I heard about a drummer who buried his drum kit, so as not to have to drag it through a hot country without shadows. He only took the drumsticks with him, and found materials to play drums everywhere. For example in the slow train, where he saw a large box. He slammed it gleefully. Until the owner of the box came running angrily, saying bad things in his foreign language. It turned out that there were eggs in the box. He compensated for the few eggs that had fallen by singing a song, accompanied by the sticks and by a fellow traveler with a Spanish guitar.
Later he could have arranged a car to pick up the drum set, but could no longer find the burial grounds. He searched for a day. Then he gave up. He buried his drumsticks in what seemed like a good place. When he started digging, he soon came across his drum kit. He thought. Because what fool, as the fool he was, would ever bury a drum set here in the fucking middle of nowhere? Yet it turned out to be a different drum set. It was a lot nicer and of better quality than his own drum kit.
The drum set was that extensive, that it only just fitted in the borrowed car. When he drove off it looked like the car was a drum set; it rattled and reverberated and sizzled on all sides. The sound became increasingly powerful: fellow road users looked around in surprise. At the first intersection where he had to stop for a red traffic light, a motorcycle police officer soon came to stand next to him. He asked in remarkably good English if the music could be turned down a bit. The drummer tried to explain that he had no music playing, but that the drum kit was making this sound. The motorcyclop didn't believe this, got a little pissed, then stern, then unrelenting: turn off the music or the car was impounded. He had already called for assistance.
After a lot of talking back and forth, which turned into pushing and pulling, he ended up in a rickety police car, his loaner car being driven away by a young police officer. He thought she was pretty, and tried to look flirtatious as she passed and glanced at him. Apparently he had not only lost his drum kit, someone else's drum kit and the loaner car, but also the very last of his little sex appeal seemed to have evaporated in the scorching heat.
The police car took him to an equally dusty police station, where the loaner car also turned up. Two officers got him out of the car and took him to the loaner car, where a couple of men in blue, grease-stained overalls listened to the drums still pounding. One officer turned the knobs on the car radio. No effect. One of the mechanics took a pair of pliers from his overalls pocket and crawled between the drum parts to a panel, behind which the wiring of the car radio became visible. He cut all the wires. No effect. The men then lifted all the parts out of the car one by one. It became quieter as each part was moved. When everything was unloaded, it was completely silent. They were all dumbfounded looking at the extensive set. The drummer pointed to a floor tom, and motioned to put it back in the car. So happened. A full sound echoed in the car, in three-four time. Another mechanic took the tom out of the car again, and immediately it was quiet again.
Because everyone stared in complete flabbergast at the drum kit on display, they hadn't noticed that the young police officer had come up behind them. She had a guitar strapped on, and started to play softly but soon got louder, and louder, and louder. All the men froze except the drummer. He turned to her, and at that moment the drums began to play again. The agent laughed and, as she continued to play, pointed the neck of the guitar towards the car.
As they drove off, an immense mushroom-shaped cloud slid across the sun. It was reminiscent of a nuclear explosion. It started to rain black grit. However, the agent continued to play very loud, and she still smiled at the drummer. He accelerated hard, to get away from the police station, the magic drum kit, the cloud as quickly as possible. Louder, Louder, Louder. Get away from here.