... A Lop Bam BOOM
Feb. 13th, 2007 07:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rhythmaningOrwell saw the future as a jackbooted foot stamping on the face of humanity; I saw the future as a fist pumping the beat – a finger snap in time.
Let’s face it; it is not difficult to play the drums. I mean, all you have to do is hit things. What is hard is to play the drums well. But then nobody really notices drummers much; except when they are bad.
I started playing the drums when I was thirteen. I was bad. And that is not good. I think I had no sense of rhythm at all, frankly. I could hit things (it is not hard), but not with any purpose; with no sense of beat.
Believe it or not, it was a Hawkwind record that made the difference. Psychadelic Warlords (Disappear in Smoke). Really. That ain’t no joke. Drumming a long to it, suddenly I could do it. It is very simple (I could draw the dots even now) – but listening to that tune, it clicked.
From there I worked backwards: rock and roll shuffle, slow twelve bar blues. It became easy. (It still is.) It became engrained.
I began to copy what I listened to. I could imitate Carl Palmer; I could imitate Bill Bruford; I could imitate Keith Moon: and I still can. But I had no rhythmic imagination myself – I could only copy.
I must have driven my neighbours mad. Drums are not a neighbour-friendly instrument. I would come home from school and spend half an hour, maybe forty five minutes playing. Making a noise.
One night, my parents had a phone call from the neighbours. It was 3am. AN irate neighbour – an editor on the Times (he wrote leaders, I think) – demanded I stopped playing the drums. My parents were puzzled: they couldn’t hear me playing the drums (and it wasn’t something they could not hear, if I was playing). My mother checked: I was fast asleep. It turned out it was their young daughter’s hamster, running along in his wheel. They never, ever, complained about the noise I made again.
I joined bands. I could have been in Madness (Mark Bedford, their bass player, was in my year at school, and he and I played together once or twice; I really didn’t like what he liked – I was into rock, then. Ha!). A friend of a school friend played guitar (he still does; last I heard – about ten years ago – he was playing with Natascha Atlas), and we played a bit; he was in a band – a became close friends of the drummer, Graham (we would compete on who could get the biggest bass drum; size was everything). I guy at their school played guitar, and we formed a band – a trio. The first bass player we played with ended up with Green (Scritti Politti) – he didn’t hang around with us very long, since he was actually serious about this.
The first time we played, it was a load of Cream tunes – Sunshine of Your Love; White Room. I could do this it wasn’t difficult. Another time, we went into a jam based around Elton John’s A Tune for Guy (?). It sounded good. Actually, it sounded bloody good.
We got another bass player – Dave, a guy at my school. But then exams came a long. We stole each other’s girlfriends. We left school. And strangely, we didn’t keep in touch.
At college, I also joined bands. At the freshers’ fair, someone told me a trad jazz band were looking for a drummer. I hated trad jazz – recreations of old Dixieland tunes. I was just starting to listen to jazz; I was into hard bop. However, this band paid. And they played a lot, so hey paid a lot. I was a lousy trad drummer. I didn’t swing. I couldn’t do fills. I wanted to be Art Blakey (I hadn’t heard Elvin Jones’ music back then). I didn’t want to spend my time as a human metronome (which is what everyone except drummers think drummers should do). I really was lousy; I thought trad was “thump-thump” music. (I still do; a bass drum beat on 2 and 4. Thump, thump. Tedious.) But I went to lots of parties – we did several gigs around Christmas (three in one night, carrying the drums from college to college) – and a handful of balls. Christmas and the summer, we were busy. I played with them for an academic year – then the leader left, and we didn’t keep going without her.
I was also in a rock band during my first year at university; we did covers. We played Pretty Vacant, Another Girl Another Planet; Gary Gilmore’s Eyes – it was a lot of a laugh. We played in the JCR bar, we played at some parties. We made a lot of noise. It didn’t last into the second year – but it was fun whilst it lasted.
I didn’t play in any bands in my second year, I don’t think; I had got into theatre by then, though I did some percussion for some plays: I did the lights and percussion for a production of the Ubu plays. I was quite good at noise.
In my third year, I met a first year musician, a pianist, who was into Monk. I probably had a Monk record by that time (one!), but frankly I didn’t get the music: angular and discordant, and he did strange things to the beat. We played a bit – this guy was a good pianist, though intense (made for Monk, perhaps), but I could barely keep up.
Several years later – after I had started (and stopped) learning the saxophone (another neighbour friendly instrument! But that is a whole other story), I went to a big band workshop, where I met another pianist who needed a drummer. This was rather good: compared to a lot of drummers, I was understated: by this time I had listened to a lot more jazz, and I had begun to understand it. I could play quietly – relatively, at least; and I was quite happy to chug along swishing in the background. A small group, we actually made a rather good sound.
I last played drums about six or seven years ago. I went to another workshop – I had holiday to use up, and there was a jazz summer school in Edinburgh. It was fun. I don’t think I was any good, but it was fun. I could keep the beat (when one of the other musicians blamed me for a piece falling apart, Mario Caribe said he thought I had perfect time – rather nice of him, I thought), though without much imagination. It lead to a rehearsal band for a while, but again it fell apart.
By the way, I hate drum solos. I can appreciate them in a technical capacity; but musically, they don’t make sense. There is no point to a drum solo. It is just showing off. And drummers can do that without making all the other musicians shut up. And without sending the audience to the bar.
But the rhythm is deeply engrained. I occasionally dream about playing drums – sitting in for Art Blakey or Keith Moon (only ever those two, strangely); I have never dreamt about playing the saxophone. I can remember the breaks in tunes (I must count subconsciously; I always know where I am in a tune, though I have rarely counted knowingly) – all that energy used keeping those memories going. I clap my hands – I snap my fingers, in strange rhythms of my own. I play great air drums. My tongue beats out rhythms on the roof of my mouth.
I still make a noise.
Let’s face it; it is not difficult to play the drums. I mean, all you have to do is hit things. What is hard is to play the drums well. But then nobody really notices drummers much; except when they are bad.
I started playing the drums when I was thirteen. I was bad. And that is not good. I think I had no sense of rhythm at all, frankly. I could hit things (it is not hard), but not with any purpose; with no sense of beat.
Believe it or not, it was a Hawkwind record that made the difference. Psychadelic Warlords (Disappear in Smoke). Really. That ain’t no joke. Drumming a long to it, suddenly I could do it. It is very simple (I could draw the dots even now) – but listening to that tune, it clicked.
From there I worked backwards: rock and roll shuffle, slow twelve bar blues. It became easy. (It still is.) It became engrained.
I began to copy what I listened to. I could imitate Carl Palmer; I could imitate Bill Bruford; I could imitate Keith Moon: and I still can. But I had no rhythmic imagination myself – I could only copy.
I must have driven my neighbours mad. Drums are not a neighbour-friendly instrument. I would come home from school and spend half an hour, maybe forty five minutes playing. Making a noise.
One night, my parents had a phone call from the neighbours. It was 3am. AN irate neighbour – an editor on the Times (he wrote leaders, I think) – demanded I stopped playing the drums. My parents were puzzled: they couldn’t hear me playing the drums (and it wasn’t something they could not hear, if I was playing). My mother checked: I was fast asleep. It turned out it was their young daughter’s hamster, running along in his wheel. They never, ever, complained about the noise I made again.
I joined bands. I could have been in Madness (Mark Bedford, their bass player, was in my year at school, and he and I played together once or twice; I really didn’t like what he liked – I was into rock, then. Ha!). A friend of a school friend played guitar (he still does; last I heard – about ten years ago – he was playing with Natascha Atlas), and we played a bit; he was in a band – a became close friends of the drummer, Graham (we would compete on who could get the biggest bass drum; size was everything). I guy at their school played guitar, and we formed a band – a trio. The first bass player we played with ended up with Green (Scritti Politti) – he didn’t hang around with us very long, since he was actually serious about this.
The first time we played, it was a load of Cream tunes – Sunshine of Your Love; White Room. I could do this it wasn’t difficult. Another time, we went into a jam based around Elton John’s A Tune for Guy (?). It sounded good. Actually, it sounded bloody good.
We got another bass player – Dave, a guy at my school. But then exams came a long. We stole each other’s girlfriends. We left school. And strangely, we didn’t keep in touch.
At college, I also joined bands. At the freshers’ fair, someone told me a trad jazz band were looking for a drummer. I hated trad jazz – recreations of old Dixieland tunes. I was just starting to listen to jazz; I was into hard bop. However, this band paid. And they played a lot, so hey paid a lot. I was a lousy trad drummer. I didn’t swing. I couldn’t do fills. I wanted to be Art Blakey (I hadn’t heard Elvin Jones’ music back then). I didn’t want to spend my time as a human metronome (which is what everyone except drummers think drummers should do). I really was lousy; I thought trad was “thump-thump” music. (I still do; a bass drum beat on 2 and 4. Thump, thump. Tedious.) But I went to lots of parties – we did several gigs around Christmas (three in one night, carrying the drums from college to college) – and a handful of balls. Christmas and the summer, we were busy. I played with them for an academic year – then the leader left, and we didn’t keep going without her.
I was also in a rock band during my first year at university; we did covers. We played Pretty Vacant, Another Girl Another Planet; Gary Gilmore’s Eyes – it was a lot of a laugh. We played in the JCR bar, we played at some parties. We made a lot of noise. It didn’t last into the second year – but it was fun whilst it lasted.
I didn’t play in any bands in my second year, I don’t think; I had got into theatre by then, though I did some percussion for some plays: I did the lights and percussion for a production of the Ubu plays. I was quite good at noise.
In my third year, I met a first year musician, a pianist, who was into Monk. I probably had a Monk record by that time (one!), but frankly I didn’t get the music: angular and discordant, and he did strange things to the beat. We played a bit – this guy was a good pianist, though intense (made for Monk, perhaps), but I could barely keep up.
Several years later – after I had started (and stopped) learning the saxophone (another neighbour friendly instrument! But that is a whole other story), I went to a big band workshop, where I met another pianist who needed a drummer. This was rather good: compared to a lot of drummers, I was understated: by this time I had listened to a lot more jazz, and I had begun to understand it. I could play quietly – relatively, at least; and I was quite happy to chug along swishing in the background. A small group, we actually made a rather good sound.
I last played drums about six or seven years ago. I went to another workshop – I had holiday to use up, and there was a jazz summer school in Edinburgh. It was fun. I don’t think I was any good, but it was fun. I could keep the beat (when one of the other musicians blamed me for a piece falling apart, Mario Caribe said he thought I had perfect time – rather nice of him, I thought), though without much imagination. It lead to a rehearsal band for a while, but again it fell apart.
By the way, I hate drum solos. I can appreciate them in a technical capacity; but musically, they don’t make sense. There is no point to a drum solo. It is just showing off. And drummers can do that without making all the other musicians shut up. And without sending the audience to the bar.
But the rhythm is deeply engrained. I occasionally dream about playing drums – sitting in for Art Blakey or Keith Moon (only ever those two, strangely); I have never dreamt about playing the saxophone. I can remember the breaks in tunes (I must count subconsciously; I always know where I am in a tune, though I have rarely counted knowingly) – all that energy used keeping those memories going. I clap my hands – I snap my fingers, in strange rhythms of my own. I play great air drums. My tongue beats out rhythms on the roof of my mouth.
I still make a noise.