Snares

Buddy Rich died in April 1987, a marvellous drummer but allegedly a demanding, short-tempered, bullying man. There’s a story that goes round musician circles – I’m almost certain I heard it on Parkinson – that just after Rich died, his widow took a phone call at home.

“May I speak to Buddy Rich?” the caller asked.

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “Buddy Rich is dead.”

“Oh, I see.’

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again.

“May I speak to Buddy Rich?” the caller asked.

“I’m sorry,” his widow replied. “Buddy Rich is dead.”

“Oh, I see.’

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again.

“May I speak to Buddy Rich?” the caller asked.

“I’m sorry,” his widow replied. “Buddy Rich is dead.”

“Oh, I see.’

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again.

“May I speak to Buddy Rich?”

“I don’t know who you are but I’ve told you three times already: Buddy Rich is dead!”

“I know” said the caller. “It's just so good to hear it!”

And that’s the story that’s been stuck in my head all day today. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going off to watch the news again.