The Greatest Showman #1431 – Thin as Hair

Andrew's lips curled into a slight smile, one that he tried hard to hide, but the pride and excitement of a nineteen-year-old were difficult to conceal. His youth radiated between his eyebrows as if he already owned the world.

Sitting before the drum set, Andrew could feel the weight of everyone's attention upon him. But surprisingly, his nervousness had disappeared. He believed in his specialness, in the talent Fletcher had seen in him. He was certain that he could earn his place here, convinced that he was a genius—destined to shine on stage.

This moment, he felt, was his time to shine. He could almost picture himself performing, the spotlight on him, the crowd applauding after his performance.

"Very good, gang. 'Whiplash,'" Fletcher's voice broke through his thoughts as he entered the room. His relaxed posture and confident tone immediately set the tone for the practice. Fletcher's eyes found Andrew. "Slow it down a little, Neiman. You're doing well."

Andrew gave a shallow smile, trying to appear humble, but the pride in his eyes was unmistakable. Deep down, he felt validated, as if he had earned a special place in Fletcher's eyes.

He tightened his grip on the drumsticks, ready to play. He noticed something: Fletcher, after ensuring he was ready, turned and called out, "Start."

That was it—he was special.

"Five, six, seven… let's go," Fletcher ordered.

Andrew's attention shifted fully to the drum set as he began to play. The first part was simple, and Andrew subconsciously counted the beats, "2-3-2," while his hands tightened slightly around the sticks. The rhythm was steady and crisp, executed perfectly in line with the sheet music.

It was good—uniform, stable, and correct—but something was missing. It was a technical performance, almost robotic, without any personal flair or emotion. Andrew didn't dare relax. In the beginning, ensuring accuracy was his priority.

Then, Fletcher's voice came through his ear, "Add something here."

It was a subtle suggestion, one that encouraged Andrew to inject personality into the performance. He should deviate from the rigid beat, add his own interpretation, and bring the music to life.

As he glanced toward Fletcher, memories of their first meeting flashed in his mind—practicing alone in the practice room, then Fletcher's simple nod of approval. Fletcher's words of encouragement during the break now echoed louder. Did this mean Fletcher saw something special in him? Was it his raw talent that made him stand out?

Filled with confidence, Andrew's wrist movements grew more fluid, the rhythm started to jump with added intricacies. He played with more skill, more emotion. His body swayed with the music, almost as if the rhythm flowed through him. He was no longer just playing; he was performing, creating something of his own, a performance that felt as though it was entirely his to command.

In that moment, Andrew felt unstoppable. He felt like a god of music.

Fletcher, observing intently, spread his arms wide and exclaimed, "This is Buddy Rich incarnate!"

Andrew's smile widened. He was Buddy Rich! The youthful energy of the moment felt like the golden rays of the morning sun, radiant and overpowering. His confidence surged, but he reminded himself to remain humble.

He tried to suppress his smile, but his passion and enthusiasm only grew. He pushed himself harder, playing with more flair, more tricks, more style. It was as though the rest of the band had become nothing more than a backdrop to his performance.

But then Fletcher's expression changed. His smile faded, and he raised his right hand, making a fist. He signaled for the band to stop. Only Andrew's drumming continued for a brief moment before he paused, confused.

Fletcher pursed his lips, thinking deeply. He gently pointed out, "There was a problem there. Go back to bar seventeen."

Seventeen bars? Andrew was baffled. He had thought his performance had been praised—wasn't he doing well?

Fletcher returned to his spot at the front, raised his hand, and locked eyes with Andrew. "Ready? Five, six, seven… go."

Andrew began to play again, but now he was unsure. The muscle in his upper body tensed, and he wondered whether he had missed something. Was there too much showmanship? Did he miscalculate the force or the rhythm?

He watched Fletcher intently, hoping for some sign. Was he playing too much? Too little?

But Fletcher's smile was fading more. The coach raised his fist again and halted the music.

Fletcher pinched his right hand as though grasping at the invisible rhythm, his expression serious. "It doesn't quite match my rhythm," he said, his tone calm but firm.

Andrew paused, his pride and confidence quickly dissipating. "My rhythm?" he wondered. What did that mean? How was he supposed to match Fletcher's rhythm?

Fletcher's voice cut through his thoughts. "Let's try again. Five, six, seven… go."

With renewed focus, Andrew returned to the drums, but after just four beats, Fletcher interrupted again. He slowly approached Andrew, making subtle corrections.

"Downbeat—on eighteen, first beat of bar eighteen."

Andrew nodded, embarrassed but determined. "Okay."

The next round, after four beats, Fletcher immediately began shaking his head. When the second four beats began, he raised his fist once again to stop the music. "Bar seventeen, third sixteenth note of beat four," Fletcher instructed.

The technicality was specific—Fletcher was referring to the exact point within the measure, even down to the sixteenth note. It was a small, almost imperceptible difference—"the thickness of a hair"—but it mattered.

Andrew's mind raced. What was he doing wrong? Was his timing off? Was the note too early or too late?

Fletcher gave the signal again. "Five, six, seven… go."