A Clash of Cymbals

There’s a peculiar modern habit of dressing up Ringo Starr as some sort of underappreciated rhythmic genius – a sort of percussive Van Gogh, tragically unnoticed in his own time. I’m not having it.

Ringo was fine. Solid. Dependable. The musical equivalent of a Volvo estate – never offended anyone, but never set the room on fire either. He kept time, stayed in his lane, and occasionally surprised us with a quirky fill like a dinner guest who suddenly knows a bit of flamenco. But he wasn’t driving the bus. Half the time he was just hoping no one asked him to take a solo.

Now Bonham – Bonham was different. Bonham didn’t just play the drums – he threatened them. He made the entire band pivot around his groove. When Bonzo was being Bonzo, Led Zeppelin weren’t playing a song – they were riding a thunderstorm. The man had feet like pistons and hands like artillery. His hi-hats had more swing than a dancehall, and his kick drum could realign vertebrae.

People say, “But Ringo influenced loads of drummers.” So did the metronome. The point is: Bonham redefined the bloody job. When he died, Led Zeppelin folded. When Ringo briefly left the Beatles, they didn’t even notice until someone else started playing the toms-toms.

Comparing Ringo to Bonham is like comparing a boiled egg to a vindaloo. Both edible – but only one of them makes you sit up, sweat, and remember it the next day.

Perhaps it's an age thing....