Dick Cully fascinates me. He's like a character out of a Charles Bukowski story. He did everything right, studied the greatest drummer on earth, and achieved the coveted hallmark of the masterstroke, the single stroke roll at Buddy's warp speed. Then years later he's on stage telling everyone they suck, and comes across a bit embittered and maybe with a slight brokenness. There's a tragic, poetic irony in that character. As somebody said above, you copy one of the greats and you end up in their shadow.
There are so many guys who coulda been great. In a lot of ways those kind of guys fascinate me more than the big name drummers. I bought an old gretsch shell dynasonic recently, and the gy told me about a drummer who was like as good as Gadd, or Colaiuta, or any of those big names. The guy was walking home from a gig one night and some local tinkers beat the hell out of him for his gig money and left him brain damaged. He spent the rest of his days in a nursing home, in that half cabbage state. Another guy local to me, who I think would have been as important as Bonham, if the stars alligned and he got the right band, but alcohol became his all. So the path is littered with bodies, broken people, skeletal remains.
There's something compelling about the coulda-woulda-shoulda guys. Like an old hollywood siren who's gotten old and lost her looks. In her heyday she was the big screen goddesses. Now nobody remembers her. Ozymandias, the fierce some ruler king, his terrifying edifice surrounded by uncaring desert sands.
As serious as one may be about their art, at the same time you have to have a sense of humour and perspective. Brian Downey the drummer from Thin Lizzy struck me as that type of guy. No matter how big Thin Lizzy got he said that if it all fell apart in the morning he didn't mind because he'd be able to get a job at the post office. So he took it as it came.
Hit the drum, don't let the drum hit you.
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