A View From Behind The Drumkit is a weekly column written by Darkest Hour drummer Ryan Parrish. Follow along as he scribes down some anecdotes and advice from his many years of touring.
Summer of 2001 brought upon some of the most integral elements of Darkest Hour's touring ethical foundations. As a matter of fact, they remain strong and true to this very day. From the ever so classic "Get to the show on time", to the, "Let's leave a little earlier in case we get lost". The proper touring mentality slowly sank within our subconscious and quickly turned us from slacking musicians to somewhat of a professional, touring band. The most standout fundamental lesson that came to light that fateful year for me personally, was the ever so curious act of, "Getting wasted before we play" experiment. An experiment that still lives in prolific infamy in my career.
We rolled into Fort Walton Beach, Florida early that morning as part of an insane and lascivious US trek supporting metal/hardcore titans Drowningman. We had been going hard for the majority of the tour and honestly, the fact we all made it back in one piece was phenomenal. As we loaded into the quaint bar/pool hall on the beach's boardwalk, a look of concern eclipsed our faces. It was one of "those" types of shows. No promotion, no one knew we were coming, and the idea of two metal bands rocking out on the tiny stage befuddled the locals and clearly wasn't an option. As we redirected our gear back towards the van, the promoter magically appeared and ensured us the show had been promoted, people were coming, and Fort Walton Beach was ready to party! So, we set up our gear, found a merch spot, and awaited the masses.
As the hours trickled by, and no one but a Dad, his son, and a bartender were the only inhabitants of the bar. We decided that if we were going to play, we were going to play completely shit-faced. But first, we drew straws with Drowningman to see who would play last. We lost, so we were the chosen ones. I had never played intoxicated and, after positive encouragement and reinforcement from the entire tour to go ahead with the endeavor, I caved and got myself a pitcher of beer all to my lonesome. Once I finished that one, I went ahead and got one more, just to make sure inebriation was the utter outcome. And, my dear friends, as my preparatory actions paid off in stride, I was absolutely hammered without a doubt.
After Drowningman drunkenly played to us, we took the stage kind of late and, holy hell balls, was it a heavenly exhibition to behold. Most of us were fucked six ways from Saturday. Paul and Mike were the only sober ones amongst us. As I counted in the first song on the high-hat, every member of the band started a different song, laughed at each other profusely without stopping to regroup, and through drunken telepathy we each decided to follow the lead of a very sober Mike Schleibaum and Paul Burnette. The drunken half of us figured they'd be our best bet to a successful concert. Yet, even with their keen and precise performances, accompanied by their sober leadership, the rest of us just couldn't quite pull it together and accompany them down the righteous path.
As Fred Ziomek, our shred master guitarist at the time, ripped a wicked solo for absolutely no reason while shrieking at the top of his lungs, I struggled to pummel the double bass section of what apparently sounded like to us at the time as the song, "An Epitaph". Mike, knowing his efforts to rally the troops and obtain order had been deemed unsuccessful, decided to joined in on the solo tip and Paul, holding down the only rhythm audible amongst the empty room, chortled happily and attempted to keep up with me. John Henry, however, dematerialized into the night without a trace. After begging my legs to cooperate and play the damned drums to no avail, I gave up aspiring to rock double bass, crossed my legs atop the bass drum, and relaxed. I still ripped with my arms mind you, but my appendages below the waste, aside from my main vein, were rendered useless. The band was falling into the abyss. Soon after, some random dudes overtook the stage (we happily obliged I should add), guitars, and drums and graced us with their rendition of Slayer's classic tune, "Reign In Blood". Somewhere along the way, I had dropped my pants, only to realize behind the stage was a huge, open window in which gallivanting families and vacationers strolling the boardwalk got a sultry view of my hind quarters in mid-sway. Complete and total insanity.
The plug was pulled. The night came to a screeching halt and the promoter refused to pay either band and eventually banned us from the bar. We attempted to load out in haste. As we stumbled with our gear to our van, we found JH in a bushel of weeds pretending to wade in them as if doing laps in a pool. His glasses lingering amorously in the unknown. Our road dog, Hunter AKA "Dungeon Pig" Gibson asked him simply… "John? What the hell are you doing?" John merely replied, "I'm swimming to Cuba! This is for you Dale!" (in reference to Dale Earnhardt). Later, there were eye witness accounts that an inflatable crocodile flotation device at a rest area was savagely beaten and attacked fifteen minutes or so out of town. There's no concrete evidence to support that claim.
Since that intoxicating incident, I haven't played a drunken concert. I always patiently wait until after the show, and, if you've ever been in our shoes, you would too. If you've got the talent for such a task, which many of my bandmates do, then you sir/madam, have my blessings. As for me, I'll be the sober guy ripping double bass on the kick drum instead of the drunken fool perching my feet on top of it.
The loveable John Henry swimming to Cuba
You can see a sober Ryan Parrish playing drums with Darkest Hour all Summer on the Summer Slaughter tour.
