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I saw Buddy several time, however, he came to Sherman, Texas many years ago.
The community was treated to the best show available; someone doing something
better than anyone else in the world could do it! As great as the show was,
I wanted to talk about his humanity. He was older, obviously very tired after
the show, but he took the time to sign autographs for everyone who wanted one,
myself included. He was kind, gracious, warm, humorous and patient. In short,
what a
true gentleman! I loved the man for his abundant talent, but just as much for
his friendliness. I named my son after him. That's what he meant to me.
~ Frank Steele
Buddy and I became tight in Las Vegas in the 60's when he was working with Harry James" band. I was playing drums at the time with Billy Eckstine at the Frontier Hotel. One night when I went to see Buddy I mentioned that someone had stolen my hi-hats on the gig. Buddy pointed to a stack of 14" cymbals next to his drums and told me to pick a pair out. To be cute, I said I'll take the ones you're playing. He took them off the stand and laid them on me. That's the kind of generous friend Buddy always was to me. I have countless fond memories of the two of us hanging out at his house on Sombrero Dr. in Vegas and will always miss him.
~ Buddy Greve
A Drum Lesson from Buddy
The year is 1982 or ’83. I’m standing in the student union
at Buffalo State College where I’m a student of chemistry and a jobbing
drummer. I hear some chatter from behind me to the effect of some great
enthusiasm regarding a concert that evening in Ketchum Hall - right on campus.
Only slightly curious, I turned around to see what all the hubbub was about
and find to my alarm and flagrant delight, that Buddy Rich is playing! In
Ketchum Hall! At my school! TONIGHT!!!
So I made a sprint (that would have made any track star envious,) over
to the hall and through a series of honest mistakes in direction, wound
up back stage. All though I’d had a few classes in Ketchum Hall, I
didn’t know it had a “stage/concert hall.” For a millisecond
I thought “this is terrible, how could they put Buddy in a place like
this, it’s gonna sound terrible.” But none-the-less, there I
was standing stage left, Buddy’s drums were maybe 15 feet from me.
I couldn’t help it, I knew better, but the adrenaline rush in conjunction
with impetuous youth overcame my good sense and I walked over to Buddy’s
drums. I’m in seventh heaven of course, in a world of surrealistic,
transcendental bliss, when out of nowhere I hear, “Hey kid, what the
f&%$ are you doing on my stage?!” I wake up and look up and who’s
coming at me from across the stage, but a very irate drumming God, the master
himself – hell bent for election. “Kid,” he yelled, but
before he could finish, I shoved my adams’ apple back up to where
it belonged and croaked out “I’m sorry Mr. Rich, I’m a
student here and I just found out a few minutes ago that you were playing
tonight, I’m sorry My. Rich, I didn’t mean to end up back here……….” “Kid,
I don’t like anybody %^$#@#$ around with my equipment.” Trying
to not soil myself I replied, “I know sir, I don’t like it when
somebody screws around with my drums either, I wasn’t going to touch
them, I just wanted to get the view from the captain’s chair, I’m
sorry………….”
Click here to read the fully story!
Speaking of tears, I share this latest incident with you because it further
illustrates the importance and impact Buddy continues to have to this day.
I am a power lifter, 250 lbs. of heavily muscled baldness (yes, I have
an eerie resemblance to Mr. Clean.) I go into the gym last night where
I am met by my old college friend and fellow drummer, Ben, who also happens
to be an avid Buddy Rich fan. In several prior occasions we had shared
our individual "Buddy Stories" and swapped DVD's and CD's etc.
When out of no where Ben says "you've got to hear this" and
begins to read a "Buddy Story" that he just printed off the
net. Yes, he is actually reading my own story back to me, but since it
sounds kind of nice, (having your own words read to you) I let him continue
without interruption.
I begin to load the bar to my target bench press weight of 405 lbs.,
Ben is immediately to my right orating his newest find and I begin to
fade back more than 2 decades and relive those wonderful moments. I can
see with surgical precision the steam pouring out of Buddy's ears when
he catches me on stage, how cordial he becomes when he finds out that
I'm a drummer, the almost parent like demeanor he attains when trying
to teach me about the functions of time, the confidence he exudes on stage
and the priceless gift of attention that he gladly pays to some goof ball
college kid from Buffalo as he unleashes his talent for all to witness
and revel in.
And what do you think this 250 lb., shaven-headed, power lifting, tough
guy starts to do in this moment of revisited rapture? Why naturally, he
begins to cry (as does Ben, the reader of the missive.) To make matters
worse, with tears comes blurred vision. High emotion, blurred vision and
heavy weight make for a disastrous combination as I mishandle one of the
45 lb. plates I'm trying to load onto the bar and proceed to drop the
damn thing on my ankle. Just when you think things can't get any worse...........enter
my training partners. 7 shaven-headed men, each weighing in excess of
275 lbs. very heavily muscled, tattooed and about the scariest humanoids
that walk the planet. So the scene is this: a power lifting dungeon where
a tall, slender, artistic looking man is crying while reading to a thickly
built, shaven-headed moron that also happens to be crying while swearing
and hopping around on one foot. My training partners stand there completely
agape trying to figure out what is going on when Joe, the guy we call
the "pit bull" (because he looks like one and has the same nasty
disposition says,) "Looks like Matt and his lover had a quarrel and
they're reading poetry to each other."
Flustered, embarrassed, blinded by tears, in excruciating pain I do the
only thing a reasonably well educated, tough guy can do. I make a fist,
extend one (and only one) digit, make some comment to Joe about his questionable
parentage and storm off in violent, limping protest, out of the "dungeon" down
the corridor and into the men's shower room. Wrong again. Make that the
women’s shower room. Naturally several of the women were not at
all happy to see me and told the manager of the establishment who then
found it necessary to suspend my membership for a week.
So my training partners think I'm gay, my wife thinks I'm a pervert,
and my friend Ben thinks I belong in a straight jacket. Boy if Buddy could
only see me now!
I'm in sooooo much trouble.................
(Click her to read Matt's previous submission.)
~ Matt S.
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