About twenty-two years ago, a bandleader needed a drummer in a hurry. I recommended a guy I'd worked with before. Total pro. Or at least he had been.
Day of the gig, he rolls in, sets up, everything looks normal. Somewhere between soundcheck and downbeat, though, he took a little field trip.
We kick off the first tune, and something feels... off. Looser than I remembered. Then he misses a downbeat coming out of a fill. Couple songs later, another fill that sounded like it'd wandered in from a different song. Then another bad re-entry. The clams started breeding.
First break, he looked even worse.
Thing was, I'd watched him all break. He wasn't at the bar. Just disappeared into the bathroom for a while.
Oh.
Then it hit me.
Glassy eyes. Thousand-yard stare. Wobbly on his feet. Slow to react. That permanent little grin that says, "It's all good, man," when it absolutely isn't.
Turns out he'd been clean when I'd known him before. This time, heroin had come back like it'd spent ten years planning the reunion.
Second set was held together with wishful thinking. Missed cues. Long, unexplained holes in the groove. By the third set, he stopped playing twice in the middle of songs. Once to answer a call from his dealer. The other because he honestly couldn't figure out where he was.
Not metaphorically.
Physically.
Meanwhile I'm dying inside, because I'm the guy who vouched for him.
End of the night, he's tearing down with three cymbals stacked in his arms. One slips out and crashes onto the stage.
He just stands there.
Blank stare.
Another one slips.
Blank stare again.
Then the last cymbal - and by now your whole job is to just hang on to the one you've got left - slides out, rolls across the floor, and comes to rest a few feet short of my amp.
He looks at me and says, "Uh... I... I dropped my cymbals."
I said, "Don't even f***ing talk to me. Get help, man."