Striding atop glittering drumsets, in the centre of any decent facility, is Russell Keith Hopkinson. A man on a constant adventure in the valleys between the twin drumming peaks of Hal Blaine and Chuck Biscuits. This sturdy chap with a beatle-wig haircut and a chip toothed grin sits in the group’s pocket with a flamboyant backbeat style, seemingly knowing intuitively when to flare up with a whirl of drumsticks and a flurry of tom toms. Happy to regale his fellows with boisterous anecdotes from his dubious past, he is fond of his friends’ laughter. Hopkinson considers himself a student of Nuggets era 45s, an Old English Sheepdog Enthusiast and keen admirer of a combination of Sancerre and Buche Blanc.
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