I’m not sure what kind of person makes a drummer, because they are so wildly different. The star of Whiplash and a 14-year-old kid in a punk band have a different set of goals, even though they are expressing themselves through the same instrument. You have to be a certain kind of person to want to play music seriously. There is a type that sees the value in sticking to it.

When I was at primary school, boys never let me near a drum kit, because “girls can’t play drums”. But while other kids learned instruments and became disillusioned, I always had this little fire in my belly. Even now, when I play drums, I still feel like an excited teen.

A lot of drummers are studious and read percussion notation, but I started off hitting pillows to video clips of Hanson songs in the living room. The band’s drummer, Zac, was 11, tiny and on TV. Everyone needs that moment of realisation – “I can do that!” – and seeing a kid my age and stature in a successful band was mine.

My mum was a singer and my dad played bass; he bought me my first drum kit for my 12th birthday. I took lessons with a local jazz teacher, but after a couple of months he told my dad he wanted to let me follow my own path. I thought it was really cool of him to say, let her teach herself all these songs, she has a good ear. I found the best learning process was sitting at my drum kit, headphones on, listening to songs by Tool and Led Zeppelin, music that had intense drumming.

Performing well has a lot to do with feeling relaxed and confident, as opposed to warm-ups before a show. It’s important to do the best work you can, to honour the composition and nail the parts you’re playing, but it’s difficult to have an achievement that is separate from everyone else. As a band, you are a package: it’s a very emotional experience, with the same three people every night over an extended period of time.

Outside Warpaint, I’ve played with Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Kurt Vile and Regina Spektor. When I play more aggressive stuff, I can snap two pairs of sticks a gig. It’s a different game now: Warpaint don’t go that hard.

I don’t get nervous before shows, but sometimes, on TV, I get a cramp in my hand muscles. Something just hits me and I grip the sticks differently – like a monkey, rather than a human who has practised this for a decade.

Drumming suits my personality more than being a singer in the spotlight. I don’t want to be famous. As a child playing Steely Dan in my bedroom, I would close my eyes and fantasise about playing a massive festival; I never wondered what it would be like to hook up with Leo DiCaprio.

(Top picture: Deap Vally’s Julie Edwards, photographed by Deirdre O’Callaghan at the band’s rehearsal space, Los Angeles)

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Stephen Morris, photographed in his home studio, UK. Photograph: Deirdre O'Callaghan

In Manchester, in the early 1970s, there was very little to do; it was all grey. If you wanted to hear music, you had to go to concerts at the Free Trade Hall and the Stoneground to see bands like Genesis. Phil Collins was an interesting drummer, and probably still is. When punk came along, you pushed all those records under your bed and pretended you never liked them at all.

Joy Division were called Warsaw then. I saw two ads in a magazine. One was “Drummer wanted: Warsaw” and the other was “Drummer wanted: the Fall”. I thought, hmm, I could probably do both. But I phoned up [Joy Division frontman] Ian Curtis and got the job.

It was really difficult getting a gig because there weren’t that many venues. Nobody liked punk bands. It was us versus the establishment; we quite liked being on the outside of it all. There was the bloody Manchester mafia, where the Drones would get gigs, and the Buzzcocks, and everybody else – but we couldn’t get a gig. So when you did, you’d really go for it.

We knew Tony Wilson, who became our manager; he saw us, and everyone thought we were fantastic, even though it was probably more anger that set us apart. And then people started getting interested.

Working with our producer Martin Hannett on the album Unknown Pleasures was interesting and infuriating. You’d listen to it and wonder how it had got from what you imagined, which was very raw and live and raucous, to the way it sounded. It was like, what’s he done? I had to record all the drums separately. Martin wanted the bass drum in the ballroom, and the snare drum in a tin can, and the hi-hat in a little cardboard box – which is dead easy to do now, but not then.

The worst was Love Will Tear Us Apart. We had recorded it, and I had done the drums over and over again. We were staying in a flat in Baker Street in London, and I had just got my head down when the phone went. It’s bloody Martin: he wants us to come back and do the snare drum. Every time I hear Love Will Tear Us Apart, all I can hear is the anger of being dragged out of bed.

Jim Sclavunos (Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds, Grinderman, Sonic Youth and the Cramps)



Facebook Twitter Pinterest Jim Sclavunos, photographed at home, New York. Photograph: Deirdre O'Callaghan

I’m mostly self-taught, but for a few weeks I took lessons from Jim Payne, an esteemed drummer and teacher. He taught me many things, one of which has stuck with me – the admonition that in order to be properly balanced on one’s throne so that all limbs can move freely and independently, one must have a “relaxed asshole”. That’s very important wisdom for any student of the instrument.

The key moment of my recording career happened very early on: I was listening to a playback of a song I had just recorded, and was dismayed by the loud clicking sound that was meant to be the sonic representation of my kick drum. I resolved to understand more about the sound of drums, and about producing. I had my own particular sound that I felt was unique, if raw, and much better.

Leroy ‘Horsemouth’ Wallace (Burning Spear, Dennis Brown, Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, Gregory Isaacs, Studio One session drummer)

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Leroy ‘Horsemouth’ Wallace, photographed at home in Jamaica. Photograph: Deirdre O'Callaghan

I still play music because, like my friend Bob Marley, I have a dream. I still hear him in my ears. He says: “Horsemouth, go there and do it. You are there. Maybe you are the only one left.”

The drumsticks I played with in Rockers [the 1978 reggae film] weren’t real. I couldn’t find mine, so I took two posts out of some old chairs in the back of a hotel. It’s not about the drumsticks, it’s you. A lot of drummers don’t master the beat; you can see it in their faces, they’re dying for the song to be done.

You make your own space. Reggae represents a lot of things. It’s several beats in one. It’s hip-hop, Tchaikovsky – in everything you play, there is a reggae beat.

Larry Mullen Jr (U2)



Facebook Twitter Pinterest Larry Mullen Jr, photographed in Ireland. Photograph: Deirdre O'Callaghan

I formed the band in Dublin in 1975, around the time of the punk explosion: it seemed anything was possible. Being able to play your instrument proficiently was the least important part; attitude was essential, which was really great news for us – we were not accomplished musically, but had a singer with attitude. At school, we rehearsed on Wednesday afternoons in Mr McKenzie’s music room – the first song we wrote was called Wednesday Afternoon. We argued endlessly over musical indiscretions – we still do.



I was a huge glam rock fan. In 1973, Cozy Powell released Dance With The Devil, which reached No 3 in the UK charts. It’s a rare and beautiful thing for a drummer to have a chart hit. But if glam, pop and rock, along with Dance With The Devil, were my wake-up call, then Hunky Dory, Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane would become my most important benchmarks, with one of the all-time great rock drummers, Woody Woodmansey, playing on all three. I had no clue what Bowie was singing about.

Carla Azar (Autolux)



Facebook Twitter Pinterest Carla Azar, photographed in her studio, California. Photograph: Deirdre O'Callaghan

When I was four, I went to a football game with my parents in Huntsville, Alabama. There was a drum line playing right behind us. In retrospect, they were probably not very good, but I remember turning around and being mesmerised.

The most addictive thing to me in music is spontaneity, chaos and honesty – especially when playing live. I feel the most satisfaction when I finish and I don’t understand how I played some of the things I played.

Dave Grohl (Nirvana, Them Crooked Vultures)



Facebook Twitter Pinterest Dave Grohl, photographed at home in Los Angeles. Photograph: Deirdre O'Callaghan

In Nirvana, I never got recognised. I lived this perfect existence: I was in one of the biggest bands ever, but I could walk in the front door of a gig and no one would know. I could get up and play those great songs with my friends and watch people go bananas.

Some of my favourite drummers would be considered some of the worst of all time because their tempo fluctuates so much, or there is inconsistency – but it’s the passion that interests me. I can’t do a solo. I never practise by myself. It’s like, I’d never really dance alone.

As a drummer, it’s your responsibility to make sure this thing gets off the ground, but you don’t expect any thanks. You’re there to serve the song; you’re there to get people to move. They might not really know why they’re dancing, but it’s you.

I’ve always been fascinated by the Ringo Starr debate. Was he a great drummer? Of course he was a great drummer: you hear three and a half seconds of his playing and you immediately know it’s him.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Bobbye Hall, photographed in the desert, California. Photograph: Deirdre O'Callaghan

I would be lulled to sleep by listening to the blues. I knew that instead of using words I wanted to play and, being an only child, I had a chance to do that. My parents needed to work things out and, for me, beating on pots and pans was a way of not involving myself with what the adults were doing.

I came to Hollywood on 15 January 1970. I had a 30-day ticket: either I make it or I’m gone. And I’m still here. I stayed at a residence for women in the industry. I had a friend, and I would come home and she would ask: “How was your session?” And I would say: “Well, I was working for this group, they call ’em the Doors, I think.” And she’d go: “Oh my God, you’re kidding me.” I had not a clue.

When you play, there is a place you go. It’s not something you do: it happens to you. It’s almost like abduction: you came back and you looked at your watch and it was a different time.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Ringo Starr, photographed in his home studio, California. Photograph: Deirdre O'Callaghan

In 1952, I was in hospital with TB for 10 months. To keep us busy, they brought us instruments. They gave me a drum, and from that moment on I wanted to be a drummer. I loved the blues and tried to emigrate to Houston, Texas, when I was 19, to live near Lightnin’ Hopkins, but there were too many forms to fill out. Then Elvis came in.

I think rhythm comes with the body, and my timing comes with my heartbeat. I try to teach this to kids; some get the idea, some don’t. But you can’t hurt the kids’ feelings, so I say: “Maybe you should play piano or guitar.” You can put a lot of time in and play good piano, but I don’t think that happens with drums.

On Sgt Pepper’s, I had this new kit, the maple kit. It had actual skin heads, calf heads, which I had never had before: from the 60s onwards, it was all plastic. They’re so deep, and I was always looking for depth. You see pictures of me where I have towels over the drums and cigarette packs – anything to give it more body.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Pauli ‘The PSM’, photographed at home in New York. Photograph: Deirdre O'Callaghan

The drum machine has a spirit in the same way a human drummer has. It’s an instrument, and you are programming it the way you programme your body. When I play a drum machine, I go to town on the fact it’s an instrument that needs to be pushed to its limits. Look at what Skrillex is doing with dance music. You can’t keep up with that stuff.





Lars Ulrich (Metallica)



Facebook Twitter Pinterest Lars Ulrich, photographed at Metallica HQ, California. Photograph: Deirdre O'Callaghan

My first gig was Metallica’s first gig. We played at Radio City, a nightclub in Anaheim, California, in March 1982, so I was 18. It was a Sunday night, and we played seven or eight covers and one or two Metallica songs. Off we went with the first song, Hit The Lights, and within about a minute Dave Mustaine broke a string on his guitar. I was trying to hide behind the drums while he restringed for what seemed like an eternity.

When I listen to our early stuff now, I think: look at all that cool hair, what happened to it? What separates the great from the good? Probably the ability to listen. It’s the most underrated virtue.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest John ‘Jab’o’ Starks, photographed in Florida. Photograph: Deirdre O'Callaghan

With James, Bobby or even BB King, you wore a suit. The only thing that bothered me was the platform shoes. I told everybody: “I cannot play in these things. They’ll break my ankles.” When I got on stage, I would pull them off.

I was accustomed to crowds, but with James Brown I had never seen that many people for one artist. And James did five shows a day. I’ll never forget a gig at the Olympia hall in Paris. We got into a tune; James went off stage and we kept pumping. We couldn’t stop – the longer we played, the harder the groove got. That is one of the few times we wore him down.

Playlist

Listen to our sample Spotify playlist of star drumming:



The Drum Thing, by Deirdre O’Callaghan, is published next month by Prestel at £35. To order a copy for £28.70, go to The Guardian Bookshop or call 0330 333 6846.