Teaching

Driven by rhythm. For the song.

I teach the drums as a musical instrument, not as a collection of exercises. Technique matters, but it has a purpose: more control, more choices and more freedom to express yourself through music. Every student arrives with a different background and a different idea of what they want to play. I start by understanding where you are, then we see what needs work and move forward with a clear direction.

Foundations, made musical.

We work on the essentials: time, coordination, sound, dynamics, technique, reading and independence. But they don’t stay on a practice pad. We bring them to the kit, into grooves, fills and songs, until they’re there when you need them, without having to think about every movement.

A clear path, at your pace.

I organise learning in three broad stages, beginner, intermediate and advanced, with smaller milestones along the way. We establish what you can already do and decide what comes next, and a personal practice plan shows you what to practise and why. The pace depends on you, not on a fixed timetable. After that, what you need most is the stage, the studio and other musicians. Lessons can still be part of it, but they turn into a conversation between two drummers.

Listen, not just play.

Good drumming means steady time, knowing the role of the drums in a song, and knowing when to play, when to simplify and when to leave space. Mistakes are part of learning. What matters is keeping the music moving.

The aim isn’t simply to play more. It’s to understand more, listen better and become a more independent musician.

Where it started.

My first musical memories come from the house of one of my grandfathers, Regino, a Cuban musician from Havana who had settled in Caracas in the 1940s. It was full of instruments: a piano, an organ, batá drums, congas, bongos and, in a back room, a Yamaha drum kit.

At secondary school, a music teacher, Luis Mota, ran a one-semester drum workshop. My best friend dared me to join: “Don’t be a coward.” There were no drums. We played backbeats on our legs and on practice pads Luis built from wooden boards. At the end of the year we played a show in a full auditorium, on a real kit for the first time. It was far from perfect, but that day I fell in love with the instrument and with the stage.

After that, I learned by ear, alone in my room, repeating records until I could play them. My great hero turned out, years later, to be a drum machine. In a way, it was my first real teacher, and it taught me what I still value most: listening.

Formal lessons came much later, and in small doses: about six with Luis Tomás García in Caracas, after recording Judy Buendía’s first album, and four with Bruno Meeus in Belgium, to check where I stood. I’ve lost count of the clinics I’ve attended, and a workshop with Dom Famularo felt almost spiritual: a real eureka moment.

So I know both sides: learning without a teacher, and what a good teacher can open up, even for a working drummer. I still go looking for that, and it shapes every lesson I give.

Before the first lesson.