|Aric Improta elevating his craft|
For about five hours a day, the view inside Aric Improta's bedroom window is one of complete insanity. As the last streaks of sunlight sink behind the hills in his native Fullerton, the 23-year-old drummer morphs into a tornado of sticks, long hair and screams. Occasionally, he'll decide to jump several feet in the air, body slamming the beat with the intensity of a pro wrestler. Meanwhile, the explosions from his drum kit echo through his parent's suburban home, like the boom from cannon fire at the Battle of Normandy. It's loud as shit in here.
Inside his bedroom-turned-practice space, dim light from a single ceiling fan shines feebly on a walls plastered with faded metal and prog rock band posters. In the final stretch of his whirling, five-minute drum routine, his body spazzes wildly to complete one more thunderous fill before he finally exhales and stops pounding. "Okay," he says breathlessly. "Only have to do that 15 more times."
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