Romance And Touring At Odds
[Ed. Note: Andy Doerschuk originally wrote this for the August 2014 issue of DRUM!, which was devoted to the subject of touring.]
Ever notice how life can force you to choose between one thing or the other, when you actually want some of both? Unfortunately, that’s how it’s often worked when I’ve tried to strike a balance between romance and drumming. So on the occasion of this special touring issue, it seems appropriate to illustrate how those two irresistible and occasionally opposing forces can twist you into knots.
First, though, let’s all admit it isn’t easy to date a musician, especially when the better half has a normal work routine. It requires the empathy of Gandhi to accept the notion that your loved one disappears on Friday and Saturday date nights, then blows your weekend days by waking up at noon. Tension only multiplies when a musician disappears on tour for months at a time, so I hope the two of you are either deeply in love or have a great marriage counselor.
Truth be told, I had a marriage fall apart while I was on the road in 1981. I was 26 and on my very first major road trip, as my band spent the summer opening for Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers on the Hard Promises tour.
I’ve written about it before, so I’ll skip the gory details. Suffice to say that once it was
clear our relationship was over, every day became a crazy rollercoaster. In the afternoon or early evening I would realize my wildest dreams by playing for tens of thousands of people in basketball stadiums and outdoor festivals. At night, I would sulk back to my hotel room and cry in my beer.
Whoever said absence makes the heart grow fonder clearly never toured with a rock band. There are exceptions, though. I’ve known couples that have nurtured a close family life — buying houses, raising kids, going to little league games, the whole wonderful package — even while mom or dad periodically goes on tour. I wish I could tell you the secret to their success, but it always eluded me.
But there’s yet another scenario, which I’ve personally experienced only once. I was
playing with a promising young guitar prodigy who quickly gained notoriety on the west coast. One night I met a woman at a show and we hit it off. Before long we began dating and, as illustrated earlier, she came to every show in the area.
But rather than grow tired of the experience, she started traveling in the van to out-of-town gigs — always backstage, yucking it up, acting like one of the guys, having a grand old time. So was I, as a matter of fact, but my bandmates didn’t dig it. I soon got the word from the top — no girlfriends allowed in the van. The story continues from there, but for the sake of brevity let’s just say the ultimatum didn’t exactly sit well.
Under the best circumstances, romantic relationships require mutual understanding and willingness to work out differences. So if your heart is set on being a full-time touring musician, prepare to make some sacrifices at home, because that’s where every road trip will ultimately end.
An Open Letter To Cheapskates
Dear pop icon, country superstar, or rap mogul,
Just thought I’d let you know — word has begun to leak out. While the outside world gazes with vicarious envy as you spend lavish amounts on fast cars, the finest threads, and gar- ish jewelry, insiders know you’re just a cheapskate. And they’ve started to talk.
Don’t stand there (in that $1,000 Vanessa Price haircut) giving me a quizzical look (through your $383,000 Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses). You know exactly what I’m talking about. While you, your managers, and agents take home six-figure bankrolls every night, you pay your drummer as little as $200 per gig.
Your bodyguards earn more. Hell, I’ve been paid more to play in the dirtiest, smelliest, grungiest dive bars in San Francisco. Seriously. You should be ashamed. I have to ask — how do you sleep at night (in your $6.3 million Baldacchino Supreme bed), or look at yourself in your ($1,300 Bella Venetian) mirror, knowing you’ve perfected the black art of squeezing blood from human stone?
You may ask, “Why should I care? Drummers are a dime a dozen. If one of them doesn’t want the gig, another one will.” After all, your drummer doesn’t have to deal with nearly as many headaches as you do. You provide him with a perfectly good coffin-sized bunk on the tour bus and free munchies backstage with the crew, while you travel in your $45 million Gulfstream V-SP private jet and scarf down $500 entrees at the world’s finest restaurants.
No. Your drummer’s problems are far more mundane than yours are. He just needs to pay the mortgage, bills, and health insurance, buy clothes and braces for the kids, put food on the table — you know, frivolous stuff like that. With a little coupon cutting, he should be able to stretch the $600 to $800 (more like $400 to $600 after taxes) he earns per week far enough to cover all that, right?
Never mind that your drummer studied with respected teachers, practiced thousands of hours, attended music school, and probably knows more about music theory than you do. None of that can compare with your innate talent for rhyming words like “cat” and “hat” (a skill you share with Dr. Seuss, among others).
Face it, ace — the convergence between the paths taken by you and your drum- mer is as much the consequence of dumb luck as any other factor. So if you want some respect, show some respect for those people who make you sound good every night. It’s nice to be important, but it’s important to be nice.
A Note To Drummers: Not all bandleaders are as tight-fisted as this, but — without naming names — some very famous ones are. So if you’re less concerned about the size of the venues you play, and more interested in sharing an equitable slice of the pie, join a band in which you are an equal member. Better yet, start your own band — but just don’t forget where you came from.
Play Drums Because You Can
Every drummer goes through a stretch where he or she can’t play drums for some time, perhaps while on vacation or recovering from an illness. But what would you do if you just couldn’t play drums? I mean, not at all.
Never again. Just let that idea sink in for a minute.
Okay. How would it feel?
Well, I can tell you — it feels like losing one of the best friends you’ve ever had. I can say that with some confidence because earlier this year I learned I had to stop playing drums — not just for a while, but altogether — after being diagnosed with spinal stenosis.
Here’s a quick summary for anyone unfamiliar with the disability: Spinal stenosis is a chronic condition in which the spinal canal begins to constrict, pinching nerves that run through the center of your spine. In my case, two spots in the lower lumbar region are crimping up and sending some of the sharpest pain I could ever imagine into my left leg. At any given time it can strike anywhere between my hip and toes. Sometimes even the entire lower left side of my body seizes up.
I began to notice recurring pain in my left leg a couple years ago and went to my doctor, who misdiagnosed it as shin splints, and told me I just had to give it time to heal. Meanwhile, the pain got worse, particularly when I was on my feet for long periods of time or, as it progressed, during and following gigs.
Last January’s Winter NAMM Show was the final straw. I spent four days on my feet for about ten hours a day, mostly walking on concrete floors. My entire left leg was throbbing by the middle of the first day. The throbbing changed to stabbing pain and burning by the second day — and didn’t decrease for weeks after I got home. Truth is, it never went away entirely.
I knew I was in big trouble, so I finally got a second opinion from a different doctor, who ordered an MRI that confirmed what I now know (although I can’t say I’ve fully accepted) — I’m going to be living with this disability for the rest of my life.
So what have I learned from this experience? I’ve learned that while playing drums is an incredibly creative form of self-expression, it actually is so much more. I learned that the physical aspect of drumming is just as addictive as the mental exercise; the guys in my band and the fans on the dance floor were some of the best friends I ever had; every gig was my version of boys-night-out, where I could unwind after a tough week at the DRUM! office.
Drumming was my escape from life’s challenges, my constant companion, a source of pride, my identity — oh, I could go on and on. It took only a week or two for me to thoroughly miss playing drums, and I still do, terribly. But I also feel lucky about a whole bunch of things. For instance, my condition could be much more advanced than it is — at least I can still walk, albeit for short periods of time. I’m also grateful to have such vivid memories of those peak moments in life, which all happened while sitting behind the kit.
And I also now know why I’d take a $50 gig on a weeknight that would keep me out until 2:00 a.m., even when I had to be at work the next morning.
That’s what I most want to share with you here: Don’t hesitate. Go out and play drums however, whenever, and wherever possible, not for the money, but because you can.
Defend Your Drum Sound Or Die Trying
(Left) The enemy
My band just finished mixing its debut CD and I hate to admit that after all the hard work it took to complete, I walked away with mixed emotions. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy with all of the performances and feel that we wound up with a nice selection of songs. I’m even satisfied with the final mix, except for one thing – the drums don’t sound like my drums.
I knew going in that the producer had a radically different opinion than I do about studio drum sounds. I like a lively, wide-open Steve Jordan sound with lots of pinging overtones, a tightly tuned snare, big booming toms, and minimal muffling on the bass drum. But he wanted a controlled, deadened Steely Dan ’70s sound, with a deep-voiced snare tone and very little resonance from any of the drums.
Time and money were big issues when we went in to cut our basic tracks. I didn’t want to get into an argument with the producer about drum sounds, because not only would it waste precious time, it could create a hostile vibe right off the bat, and poison the atmosphere in the recording studio. So with all that in mind, I swallowed my pride and made each and every alteration to my drum sound that the dude asked me to make.
We replaced my snappy 1-ply snare batter head with a coated 2-ply head with a dot and tuned the sucker way down. All of my toms were muffled with duct tape. The front bass drumhead was removed and the drum was stuffed with a huge pillow. I was proud that I took the high road and acted professionally, but couldn’t shake the idea that my compliance had helped transform my beloved drums into this dull, lifeless, thudding, rhythm-making behemoth!
Okay, here’s the real kicker. By the time we finally got around to mixing the tracks, the producer was long gone. He and the band had a falling out and we were left to produce the final product ourselves. So I learned my lesson, once and for all. Life is too short. It takes a long time to develop your personal drum sound. Don’t compromise it. Argue if you must, otherwise you’ll probably have to live with the consequences forever.
Skimp On Your Sound, Pay The Price
Now that I spend most of my time doing DRUM! Magazine business on the Internet rather than in print, I’ve come to terms with the flamers and spammers who’ve elevated indiscriminate criticism to a high art, even (or perhaps especially) when they don’t have much to say. Well, I get it – it’s hard to resist leaving a comment, erudite or otherwise, when all it takes is a few keystrokes to go down in impermanent history.
Generally, I don’t take the bait when it’s clear somebody’s just trying to get under our skin, although it isn’t always easy. For example, I recently had a snarky troll respond to a link I posted on Facebook to the 70+ video booth tours and gear demos we shot at the 2013 NAMM show last January. Our Facebook “friend” sneered that the video archive was just one big advertorial paid for by the featured companies.
He was just plain wrong. We pay thousands of dollars to send our editorial crew to Anaheim every year armed with video cameras so that we can inform our readers and online members about the newest tools on the market to help them sound better. We do that because sounding good is just as important as playing well.
I’m living proof. Back in the ’80s, when I was throwing 100 percent of my energy into the pursuit of a professional drumming career in Los Angeles, I was focused entirely on technique, to the exclusion of everything else. I wanted my drumming to be the fastest, trickiest, and most complex in town. But I almost never considered how my drums actually sounded.
I remember a recording session where the engineer winced at the sound of my dead, buzzing mounted tom. “Why don’t you replace the head,” he suggested. Embarrassed, I had to admit that I didn’t have a spare head with me. He looked at me like I was insane, and never called again. Can’t say I blame him.
I still managed to accomplish many of my professional goals during this period, but continued to struggle infinitely more than other drummers my age who were kicking around Los Angeles during that same time (like Gregg Bissonette, Matt Sorum, and Mark Schulman, to name a few).
Look, there’s something close to a million other reasons why their careers took off while mine sputtered (like, for example, being better drummers!), but I can assure you that one of the big ones was that their drums just sounded a lot better than mine did.
So when we post videos from NAMM, or review new gear, or publish articles about how to tune your kit, these tips are meant to help you become more competitive, rather than to pacify advertisers.
But you aren’t alone. Limousine drivers have to invest in vehicles, carpenters must own power tools, bakers need ovens, farmers need ploughs, painters need easels, and drummers need kits that make them sound great. That’s simply what it takes to get the job done.