Bringing the Beat Back

It’s the sound of rust coming off. It’s the sound of bones cracking. It’s the sound of muscles straining.

It’s the sound of getting back into the swing of things.

Playing drums is yes, like riding a bike. Once you learn, you can do it. If you learn how to kick a beat at age thirteen, you can probably do it again when you’re sixty. Maybe it’s muscle memory. Maybe it’s regular memory. Maybe it’s just knowing which pedal is the gas and which pedal is the brake. Once you get the feel for drums, it never leaves you. Drummers are easy to pick out in a crowd- they are the ones jamming out on steering wheels in traffic, playing drums on their chest while seeing a band play or the source of the sound of feet tapping underneath the table at dinner. Drummers are afflicted individuals. Once the beat starts, it never really ends.

The hitch in the giddy up though is coming back to drums. Drums are a good friend and can be your best friend, but they are an unforgiving one if you neglect them. It’s tribal in name only. Drums have emotions and they hold grudges. Take a break, step away for a bit, pursue other interests- sure you can come back to drums, but drums will make you pay.

Drums are having their way with me right now and it’s an unsettling feeling. I recently started jamming again with a buddy and while it’s fun- great fun actually, it is also frustrating and mildly painful. I will never proclaim that I was an amazing drummer. I never left mouths dropped. I was serviceable. I did my job. I prided myself on being steady and reliable- qualities I look to be recognized for in other areas of life now. I’m not looking to stand out. I’m just looking to do my part. My favorite drummers are the ones who emphasize the beat and refrain from flashiness.

Questlove of the Roots forever changed the way I approach drums and if I ever see him in person again…I did once, at Nick’s Fish House in Baltimore, I would tell him that. Prior to getting into the Roots, I was big into Phish. No wait, that’s an understatement- I was incredibly huge into Phish and as a result, heavily influenced by their drummer Jon Fishman. I loved the way Fishman had each of his four limbs going in different directions and the rhythms he could throw out there regardless of the tempo. Fishman was it.

But then I started listening to the Roots and the defining moment when it comes to my appreciation of Questlove was reading in Rolling Stone once that at a James Brown tribute show he played drums for four hours straight. That’s what he is, he’s a machine. His flash comes from his rock steady stability. My goal with drumming was to emulate Questlove; to play the way he does and to emphasize the beats. The most important parts of my kit were the bass drum, the high hat and the snare drum. That was all I needed.

Now I need chops. Specifically I need my chops. They seem to be missing.

We haven’t had something as structured as rehearsals; we’ve just be jamming. But there’s been a lot going in my head while we’re doing so. I used to play a lot and things came naturally to me. What’s been frustrating is trying to get back to that place. In some ways it feels like going home again. You can’t go home again, things have changed and you’ve changed and the world has changed and ultimately things just won’t be the same. But when you inevitably try to go home again, you do so searching for familiarity. When I go back to Portland, I go back to the places I used to go to in Portland- I go to Gritty’s and I stop by Bay Lines and I go see Andrea to get my haircut and I drive down Commercial Street and pop into Market Street Eats. I do this because it’s what I did. It’s what I know. But these places have changed. The thing about leaving is that you expect things to stay the same- but it’s unfair to that place to expect everything to have remained exactly as it was. You’ve changed, it’s changed. We all change. It’s just a bummer because deep down, you want to walk the same streets, see the same things and for a weekend, step back into the same life.

This is what it has been like getting back into playing drums. It’s not the same, I wish it was the same, but I don’t think it will ever be the same again. My arms don’t move as smoothly as they used too and my right hand cramps up like a monkey fudgesicle much quicker than it ever used too. I was never big with drum fills, but now drum fills seem like the American southwest- completely foreign to me. I think more about the beats I’m playing and not in the way I used too- how the fit the song, etc. Now I question whether or not I should be doing something more, even though what I’m playing seems to make sense and seems to fit so well with what D Money is playing. I question whether or not playing a straight beat is a cop out or perfectly suitable. I question whether intricate bass drum patterns are required or just filed under “use when needed.”

I question whether or not hitting a cymbal right now would be a good thing or a bad thing…no…hitting a cymbal is always a good thing. I never question cymbals.

You can’t go home again, you can ride a bike, Questlove is the man. These are universal truths. These facts cannot be challenged. These are the certainties out there, while my drumming is no longer one of them. I talk to Mom a lot about managing expectations given certain and unexpected limitations in life and it’s something I feel that is applicable to me now. That was then and this is now. What was easy won’t always be and what was a given never stays that way forever. Yet there is no point dwelling on the absents in life. That is a bummer and we save bummers for earlier in the week. Today is Thursday, tomorrow is Casual Friday.

The beat is still there. The cymbals are still there. The drum sticks are still there.

The chops will come.

But for now, enjoy the small doses, enjoy the jams and enjoy the Advil Liquid Gels.

Despite being clean shaven, sometimes it's tough to move forward...

The sun is peeking out from the large clouds that are covering the city and the first seven songs on that new Radiohead album all have great intros.

I'm going to do errands.

Grown up errands- out returning gym shorts that are too large, picking up a new clothes hamper and shampoo and deodorant. Next door, they're showing the over-priced house to perspective buyers. I can see them through the window and wonder if they think the same thing I think about Radiohead...

It's no secret that November, the entire month, has trudged along. It's been either stuck in the mud, stuck in bed, or stuck in the dryer. I guess it's worth it and while I don't remember the past few months, dodgy specifics and dodgyier details aplenty, I know they were busy and so I guess this month, not being busy, is a nice change. I've gotten caught up on some shows, some periodicals, and some physical fitness. Last night I made red beans and rice and washed it down with Miller Lite...proof that while some things have changed, some things haven't.

Home on Tuesday night with the married coupe and Dugan in tow. When I get back, I'm hitting the ground running. I made this call last night and I'm going to stick with it. I fell asleep halfway through Casino Royale- only watching it finally because of Joey T's recommendation. When I woke up and stumbled down the stairs to bed, I thought of two things- my need to shave and my need to be active. So this morning I shaved and having not shaved in a few days, it was a little rough.

On shaving- I really don't like doing it, yet I like being clean shaven. I also like stubble at two days, but not at three. But I always end up shaving by day four, when shaving becomes a chore. So I don't want to do it and I put it off until maybe day five or six- when it's a real son of a bitch too shave, but by that point, slightly refined stubble has become an overgrown bush field and pain or no pain, it's time to clear-cut. It's a cycle, a vicious one. But it's one I live with because at this point in my life, I know I'm not going to shave two days in a row unless I absolutely have too. And at this point, I rarely absolutely have too.

But things could change.

People change, moods change. They change all the time. People with people incite changes and people by their lonesome incite change as well. A couple years ago, my last winter back in Maine, I was in a relationship that seemed to be defined by the changes we had both made previously to getting together. We were constantly reminded of the people we used to be and it was apparent, that we both missed those people and those cities- whether it was Baltimore, Boston, an island off the coast of Maine, or the East End in Portland. In pockets of time, things worked out and in that moment, it seemed like we were a happy couple. But ultimately, when feet are headed in different directions, hearts follow. Her feet went west, mine went south.

Thinking of that time and that relationship stopped me from heading out to do big boy errands and encouraged me to stay in, listening to this new Radiohead album, rubbing my freshly shaven face, and considering the fact that, maybe people don't change. Maybe just places change. It's entirely possible that after a certain age, we are who we are despite mood and clothes changes we might make.

But changing a place, that changes a person. Changing your location, the people you're around, the people you share a bed with. It's through theses alterations that we change as people and in no way is that a bad thing. It might be the only thing we have left to hold onto.

And if it is a bad thing, it's only because money is so damn tight, that changing locations has become difficult.

Which makes me also wonder, when do we start signing hobo songs and packing our belongings in hanker chiefs?

I'll think I'll look for a stick while I'm out.