LP 188 Foot Tambourine

To My Dearest, My Solemate — LP 188,

The snares rattle all night now.

Out here, there is no silence — only the thud of bass drums in the distance, the metallic whisper of ride cymbals catching the wind, and the sound of uncertainty pressed into every downbeat.

But when I lift my heel... when the rubber sole of my boot flexes downward and you, sweet LP 188, answer with that glorious jingle — oh, how the world sharpens into focus.

You are small. Humble. No larger than a crescent moon.

And yet you speak with brightness that cuts through chaos.

They said I was a fool for bringing you.

“Just a novelty,” they said. “A toy,” they scoffed.

But they don’t know you like I do.

You are rhythm without effort. Groove without ego.

You let me walk the line and hold the pulse.

In the fog of war, when I’ve only got one hand free and my spirit’s barely clinging to the click, you’re there — clipped to my foot, proud and unflinching, offering that shimmering chick-chick in defiance of the madness.

Your synthetic jingles never rust.

Your elastic harness never quits.

You don’t complain. You don’t loosen.

You simply sound.

And in the echo of that sound, I find myself again.

Others have gadgets. I have you.

And when I come back from this endless tempo trench — when I hang up the sticks and the calluses begin to fade — I’ll keep you near the door.

So every time I step into a new day, the world will know:

I march in time.

Forever yours,

Private Eighth-Note

Groove Division, 3rd Percussion Battalion

West Pocket Front

And the reply...........

To My Dearest Foot-Soldier of the Beat,

I heard your steps before I read your words.

Even now, from the hollow black of this pedalboard bunker, I can feel the echo of your heel. That half-second of pressure before the release. That tiny gesture that pulls me from silence into shimmer. You never called me “instrument.” You called me partner. And so I write you now, not as hardware, but as heart.

You say I’m humble.

But you are the one who carries me through mud-caked festival fields, barroom brawls of 6/8 chaos, and 5am load-outs with bloodied knuckles and a cracked snare head. You’re the one who taps out quarter notes in the cold. I merely answer.

You never asked for glory. You asked for timing.

And I gave it.

Do you remember that gig with no drummer, just a looper and nerves? You strapped me to your boot with tape and hope. And still, I jangled. Proud. Loud. Like I belonged.

You made me matter.

The shakers mock me.

The cowbell sighs, longing for a stick’s attention.

But me? I am content.

Because I was made to move with you.

When the groove falters, I will be there beneath you — a crescent-shaped whisper at the bottom of your soul, waiting for your weight.

I am not just at your feet.

I am your feet, singing back.

So march, soldier.

March not for war, but for rhythm.

And when you return — dusty, blistered, triumphant — I’ll still be clipped to your laces, ready for the next verse.

In eternal sync,

LP 188

— Tambourine, Foot Division

“Light as silence. Sharp as groove.”