full of bricks. Every time I walked past the cassette recorder, I felt a pang of guilt.
Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I cued up the tape, found the spot, and with tears in my eyes, I approached my dad.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice shaking. “I just wanted to play along. I didn’t know it would erase the music.” Then I hit play.
First the music, then the silence came. My big solo: BOOM B-BOMB B-BOOM BOOM. Then more silence. I braced for impact.
But instead of anger, my dad burst into laughter. It was the kind that makes your shoulders shake and your eyes water. He wasn’t mad. He thought it was hilarious.
And in that moment, I learned something powerful: sometimes, the best music isn’t perfect. Sometimes, it’s the unexpected notes, the ones played with heart, that matter most.
Drumming Up a Little Wisdom
That moment with the cassette tape taught me more than any music lesson ever could. I learned that creativity comes with a few wrong notes, but that’s okay.
Mistakes, even loud, bass-heavy ones, don’t have to end in disaster. Love and laughter can turn even a ruined recording into a cherished memory.
My dad’s reaction that day didn’t just save me from a grounding. It gave me confidence. He showed me that trying, even imperfectly, was worth something.
That music wasn’t just about getting every note right, it was about heart, connection, and joy. To this day, whenever I hear a good drummer playing in a band, I smile.
Somewhere between the harmonies and the hiccups, I found my rhythm and a deeper bond with my dad that still echoed in every beat until he passed in 2017.
Choose Wisdom (Before You Hit Record)
Before you go remixing your own tapes or metaphorically stomping on life’s recordings, take a beat - literally. Wisdom doesn’t always come with age, but it does come faster when you’ve erased something important by accident.
Here is something to think about to help you drum up a little wisdom of your own. Hit the reply button and share your answers with me. I’d love to read them!
Has there been a time you tried to “add your own beat” to something and it didn’t go as planned? What did you learn?