Drumming News
It had been nearly thirty years of sweat, cymbals, and soul for Zak Starkey. From the moment he stepped onto the stage with The Who in ’96, he’d felt the pulse of rock ‘n’ roll history pounding beneath his sticks. It was more than a gig — it was a legacy. Not just because of his bloodline — the son of Ringo Starr — or because Keith Moon, the band’s original chaos-infused drummer, had once bounced him on his knee. No, it was the music. The stage. The fire in the crowd’s eyes.
But everything changed one night in March at the Royal Albert Hall.
Zak had felt off all week. Not rusty, just… distant. Maybe it was the echo of January’s health scare — the hush-hush hospital stay after a serious cardiac event he hadn’t yet fully unpacked. Or maybe it was the creeping exhaustion that comes from chasing perfection with a band haunted by its own ghosts.
That night, the final song of the set — “The Song Is Over” — unraveled in real time. Roger Daltrey turned toward him mid-performance, irritation etched across his face.
“All I’ve got is drums going boom, boom, boom,” Daltrey snapped into the mic. “I can’t sing to that.”
The words struck Zak like a cymbal crash to the chest.
Backstage, the silence was heavier than the amps. No shouting, no arguments — just an unspoken understanding that something had cracked.
Days later, the band’s rep issued a cold, professional statement: “A collective decision to part ways.” No drama. No details. Just the end of an era.
Zak watched it unfold in headlines. No calls. No texts. Not even a wink from Pete Townshend. So he beat them to it — dropping a cryptic Instagram post laced with sardonic humor: “Toger Daktrey bringing formal charges of overplaying. Literally going to Zak the drummer.” It was a wink and a wince.
Then came the public statement. No bitterness. No barbs. Just honesty.
“I’m very proud of my near 30 years with The Who. Filling the shoes of my Godfather, ‘Uncle Keith,’ has been the biggest honor and I remain their biggest fan. They’ve been like family to me.”
But what he didn’t say publicly — what he only admitted to a close circle — was that the silence hurt more than the firing. After decades of loyalty, of keeping the spirit of Moon alive without becoming a ghost himself, Zak expected more than a press release.
Still, he found peace in the pause.
Out of the spotlight, he returned to his family. His daughter’s piano recitals replaced sound checks. Long dinners with his wife took the place of hotel room service. His studio, once neglected, began to pulse again with experimentation. Mantra of the Cosmos jammed late into the nights, no setlists, no critics, just vibes.
In a quiet moment, he penned something in his journal:
“Maybe the song is over — at least this one. But the beat? The beat goes on.”
And so did Zak.
While The Who prepared for their next round of shows with a new face behind the kit, Zak booked a surprise show in Liverpool under a new banner: Starkey & the Satellites. No fanfare. No legacy to chase. Just music — loud, raw, and his.
And somewhere in the back, behind the bar, a silver-haired man with round sunglasses sipped a drink and nodded to the rhythm.
The beat, after all, ran in the blood.
Additional information gathered from article HERE
