Are You As Unique As You Think You Are?
We live in an era of conformity, where vocals are Auto-Tuned beyond perfection, Pro Tools can conceal any flaw, and drummers wouldn’t dream of veering far from the click. God forbid if a final mix doesn’t sound like everybody else’s.
Don’t get me wrong – I don’t blame anybody for playing the game. You should work to acquire whatever skills it takes to advance your career in the music business. After all, almost all musicians hone their craft by learning riffs and licks played by those who came before them.
In some cases such simulation, when applied creatively, can rise to the level of mastery. In her jazz work, Cindy Blackman-Santana has often been lionized for channeling the spirit of Tony Williams. Gregg Bissonette not only perfected the feel of Ringo Starr’s deep groove, he even became Ringo’s drummer of choice in the All Starr Band.
There are also incredibly gifted chameleons like Vinnie Colaiuta, Steve Smith, and Bernard Purdie, who refuse to be typecast. They walk straight from a rock session into a jazz gig, and sound perfectly in character at each performance. But is there a definitive Colaiuta sound? If so, where would we find it – in his work with Sting, Frank Zappa, Chick Corea, or Megadeth?
Indeed, a signature sound doesn’t come easily, even for many of the world’s greatest drummers, which makes it extra special when you hear one who has developed a unique style that remains identifiable over the course of decades. For example, I like to believe that I can recognize Ginger Baker after hearing only a couple of bars of his outrageously pulled-back pocket and deep-throated tunings, no matter if he’s playing rock, jazz, or blues.
The same goes for Elvin Jones, whose powerful, skittering drum style is at once utterly musical and mathematically baffling; Zigaboo Modeliste, whose convoluted, loose-limbed take on funk is often copied but never equaled; and then there is John Bonham, whose balance of heaviness and finesse, brains and brawn defined his every performance.
It’s difficult to identify the special ingredient that makes it so hard to reproduce these drummer’s styles; but that’s the magic part. Perhaps, instead, we should hope that it never is definitively quantified and bottled, since such elusive factors are often the most delicious to ponder.
There’s No Such Thing As Shortcuts
Between sets at a gig in San Francisco, I happened to run into an old friend who is an impassioned writer, hardcore blues enthusiast, and college-level journalism professor. We started chatting, and I asked how his job was going.
He shrugged. “You know ... it’s going.”
“That doesn’t sound very encouraging,” I responded. “What’s going on?”
“Well, to be honest, it is a little discouraging these days. A lot of my students have really poor reading skills. Some of them are practically illiterate — no kidding — and yet they seem to believe they have what it takes to be a journalist.”
“Wow. So what do you do for them?”
“I just do my best, but the problem actually goes beyond their reading skills. Many of them seem incapable of critical thinking, as if they’ve hardly read any books or newspapers. Seriously — a number of my students couldn’t name the candidates in the last election if you put a gun to their heads, and they’re of voting age! We’re raising generations of ignorant adults, which I find very frightening.”
I shook my head and went back onstage to start the next set.
The following morning, in a case of unforeseen synchronicity, DRUM! publisher Phil Hood emailed a link to an educational drumming site. “It’s interesting how they emphasize that there’s ‘no scary theory or sight-reading’ in the lesson videos,” he wrote.
It struck a nerve. Every so often after I post a link on Facebook to a notational drum lesson from our website someone responds, “What, no video?” I’m always tempted to write back, “What, you’ve never bothered to take a couple of hours to learn to read drum notation? How serious about drumming are you?” Of course, instead, I let the comment float away into cyberspace.
But as that thought swirled around with the memory of my previous night’s conversation, I wrote back to Phil: “It’s a compelling sales pitch — but I think it’s kind of irresponsible. It’s not at all that hard to learn to read music; especially drum notation. When you encourage young drummers to skip that step in their development, you’ve denied them access to a library of tried-and-tested pedagogy that has helped generations of drummers become better players and professionals.
“I believe mentors should do exactly the opposite — excite the desire for education and improvement by pointing students toward the best resources and skills rather than hyping get-rich-quick schemes.”
Take it from me — you won’t get rich by skipping a vital step in your development. I can’t tell you how much I regret never learning to play brushes believably, for example. How many more opportunities would I have had if I had studied Latin drumming or learned to play to a click earlier in my career?
My list goes on. What’s on yours?
A Tale Of Two Gigs
We sell the dream at DRUM! Magazine. Scattered throughout our artist interviews and career columns are suggestions that if you practice hard enough, network tirelessly, and keep a good attitude, you might be among the lucky few to climb to the top of the drumming game.
It really can happen. But even when it does, the glory can too often be short lived. Here’s a typical scenario – your band gets a recording deal, lands a manager and booking agent, and winds up on the Warped Tour playing for huge crowds and selling tons of merch at every stop. It’s the most fun you’ve ever had with a pair of sticks.
And yet, with rare exceptions, most bands – including yours – will break up sooner or later, often following a decline in record and ticket sales (i.e., you’re all starving!), or because of proverbial “creative differences” (aka, you hate each other!).
Lots of folks at this crossroad decide to move on, go back to college, and find a steady job. The rest, perhaps like you, who decide to remain in the music business and chase the dream, face a career that might very well be punctuated by ups and downs.
To illustrate: I recently played a pair of back-to-back gigs. The first was on a Friday night with an instrumental surf band at a wine bar in the affluent San Francisco Bay Area suburb of Danville.
I assessed the gig as soon as I walked into the place. Tall ceilings, brick and wood paneled walls, marble counters – the dimly lit room was elegant and half filled with a crowd of well-dressed couples who sipped wine as we set up our gear.
We played our first song as quietly as we could so as not to ruin the ambiance (thank God for dowel rods!), nailed the last chord and … nothing. No applause. The second and third songs landed with a similar thud.
It’s not that we sucked; the audience just didn’t care. They were so preoccupied with their dates they could barely even glance in our direction. We finished the night, collected our pay, and slunk home.
I was on the road relatively early the next day for a gig in Roseville, California, about a three-hour drive from my house. A hard-rocking band I play with was opening a show for Sammy Hagar And The Wabos at the legendary singer’s newly opened Cantina.
The city closed off three blocks of downtown Roseville for the larger-than-life bash. Our stage was set up with professional P.A. and lighting systems, a huge drum riser, great monitors, and stagehands to help us hump our gear.
A thousand people who had won tickets from a local radio station were ready to party by the time we hit the downbeat. The crowd erupted in wild applause after every song. Our 90-minute set flew by. I drove home buzzing with adrenaline, replaying the show in my head.
Sunday morning, when I considered the last two shows over my first cup of coffee, it felt like a great weekend. Who cares if one gig was better than the other? I played drums for 1,050 people and earned a healthy paycheck.
So if you plan to be a survivor in the music business, learn to bend with the breeze, and enjoy the roller coaster ride along the way.
5 Ways Bandleaders Drive Me Nuts
Bandleaders. You love them. You hate them. They flash you the stink eye for playing too loud, and then give you a big bro hug as they push a wad of cash into your hand at the end of the gig. After a lifetime spent trying to parse this peculiar yin and yang, I’ve compiled my list of pet peeves that are true of almost every bandleader I’ve worked with. See if you recognize any of them.
1. Bait And Switch
Your bandleader counts off a song too fast and the entire band dutifully comes in at his designated tempo. Within 16 bars or so he turns to you (instead of any other bandmate), and makes a big, histrionic production of telling you to slow down, as if the incorrect tempo was your fault in the first place. Bottom line: The song would have started at the right tempo if you counted it off – but that ain’t gonna happen.
2. Missed It By A Stone
Excruciatingly simple. Maddeningly common. Practically every six-stringer I’ve ever accompanied will quote the guitar melody from Hendrix’s “Third Stone From The Sun” during a solo, and yet remarkably few play it correctly. Hey, I can sing the line note-for-note, and I’m the drummer!
3. Stick A Fork In Me
If I’m lucky, I play one or two drum solos per night. So when I get the chance, I try to build a solo with a musical structure that often culminates in a climax of my flashiest chops. With blood vessels bulging in my temples, I cue the bandleader to bring the band back in, but instead he goads me on to keep soloing, as if he’s doing me a favor, which inevitably leads to a series of clumsy, ham-fisted fills that sound like basketballs falling down stairs. Major buzz killer.
4. Déjà Groove
For fear of sounding repetitive, bandleaders agonize over set lists to avoid playing two consecutive songs in the same key. But some don’t think twice about calling two, three, even four songs in a row that have identical grooves. I don’t know about you, but by the second iteration of a slow blues, I’ve plumbed the bottom of my trick bag twice, and begin nodding out.
5. Why God Created Drummers
You’re in the rehearsal studio to learn a new song from a demo your bandleader recorded using GarageBand. He tells you that he wants you to faithfully reproduce the programmed drum part verbatim, which not only is physically unfeasible to execute, but would be impossible to make groove if you had a gun to your head. It hardly matters – you’re obligated to make his robotic feel work, even if it means sprouting an extra arm.
The ABCs Of Things I Hate
A is for all the stuff that can go wrong when you play drums.
B is for blisters. It’s been a long time since I had one, but I haven’t forgotten.
C is for getting onstage cramps and still trying to keep playing.
D is for dented drumheads. There’s nothing worse than trying to pull tone out of a dead head.
E is for eating crap on the road. But how can you avoid it?
F is for freelancing. I like having a steady paycheck.
G is for gouging your knuckles on your hi-hat cymbals and bleeding all over your drums. Who hasn’t done that at least once?
H is for still having another 300 miles before you get to the motel.
I is for playing for a room full of drunken idiots.
J is for being jerked around for money by the club owner.
K is for when people call a bass drum a kick drum. I’ve never kicked a drum. Never will.
L is for linoleum floors. See M.
M is for bass drums and hi-hat stands that move all over the place on linoleum floors.
N is for never getting songwriting royalties. For the record, no one has ever written my drum part.
O is for opening a show with your band before the audience has even shown up.
P is for gear problems you can’t troubleshoot. Grin and bear it.
Q is for bandleaders who call three quick shuffles in a row. Give my left hand a break, dude!
R is for getting ripped off for recording royalties. I won’t name names.
S is for broken sticks. There’s no elegant way to deal with it onstage.
T is for not having the right tool to fix the problem.
U is for unimaginative soloing, whether it be from the guitarist, bassist, keyboardist, or me.
V is for playing to an empty venue.
W is for waiting to go onstage, on the road, to the next gig, and so on.
X is for xylophone sonatas, if there are such things. (Okay, so I had trouble thinking of an X.)
Y is for stifling a yawn onstage at 1:15 a.m. on a weeknight. It gets harder as you get older.
Z is for when the zipper gets stuck on your cymbal bag.