PERFORMING

My first band, in Caracas in the early 1990s, was Bachilleres Desempleados, a few guys from another school who needed a drummer. We rented rehearsal rooms when we could afford them; the rest of the time I practised on my legs at home. At the school party, my classmates joked about whether I could really play those songs. After the show, the jokes stopped, and for the first time I felt a kind of respect I had never experienced before.

A few years later, at design school, Dalton Rodríguez heard that I played drums and asked if I wanted to play a party with his band that same night. I didn’t even own a full kit, just a cheap snare and a hi-hat. He gave me a cassette, and I spent the afternoon learning the songs on my legs, with an imaginary bass drum pedal on the floor. There was no rehearsal. Someone counted one, two, three, four, and it worked. That night was the beginning of Royal: several good years of our own songs, first demos, radio, photo shoots and, finally, my first real drum kit.

In 1996, Skabiosis, then on the radio with “Cuaima”, were looking for a new drummer. They asked me to bring my kit and help with the auditions, playing the songs so the candidates could hear how they should sound. When the last candidate had left, they asked me to join. Leaving Royal wasn’t easy, but within weeks I was playing mini-tours, television and show after show.

From there came festivals, radio, television and tours. In 2002, with Los Pasajeros, we played almost 30 shows in one month across Germany and Austria. With Los Javelin, it was two months on the road through Europe, and later São Paulo. Other bands started calling me when their drummer wasn’t available, including Desorden Público and Los Mentas. And in between, there were always cover bands with old friends.

Playing live taught me things that no book could really explain: how to keep going when you can barely hear the singer, how to find your place in a band you've just met, how to trust your ears when there is no time to think, and how much can happen around a drum kit before and after the music itself.

There are memories that have stayed with me for reasons that have little to do with the music. After one show in Germany, someone stole my band shirt while I was still backstage. It was completely soaked with sweat, as if it had been pulled out of a bucket of water. I still wonder what exactly they planned to do with it.

Another night, I was at the musicians' entrance when two enormous punk guys came towards me. Both were two metres tall, and one had tape across his nose, apparently from a fight. I thought: well, this is it. They stopped in front of me. “Could we have your autograph?” Phew. I wasn't used to people asking for my autograph.

And then there was Bogotá. After a show at Teatro Patria, I came down from the stage to watch the last band. Halfway down the stairs, the audience suddenly stood up and applauded. I froze. The band had already disappeared backstage. I just raised my hand, waited for the noise to settle, and found a chair among the audience.

I've made a lot of friends and connections through playing, and looking back, I realise I have mostly good memories from those years.

Hundreds of shows leave hundreds of stories. The music is only part of them. The people are another.