My Bad
By Andy Doerschuk Published February 2010
Nobody’s perfect, but there are moments when our flaws are a bit more glaring than usual. I recently had a wake-up call about my own fallibility.
Months ago, I was playing with the host band at a local jam session. After finishing the first set, we opened up the stage to the jammers waiting patiently for their chance to play. Now, it’s important to keep in mind that the level of musicianship at a jam can swing wildly from amateur to professional. As the host drummer, you have to be prepared to see some hotdog flailing on your kit who clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing.
So after toweling off, I headed up to the balcony to check out the action. I watched as the first drummer sat behind my drums and began adjusting the heights and angles of my stands to suit his style. I don’t have a problem with that, but to my horror, he grabbed my mounted tom and twisted it without loosening the wing nut, which was only a mere inch or so from his hand. I couldn’t believe how rude he was to treat my gear with such disregard. When I finally got the chance to take a close look, I was relived to see that he hadn’t done any damage. Crisis averted.
Flash forward to a couple of weeks ago. A bandleader I occasionally play with invited me to an all-star jam featuring many top musicians around the San Francisco Bay Area. Almost as soon as I walked in the door he invited me to come up on stage. I shook hands with the drummer, Dennis Dove — a good guy who I have known for years — and sat down behind his drums.
His kit was set up very much like mine, except for the mounted tom, which was tilted at an odd angle toward the crash cymbal. With no forethought and feeling some pressure under the circumstances, I grabbed the tom and twisted it toward me without loosening the wing nut. In the heat of the moment, I did the exact same thing that the thoughtless jammer had done to my tom months before.
Obviously, Dennis had been watching from the wings, because only seconds after I forcibly adjusted his stand, he walked right up to me and said in a very friendly voice, “You know, you have to be careful with these old stands. You’re the only guy I would let do something like that.” I felt like a complete idiot and apologized.
Later that night, as I unwound at home, I realized that I had more than one lesson to learn from this experience. Of course, it’s never cool to manhandle another drummer’s gear, but I also need to work on my empathy toward other drummers who, like me, can make mistakes under pressure without meaning any harm.
To be honest, it’s a lifelong lesson that I’ve grappled with, which I have learned and relearned many times throughout my life. Every last one of us is human, and occasionally, we just need to give each other a break.
Crossroads
By Andy Doerschuk Published January 2010
Everything changed in 1986, while I was sitting on my bed in a shabby studio apartment in the San Fernando Valley. In fact, it was the only place to sit in the tiny room, which I’d estimate at 12' x 12', only slightly roomier than a prison cell. No doubt the place was an illegal build-out — just drywall hammered onto haphazard framing that dissected the back corner of a garage. It had no kitchen — just a hot plate and cube refrigerator. You could hear mice scuttling in the walls at night.
My band had broken up a year earlier and I’d gotten laid off from my shipping-and-receiving job. Unemployment insurance barely covered my minimal expenses, assuring that I couldn’t do much more besides eat and sleep. Looking back, it’s hard to believe that, under these dismal circumstances, I actually had a houseguest: a soundman and old high school friend who was down on his luck and literally had nowhere else to go. He slept on the floor and the two of us simply hung around this dingy apartment all day long. I was 31.
We were talking one day when my friend said, “You know, Andy, you and I are classic underachievers.” I asked what he meant. “Well,” he continued, “we’re both intelligent and capable enough to do whatever we want, but we choose not to do much at all.”
My face reddened. The inarguable truth of his statement hit me hard. I didn’t want to be an underachiever. I wasn’t willing to accept that this was thebest I could expect from life. With no resources at my disposal, and no idea how to do it, I decided in that instant to reverse the downward trajectory my life had taken.
It’s a convoluted story that I’ve told episodically in this column, but a little more than a year later I had moved to Northern California and was working at Drums & Drumming, the first magazine I ever edited. I’ve worked my tail off ever since, and succeeded in undoing what once appeared to be an irrevocable fate.
I can’t say the same for my old friend, though. He never pulled himself out of that lifestyle and today, in his early fifties, he alternates between flopping on couches and living in weekly hotels, earning just enough to hover a hairsbreadth above homelessness.
To be sure, I’m glad I made the choices that I did. And yet it’s important to realize that my friend also made his own decisions, for his own reasons. It’s his life to live, and I believe he’s satisfied in his own way. But you don’t have to give in — not if you don’t want to. If you feel like you’ve hit bottom, remember that you might be standing at a crossroads, not a brick wall. Change is possible as long as you want it.
5 Ways Bandleaders Drive Me Nuts
By Andy Doerschuk Published September 16, 2009
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.
Do The Right Thing
By Andy Doerschuk Published July 31, 2009
(Left) Chicago Musical College, where I practiced mallet technique every day, ate atrocious dorm food, had a radio show called Music For Your Toe, and completely wasted my dad's tuition money.
Some time after dinosaurs stopped roaming the Earth and I graduated from high school, I found myself at Chicago Musical College, laboring to earn a degree in music performance. While there, I took everything from music theory to ear training to music history, as well as private percussion lessons and the occasional English or math class.
To be honest, I had no idea why I was there, except for the most obvious reason -- to please my parents. As much as I enjoyed studying mallet instruments, I had no intention of pursuing a career as an orchestral percussionist. From the moment I first saw Ringo Starr on the Ed Sullivan Show, I knew precisely what I wanted to do -- play drums in a rock band -- and spent my entire youth working up the chops that I thought I needed to accomplish that goal.
Every night after dinner I would go to the school’s percussion room to practice my marimba and timpani assignments, then spend the rest of the evening slamming the skins on the school’s gorgeous vintage Ludwig kit, eyes closed, imagining myself on stage with Jimi Hendrix or Cream.
I finally came to a conclusion that I was wasting my time and my parents’ tuition money. I didn’t need to go to school to learn how to become a rock drummer. I needed to move to a place where I could find a good gig with a band so I could begin recording and touring. I quit school, broke my parents’ hearts, and headed for California.
It took a few more years before I finally landed in Los Angeles, where I worked professionally for the better part of a decade, and realized many of the goals I had set out to achieve. But I also knew that there were better drummers competing on the L.A. scene for the same gigs as me. They had metronomic tempo, could sight read, and play any style of music as if they were born into it. In contrast, I could slam through a punk rock song with boundless enthusiasm and play really fast, but still couldn’t manage a decent shuffle, and didn’t have a clue how to approach a salsa groove.
The truth dawned on me -- I could string together $100 gigs for the rest of my life, but was unprepared to truly compete professionally, and it showed. I don’t regret anything that has happened since then, and feel that it’s an honor to edit DRUM! Magazine for you, but my point is that you can’t cut corners. If you really want to pursue a drumming career, you should build the strongest foundation that you can, which includes doing all the grunt work. Study hard. Practice religiously. Chase after knowledge and technique as if your very life depends on it – because in a way, it does.
Drummer, Define Yourself
By Andy Doerschuk Published July 26, 2009
(Left) The entrance to Trident Studios on St. Anne's Court in the Soho district of London. Here David Bowie recorded The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust, The Beatles tracked songs for The White Album and Abbey Road, Devo recorded Duty Now For The Future, and I fell flat on my face.
I was searching for the obligatory cheese tray at one of those drum industry receptions that extends the glad-handing well into the evening following a hard day at the NAMM music trade show. As tradition dictates, a house band churned away on a temporary stage while a succession of drummers trotted up to show their stuff. I heard a voice behind me say, "Hey Purdie’s going to play," and turned to see drumming legend Bernard "Pretty" Purdie sit down behind the kit. We were in for a treat. After adjusting a couple cymbal stands, he counted off the tune, and proceeded to swing through a classic jazz number like a man possessed.
"Wow, I didn’t know he could play like that," said the same voice from behind me. "How could you not know?" I thought. Purdie has played every style – including straight-ahead jazz like this – for the past four decades. However, in my heart I knew I was being a music snob. This guy was only doing what most other people would do: remembering Purdie’s work with Aretha Franklin, James Brown, and Steely Dan. These are highlights in Purdie’s career that music journalists continue to cover to this day, while all but ignoring his brimming catalog of work with artists like Mongo Santamaria, Larry Coryell, Herbie Hancock, and Dizzy Gillespie. In short, that’s how Purdie has been defined – as a funky drummer, and not as a jazz cat.
Now quickly – let’s travel back in time to 1978. While visiting my father in London, England I dropped by Trident Studios to see Howard Thompson, an acquaintance I knew in high school who had worked his way up from being a studio go-fer to an engineer. Howard was the most successful music business contact that I knew at that time, and I admit having a hidden agenda: I was looking for a gig.
Howard ushered me up to a control room and offered me a cup of tea. We began to catch up on the past couple years since we had last seen each other, and he played a snippet of the Psychedelic Furs’ debut album, his first effort as a record producer. Finally, excruciatingly, I summoned the nerve to ask, "So Howard, do you know any bands that are auditioning drummers right now?"
"Hmm. What style do you play?" he asked.
"Oh, I can play anything," I replied, expansively.
"Well, honestly, I can’t think of anybody who is looking for a drummer who can play anything," he echoed, as my heart sunk. "I know John Lydon is putting together a band right now, but he’s looking for more of a rock drummer."
"But … but … I can play rock," I sputtered. "Actually, I’m much more of a rock drummer than a jazz drummer. I … I …" And in an instant, my credibility suddenly in tatters, I witnessed the quizzical look on his face, and changed the subject. On the Tube ride back to my dad’s flat, I tried to articulate the lesson I learned that day.
And here it is. Being a professional drummer isn’t just about having great chops. It’s also about selling yourself. And before you can begin to do that you need to define who you are as a drummer – even if you really can "play anything." Take it from Purdie. It hasn’t hurt his career one bit.
About Andy Doerschuk
Andy is the editor-in-chief of DRUM! Magazine. You can email him at andy@drummagazine.com. Check out his myspace here.
