Bashiri Johnson: Session Specialist

By Matt Bloom
Originally published in DRUM! Magazine's July 2009 Issue

Bashiri Johnson isn’t exactly a household name. It’s not as if he hasn’t played on some of the best-selling albums of the last 30 years, or that he hasn’t been on tour with some of the top-grossing musicians in history. He has. But Johnson is a session percussionist whose fame lives quietly in liner notes and shadowy corners of sold-out arenas. He’s the guy producers call when they want to add the perfect percussive touches to an album, tour, or commercial — the guy the music industry adores and the average Joe has never heard of.

“Percussion, Bashiri, percussion, Bashiri, percussion, Bashiri. When someone says percussion, I say Bashiri,” says Steely Dan producer Gary Katz, whose production savvy earned him a reputation for engineering some of rock’s cleanest albums. Katz isn’t alone when he gushes about Johnson. “He’s one of those rare master musicians,” says Clarence Greenwood, also known as Citizen Cope. “He’s a real guru at what he does, and it’s always a thrill to play with him.”

The Bash Man, as he’s often called, has hammered out a résumé that reads like a who’s who of the music industry since 1978. Bouncing from studio gigs with Eric Clapton and James Taylor to live concerts with Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson, Johnson made a name for himself as the session percussionist of the ’80s and ’90s. He’s also found a niche doing percussive overdubs for video games, commercials, and television scores. Almost two decades ago, Johnson recorded the percussion that accompanies the soundtrack for the Sega Genesis classic Sonic The Hedgehog, and he’s working on the score for a spy game coming out next year called The Agency, for PlayStation 3. He recently finished work on a New York commercial to promote music education in schools.

“It’s kind of an extension of session work,” Johnson says about his non-traditional roles. “A lot of the record producers have evolved into doing other types of production, and a lot of that is video-game production. So they call people who they’re used to working with.” He’s worked with so many producers that he claims not to be sure where he’ll be next week. A follow-up phone call, however, found Johnson getting ready to rehearse with Michael Jackson for the 50 plus shows the King Of Pop has lined up at London’s O2 Arena this summer, fall, and early 2010.

The Early Years. Johnson grew up in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York. He bussed to John Dewey High School from the predominantly black Bed-Stuy to the mostly white Bay Ridge neighborhood. For Johnson, this meant learning how to play both sides of a racially charged coin. (Incidentally, Spike Lee also went to John Dewey, graduating two years after Johnson.) Johnson came of age when The Last Poets, a group of civil rights–minded writers and musicians, were inventing new percussive rhythms that combined jazz, funk, and salsa beats. He was also influenced by the prevailing mindset that equality was a right, not a privilege, and that everyone should have a voice, regardless of race or social status. “It opened me up to being a global citizen,” he says, adding that his diverse childhood also had an impact on his musical sensibilities.

At school in Bay Ridge, Johnson soaked up the rock stylings of The Who and The Beatles. When he came home to Bed-Stuy, he’d hear his father listening to everything from classical music to Sly Stone, James Brown, and Dinah Washington. This musical diversity provided him with a solid foundation for the session work that would define his career. “I feel that I can be put in any room with any artist and listen to their track and be able to channel what percussion would work well with their music,” he says. “To be able to be a part of that music and have it sound like I was always meant to be there, that’s something that I’ll always do and I’ll always call upon as a way and means to have a career.”

When he found out in high school that his friends were starting a band, Johnson decided he wouldn’t be left out and picked up the missing element: percussion. He played along to songs he heard on the radio and emulated drummers like Ralph McDonald and Bill Summers. Once, in 1975 he sneaked backstage at a Miles Davis concert and asked James Mtume, Davis’ drummer from 1971 to 1975, if he gave lessons. “No,” Mtume replied, instead inviting the impressionable teenager to his house. “I was blessed to be in the right place at the right time,” he says. That began a three-year stint where Johnson learned, more than anything, the business of being a session drummer from his mentor.

“He shared with me a mindset and a posture of working as a musician that was invaluable,” Johnson says of Mtume. “I studied with him as his sole student, so he was able to share with me the ins, the outs, and a lot of the business side of the entertainment industry.” With a little help from his mentor, Johnson landed his first major gig on R&B singer Stephanie Mills’ 1979 gold album, Whatcha Gonna Do With My Lovin’. “From then on,” he says, “people started calling because they’d see my name in credits and hear from other producers about my work. It all snowballed from there.” Johnson says Mtume also taught him to recognize his role as a session player. He says that regardless of the type of music he’s playing, his goal is always to complement the music, not dominate it.

“It’s important to have a sense of less-is-more, because it’s not all about playing everything you have on a track,” he says. “A lot of the time, one sound every four bars is all you need to make a track sound like a million bucks.” He goes on to say that the reason he gets most of his jobs is because he’s able to call on a different set of percussive tools that most other drummers don’t have for lack of experience or otherwise. “Countless times I’ve sat in the control room, watched him listen carefully to a track, then stand up and say, ‘Okay, let’s start with this shaker,’” says Chris McHale, a producer from New York City, about Johnson. “And it’s not just any shaker, mind you — it’s this particular and perfect shaker.”

“I get called to do what I do because people like the sounds and parts that I play with respect to their music,” Johnson says. “I don’t get in the way.” Having contributed to “their music” for the last 30 years (his latest supporting role was on the Belgian band Zap Mama’s eighth album, ReCreation) Johnson has been shifting from the shadows of other people’s records into more prominent roles in solo and collaborative projects. He started his own production company, Bash-Man Productions, as well as his own studio, known as The Lab. He’s recorded two solo albums, Art In Rhythm and Soul Liberation, both of which showcase his lesser known talent as a vocalist and songwriter. Later this summer he has two children’s albums coming out and, in the fall, he’ll release a world-beat record and a holiday album he recorded with his duo partner, Nigerian guitarist Jah Stix. Though he’s accepted fewer gigs in recent years, Johnson’s popularity as a session percussionist hasn’t waned much.

“I’m not sessioning on someone’s record every single day. That used to be the case maybe five or ten years ago,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to have a life where I had no breaks. I have a family. I have a life. I have other interests. I wouldn’t want my life dominated by work.”

The Next Generation. John Philip Sousa, known as the “March Master” for his instantly recognizable, patriotic compositions, famously predicted that the record player would be the death of music. Many have said, in similar fashion, that drum machines were the end — they’re soulless, some bumper stickers say. But Johnson always believed that technology would further his career in music, not inhibit it. “I came up as a percussionist right at the advent of the drum machine, when a lot of drummers had to make a choice of embracing the technology or rejecting it and suffering the consequences,” he says. “I embraced it, and that made all the difference in my career.”

Pretty soon, as he latched onto more new-school techniques, Johnson was no longer just backing up the big names. With Supreme Beats, a five-hour collection of acoustic and electronic percussion samples he recorded, Johnson pioneered many of the sounds that we unwittingly hear in a variety of modern music. And one of his biggest accomplishments, he says, is an electronic beat library called Ethno Techno. “People are using those sounds on commercials and records,” he says excitedly.

“In this collection, the traditional and the modern meld in seemingly effortless fashion,” wrote one reviewer from Remix magazine, of the $99 catalog. “On more than one occasion, I listened with my mouth agape.” But his inventiveness doesn’t end in the studio. Johnson has also collaborated with LP to create what the company calls Cyclops shakers, which look more like new-fangled workout weights than percussion toys. Similar to the lugs on any other drum, the Cyclops’ spring-loaded valves allow percussionists to tune the shaker to their liking. He’s not just pushing new boundaries, either. Johnson also takes time to learn about centuries-old instruments, like the sabar, a drum from West Africa that’s played with one hand and one stick. Not that this is surprising when you hear Johnson’s advice to young musicians.

“Get as much knowledge on whatever instrument you’re passionate about. Know its history and where it came from culturally. Know its folklore, and know how far it can be taken by seeing what other people have done and are doing with it. And then after you’ve seen all of that, decide what you want to do and what is going to be your voice with that instrument.” So what’s next for session players? For one, as we all know, the Internet has allowed musicians to work remotely. David Byrne and Brian Eno, for example, recorded their most recent album, Everything That Happens Will Happen Today, from New York and London, respectively. This sort of collaboration has given way to more home studios, fewer flights back and forth, and the overall means to record an album for a fraction of what it cost a decade ago.

“It’s simple to call me up, tell me what you’re looking for, email me the files, and then I’ll work on it, conference you on how everything’s going, and send you files back,” Johnson says. “That process is very easy.” Still, he says, he’d rather track his parts live. “Music has always been and hopefully will always be about people interacting together in the same space. I hope we never get to a place where there is not human interaction. The music will be devoid of emotion and humanity.”

Inspiration: Yes We Can. Asked what’s kept him ticking throughout his prolific career, Johnson doesn’t miss a beat. “What’s most inspiring to me is the beauty inherent in people and the beauty around us,” he says. His empathy seems to play big role in his success as a drummer. After all, he’s the guy other musicians and producers talk about as the session player who brings “a certain humanity,” as Greenwood puts it, to their music. “When I travel the world and I’m sitting on a beach in Hawaii, or when I’m in Russia walking the streets, or when I’m in Africa, sometimes it’s overwhelming. I’m riding a bicycle or walking in the rain in London. All of this is so sublime that it affects me. When I see the beauty of other people, when people help other people — random acts of kindness — that’s all very inspiring to me. That’s what fuels my creativity. If I’m doing a drum workshop for kids and some kid takes a wild solo, there will be something inspiring for me there. Or if a singer sings a line so perfect that it gives me goose bumps.”

What seems to inspire him most, though, is the state of the country. Johnson was hardly candid when talking about the project he’s working on with partner Jah Stix, saying only that he’s “writing contemporary stuff, addressing relationships and what’s going on around the world.” Even when pressed, he wouldn’t budge. “I write musical commentary about what’s going on around me,” he says vaguely. Something tells us that what’s going on around him is uplifting.

“If I’m playing onstage with Beyonce and she’s singing with the president, that inspires me,” he says about playing at Barack Obama’s inauguration. He continues: “I got to meet and shake Obama’s hand twice. He said to me, ‘Great work, baby.’ I really felt like I was part of something historic. I’ll never forget it.” Asked if he could retire happy after witnessing history, Johnson chuckles. “Until I can set up my drums on the moon, I’ll be in the business.”

Sammy Figueroa: Rhythms & Metaphysics

By Dave Constantin Originally Published in DRUM! Magazine’s December 2007 Issue

Listening to Sammy Figueroa tell his life story is like being led, blindfolded, through the back alleys of some exotic foreign city. What hits your ears conjures vivid images of forgotten eras and the exploits of legendary figures set against extraordinary backdrops. A discourse on the sonic healing techniques of long-dead European alchemists connects with tales of late-night romps with a young John Belushi, which merges into Jaco Pastorius’ manic-depressive meltdowns. Down bustling side corridors you’ll stumble upon a half-century worth of memories – scenes from tiny clubs and festival stages, from towns and cities all across the globe, populated by the likes of Steve Gadd, Miles Davis, David Bowie, Mick Jagger, Aretha Franklin, Joe Cocker, Herbie Mann – always with Figueroa off in some corner, happily keeping time. What this 59 year old has seen from his vantage point behind a percussion rig could fill volumes. But the story begins with a simple, cautionary tale; a recent anecdote that illustrates how tenuous the music profession can be, even for a seasoned veteran.

At 3:00 A.M. one morning last August, Figueroa rolled out of bed into the clammy pre-dawn chill of his Florida condo, hours before his flight was set to leave for Venezuela. He was looking forward to joining an assembly of top-notch jazz artists in Bolivar, big names like Chick Corea and Mike Stern, who, like him, would be coming from all over to play a festival on the lush banks of the Rio Orinoco. Just as Figueroa was about to leave, the phone rang. It was the concert’s organizer.

“I said, ‘Yeah, Leo, I’m on my way to the airport right now.’ He said, ‘Well don’t go, because it’s cancelled.’ He cancelled me walking out the door.” Figueroa lets out an incredulous belly laugh. As it turned out, the promoter in Venezuela – a novice organizer with limited funds and an overabundance of sugarplum visions of holding a jazz show in the jungle – had purchased one-way tickets for all of the invited artists. “Could you imagine being in the middle of the Amazon and not having any way to get home?”

It fell to this hapless American liaison to announce the cancellation of the epic musical event. “This poor guy must have been totally destroyed,” Figueroa says. “I could hear in his voice how upset he was.” Still, Figueroa had been planning for the Rio Orinoco festival for a month, and had cancelled a well-paying gig with Dave Grusin and John Patitucci in L.A. to attend. He also knew what came next. “I said, ‘Well Leo, I’m sorry but you’re going to have to pay me everything, because I’m not going to accept a third or a half or nothing.’ And once I knew that I was going to get paid no matter what, I took my clothes off and went back to bed,” he laughs. “I mean what are you going to do? There’s nothing you can do.”

Figueroa learned long ago to take gigs as they come … or go. He’s been freelancing his talents ever since his days growing up in the Bronx, first as a singer, like his father, and then as a percussionist.

As a teenager, he followed his ethnic roots back to Puerto Rico, where he spent several years flexing his vocal chords behind popular Puerto Rican bands, including those of Bobby Valentin and other members of the Fania All-Stars. “Really, I didn’t get into percussion until I was 19 or 20, really late in my life,” he says. “I saw a video of [vibist] Cal Tja, and I saw this guy playing congas, Bill Fitch, and he blew me away. And I said, ‘That’s what I want to do.’ Bill turned my head around. I saw him playing shaker with his left hand, and congas with his right hand. And this was back in the ’60s – can you imagine?”

For years, Figueroa had been amassing an impressive record collection, which would serve as his instructional bedrock long before he ever laid his hands on a set of congas. “I was listening to nothing but Miles, and Freddie Hubbard, and Claire Fischer, and Bill Fitch, and Charlie Parker, and listening to Warren Marsh, and really eccentric musicians,” he says. “And when The Beatles came out in the ’60s I sort of wasn’t interested in The Beatles. I was so lost listening to Freddie Hubbard and those guys, and they blew me away to such a degree that I thought, ‘How could anything be better?’”

The restless course of Figueroa’s career suggests that question wasn’t merely a hypothetical one. And as good as his tenure with Valentin in Puerto Rico was, he began longing for New York, for the opportunity he’d left behind. When he found a band headed that way, he didn’t hesitate to sign on. “I came to New York with a free ticket with a really terrible band,” he says. “They were sort of a little clubby wedding band. And I said, ‘This is my free ticket out of here.’ And I wound up in a club called the Piedmont Inn in Scarsdale, New York, in this area where a lot of rich Germans live when they’re retired. The guy hired us for a month, a whole 30 days in that club, playing every day, with Elvis Presley uniforms. It was the corniest thing I’ve ever seen and ever done in my life. After singing with all these great bands!”

As soon as the 30-day stint ended, Figueroa was gone. He headed straight for the heart of the city and landed in a tiny room in some seedy Manhattan hotel. “It was all prostitutes and pimps,” he remembers, and it almost burned to the ground with him in it. But he managed to get a job 15 blocks away at the Sam Goody in Rockefeller Center and, over the course of the next two years, worked his way up to become head of the jazz department. It wasn’t the big time, but it kept him in the company of his beloved records. It also put him in a position to rub elbows with some top-notch musicians.

“I got to meet [jazz flutist] Herbie Mann and all these people because they used to come to that store to buy records,” Figueroa remembers. “I wasn’t really playing with anybody, but by Mann’s ninth visit he said, ‘Listen man, you’re always helping me, and I really like you. Man, do you play anything?’ And I said, ‘Yeah I’m a percussionist.’”

Before he knew what was happening, Mann had invited him to jam with him that night at the well-known jazz club, Sweet Basil (now Sweet Rhythm), in the heart of Greenwich Village. It’s not hard to imagine Figueroa walking into the club that night, dragging a pair of congas behind him, and getting hit with the distinct feeling his luck was about to change. “You know who was on drums? Steve Gadd. That was my first break, with Steve Gadd, and all these monsters,” Figueroa laughs. “I s**t my pants. I said, ‘Herbie, I don’ t think I can do this.’ He said, ‘Yes you can. Sit down. Put the drums here.’ He introduced me to the guys. They were really nice to me. They knew I was a nervous wreck. And I played for the first time in my life in front of a jazz audience at Sweet Basil in New York. [Mann] even gave me a solo, the whole deal. Steve Gadd comes up to me [afterward] – and I was just a kid – and he says, ‘Hey kid, you play great.’ And Herbie comes up to me and he says, ‘Listen, you’re going on tour with me. We leave in two weeks.’”

The next day, Mann showed up at the record store and calmly informed the manager that Figueroa was quitting. “So I left with Herbie Mann, and he helped me pack my stuff, and I wound up living in Park Avenue at his house,” Figueroa says. “It was like a kid’s dream.”

With Mann, Figueroa toured the world, ending up at the Montreaux Jazz Festival in Switzerland. There, he got to exercise the versatility that would become the defining feature of his career, sitting in with an astounding 18 different bands. One of those, Average White Band, asked Mann if they could “borrow” Figueroa for their own tour. Mann agreed, Figueroa left with AWB, and wound up touring with them for two years. From there it was The Brecker Brothers (11 years), and then John McLaughlin’s Mahavishnu Orchestra (a year and a half).

“Oh my God, it just didn’t stop,” Figueroa says. “I was with Chaka Khan for a long time. And then I started playing with Eddie Van Halen and David Lee Roth and those guys. And then I was the guy they called for everything in the studio. I did all those Boy George records, and 10,000 Maniacs, and Bryan Ferry, and playing with Al Jarreau, and doing George Benson and Earl Klugh. And then I joined Miles Davis’ band in the ’80s.” He spent the next four or five years floating in and out of Miles’ band, and the two became very close. “We talked ten times a day,” Figueroa says.

But it was before Miles, in the late ’70s, that Figueroa landed what, even then, had to be the cushiest gig in showbiz: a spot in the newly formed Saturday Night Live band. It was a stint that kept him busy for the next seven or eight years, as SNL producer Lorne Michaels would continue to call on him. “I did the two best eras,” Figueroa remembers, “the one with John Belushi and the one with Billy Crystal and Eddie Murphy. After that it just started to go downhill a little bit.”

During his time with the cast, he and John Belushi became fast friends. “He thought I was out of my mind,” Figueroa says simply. “We were two whacked-out guys hanging out. He would pick me up at my house. After a while I had to tell him to stop picking me up – it was driving me out of my mind. He was picking me up every night. I said, ‘John c’mon man, get some rest; grow up; do something. I want to stay home tonight.’ [He imitates Belushi], ‘C’mon, c’mon, we gotta go drink; we gotta go out.’ He would blow out every night. Those were some crazy days.”

But Belushi’s antics were eclipsed by the frightening behavior of Figueroa’s next co-conspirator: Jaco Pastorius. “Jaco was cool, I was having fun. But Jaco was kind of flipping out on me. He was manic depressive, and he was losing it.” Figueroa quickly tired of the kind self-destructive behavior that would eventually get Pastorius killed outside of a nightclub in Ft. Lau.

For the next several years, Figueroa floated from one studio or stage date to another, even doing some voice-over work and singing TV jingles. “I was the voice for Pacific Theaters [in L.A.],” he says. “I was the voice of AAA [American Automobile Association] for a while. I did a lot of those Coca-Cola ads with Ray Charles.” It was becoming, it seemed, difficult for Figueroa to find new things to try.

So it was in the early ’90s that Figueroa decided to try his hand at producing. In ’93 he met producer Rachael Faro, who invited him to come out to Cuba to play the Havana Plaza Jazz Festival. The trip struck a couple of chords in Figueroa. The island’s seductive rhythms kept pulling him back over the years, but they also inspired him to help spread Cuban music around the world. He decided to team up with Faro to form Faro Figueroa Productions. “You couldn’t put out [Cuban] records here because of the licensing, so we were doing it through France and Germany,” he says. The two went on to produce five albums together under their shared banner.

Around this time, he also lent his talents to a recording project in which a slew of Latin percussionists got together to lay down a double disc of samples for producers and DJs. “It just wound up that I was the main guy in the recording, and they used my credits for the album sales,” Figueroa says. “It wound up being the biggest-selling album in the country for producers and writers, all over Europe and the United States.” But instead of the album’s success being music to Figueroa’s ears, it became a nightmare. “I got totally ripped off,” he says. “They didn’t pay me any royalties.”

In the heat of the initial battle, Figueroa retaliated with an independent spin-off project, but he never released it. “I got sidetracked,” he says. Now, with nearly a decade passed, he says his skills have far surpassed what he put down on those albums.

Still, with his samples sprinkled throughout thousands of recordings, he’s continually tormented by their appearance everywhere he goes, even in Europe. “I could probably go into it right now and get a real lawyer to do it. But when you really think about it, you have so many things to do in life that that was the least of my worries. I just didn’t want to get into the whole psychological aspect of that. I just wanted to dedicate myself to keep on playing in a great frame of mind, which is, these days, very difficult to do, to keep yourself balanced and having a good time.”

In an effort to maintain that balance, Figueroa went down to Miami a few years back for a little well-earned R&R. He had no idea this “vacation” would lead to the formation of a new band and spawn two highly successful albums. “I lived in L.A. and I couldn’t stand L.A., and I didn’t want to go back to New York, to the hustle and bustle, so I came to Miami to rest,” he says. “And rest became a little gig here and there. And a little gig here and there became a rehearsal. Then everybody knew I was here and they were using me for a lot of stuff. Then the rehearsal became a record. And that’s how it happened. And I never left [Florida].”

The record he’s referring to is 2005’s Sammy Walked In, his first album with his newly formed sextet, Sammy Figueroa & His Latin Explosion, and his first Grammy nomination as a leader. If the success of Sammy Walked In wasn’t enough, the recent release of the band’s second album, The Magician, proves Figueroa is on the right track. The album features Figueroa in top form, laying down accessible, deeply persuasive Latin grooves in his patented style.

“I play very simple and very straight-ahead. I play more for the people,” he explains. “Unlike Giovanni Hidalgo and Ritchie Flores, who are incredible virtuosos, my style, like I say, is more for the people, more commercial. Because of so many years playing rock and roll and funk, and playing Brazilian, and playing Latin, and playing all these different idioms of music, I was able to develop a way of playing that was comfortable for me, without exerting so much energy.”

Figueroa’s sextet features the crème de la crème of Florida’s Latin percussion scene in a revolving roster anchored by the writing of pianist Silvano Monasteiros and bassist Gabriel Vivas. “These musicians have seen me play for so many years that they wrote music that really fit my style of playing, and my character, I guess. And I was very honored that they did that. You have to be honored when people do that for you. It’s such a great thing when music comes to that point in your life.”

Having just completed the tour for The Magician, Figueroa is already at work with Monasteiros and Vivas on a Latin jazz project with a rare emphasis on vocals. “Latin jazz is not the easiest idiom to sing,” Figueroa says. “People sing either jazz or they sing pop. But Latin jazz is kind of strange to put a vocal on. It either sounds too corny, or it’s going to sound really hip. And so far, what I’ve heard in the past 20 years has been pretty corny. The vocal becomes a little too salsa-English. We’re sitting down trying to figure how to do it so that it’s commercially viable, and at the same time that, harmonically and aesthetically, it sounds proper.”

In his quest for harmonic and aesthetic cohesion, Figueroa has long incorporated certain “fringe” practices that can seem a bit outlandish from the outside, but to which he is soberly devoted. If the taro card theme on the cover of The Magician doesn’t give it away, Figueroa offers this explanation: “I have to tell you that a lot of my life was taken by alternative science,” he says, somewhat sheepishly. “That means it’s not conventional science. It goes against that. These are scientists that the government threw out – all the quackers.” Suddenly, the conversation takes a new turn, into the realms of electro-magnetic induction, bio-photon spins, and sacred geometrical architecture.

“I was always into alternative science, even when I was a kid, because I was into Yoga, and into metaphysical realms of living. And so through the metaphysical aspect, and studying color healing, and studying sounds, and healing with certain harmonics, I started doing research into all these people in the 14th and 16th centuries who were healing people with harmonics. The Anthroposophical Society in Germany, in the early ’30s, had scientists that were healing people with just sound, with certain frequencies that were placed on the body and were breaking up cancer cells. And I said, ‘Man, we could be using this technology today.”

This is no passing fancy, Figueroa has devoted 27 years of his life to this thread, working on the side as a consultant for those with open minds (and maybe more than a few X-Files viewings under their belts). “I studied feng shui, I studied bau biology, I studied bio-photon energy fields with professor Albert-Fritz Popp in Germany.”

A quick Google search of any one of these buzzwords will open the portal to a world of controversy and extravagant claims, not to mention confirming the existence and legitimate credentials of this suspiciously imaginary-sounding Albert-Fritz Popp character. But the more Figueroa explains his beliefs from the easily swallowed standpoint of music as a healing mechanism, the more the veil of skepticism begins to drop. After all, who can really say they’ve never felt the healing power of music?

“I truly believe in the healing of mankind,” Figueroa says. “That’s why I love alternative science and I love alternative music. Sound and science are all one in the same. Music is all science. I like music that when you hear it from the first instant, it goes right into your heart.”

Groove Analysis: Sammy’s Secrets

I love Jazz records that give everybody a chance to burn a solo. We’re not talking eight bars, but serious extended jams. The seven-minute title track to Sammy Figueroa’s latest record, The Magician, has all of that. Figueroa has orchestrated some tasty unison band cadences leading in and out of different sections and soloists. The one in Ex. 1 is about 1:15 into the song, and leads into the piano montuno (a repeated syncopated vamp), releasing the tension from the blistering beginning. Note that Figueroa does not play congas on every unison lick, and gives the drummer his own fills – albeit sparse ones at such a fast tempo.

From his Grammy nominated release And Sammy Walked In, the “Songo” flavored Syncopa O No features a great “trading twos” section towards the end of the piece. Ex. 2 is a sampling from his last solo during the second round of trading, and the last cadence heading back to the top of the A Section. Note the accented “slaps” after each group of thirty-second-note blasts.

Karl Perazzo & Raul Rekow: Stoking Santana’s Flame

Look up the phrase “rhythm section” in the Encyclopedia Britannica and you’ll see their pictures — the prestigious percussionists who have shared the stage with one Devadip Carlos Santana. In the late ’60s and early ’70s, the Mexican-born guitarist’s collective of San Francisco-based musicians fused Latin and rock like none before them. The 1969 debut-album rhythm section of percussionists José “Chepitó” Areas, Mike Carabello, and drummer Michael Shrieve are the beginning of a long lineage of legendary percussion sections.

Santana’s current battery is no different. In the Vol. 10, #6 issue, our illustrious Jared Cobb eloquently wrote, “Simply put, Karl Perazzo is a badass.” He ain’t lyin’. Perazzo’s ten years with the group were preceded by stints with everyone from Andy Narell to John Lee Hooker to Prince to Pete and Sheila Escovedo. And conga master Raul Rekow? We don’t really even need to go there. One number should suffice: 27 — as in, years with Santana. Take Cobb’s quote, replace the name, and add “Old School.”

We also probably don’t have to say much about the “new” kit drummer who at press time has recorded several songs for Santana’s upcoming album (tentatively titled Shaman), and is currently on the road with the band. We’re talking about Dennis Chambers. His credit list is equally daunting: John Scofield, George Clinton and P-Funk, Mike Stern, David Sanborn, Stanley Clarke, Bob Berg, etc. Take Cobb’s quote, replace the name, but call him a “Baltimore badass.”

On an afternoon of rehearsals in Marin, California, one can’t help notice the palpable family atmosphere. The band, the crew, everyone treats each other with a supreme amount of respect. And when the music happens, duck or grab something solid, because it’s on. You’d think Karl, Raul, and Dennis had played their whole lives together, such is their collective fire. But passion is nothing without direction and cooperation, and the musical intuitiveness between the three is awe-inspiringly uncanny.

We tried to find out what the secret is, and while there may not be any one boiler-plate answer, you will notice an underlying trend in the interviews that follow, one to take to heart: the eyes don’t have it, the ears do. When it comes to Karl, Raul, and Dennis, these are six titanic ears. There’s not much to do but, as these guys would say, listen.

The Big Machine

DRUM!: Do the two of you have a method for working out your percussion parts when you learn new songs?
Rekow: It changes with every song, the circumstances really kind of dictate what happens. It’ll either come from a song that already has something on it — in other words, if we receive a demo that has something that’s good, then we’ll go after that. Otherwise, it’ll be Karl or myself, or Carlos that will come up with the ideas.

DRUM!: Does Carlos ever give a strict roadmap, or is it usually pretty open?
Rekow: He gives us some leeway to create our own parts. He has big ears, and he sees the overall picture a little bit better than I do sometimes. In other words, I concentrate on my part, and try to be cool and hip with my part, but sometimes I don’t realize that that might interfere with something else in the song. And Carlos has a little bit more vision with that. Sometimes he’ll say, “Listen, that’s a little too busy,” or “that’s not enough,” or “maybe we need to change the pattern,” and he’ll give us a chance to come up with something. But if we don’t, then he’ll have some ideas as well.

DRUM!: What’s a good example of that?
Perazzo: Well, like in “Smooth,” for instance, how he had Raul change the conga part.
Rekow: Actually, that came from the demo.
Perazzo: Oh, did it?
Rekow: Yeah. I pretty much copped what I heard on the demo, which I thought was cool. So I mentioned it to the producer, who was also one of the writers on the song. He was there in the studio, and I went up to him and said, “Listen, I kind of like what you had on the machine, so I’d like to try to cop that because I think it works well.” He said, “That’s cool, but feel free to change it as well.” So I kept that in some parts, and changed it in others.

DRUM!: Is there a good example of a part that both of you came up with on your own, and then brought to Carlos?
Perazzo: On the latest record that’s going to come out, we all did some writing together. Once we’re in a writing mode, then everyone is in a listening mode. We kind of just borrow of each other. If it’s a certain groove, and Carlos says, “Hey, can you guys come up with something, or a chant?” Then Raul and I will come up with a vocal thing, or a rhythmic thing, and it kind of works like that. He gives us that opportunity right there on the spot. It’s really up to us at that point to produce. But the door is always open. As far as the musical vocabulary between Raul and I, it’s so strong, we can just hop on. It’s like, “you do this, I’ll do that.” It becomes like a big giant machine after a while.
Rekow: This might be a little bit off the point [turns to Karl], but last night after I talked to you, I broke out some video tapes that were sent to me, and I was enjoying some of our old solos. I mean, solos from ’92 up until now. Man, there’s some incredible stuff there, Karl.
Perazzo: Yeah, I’ve got to see that.
Rekow: I mean, we did some duets that have to rival Orestes Vilato and these cats — I swear to God. Wait until you see this. Especially when we did the [starts singing], you were playing the cascara on the side of the congas, playing quinto with your left, it sounds like ten people. We’re singing the chorus, the lead vocal, holding time, and improvising, all at the same time together. The difficulty, the complexity of that, it’s almost impossible.
Perazzo: But it was fun! [laughs]
Rekow: But it’s not only like patting your head and rubbing your stomach…

DRUM!: …and doing the “Riverdance.” [both laugh]
Rekow: Yeah, and doing a dance, and singing at the same time. That independence is pretty phenomenal.
Perazzo: I think one of the things that made it a little bit easier for me to come in and kind of find my place in this band was that I listened to Raul, and the players before Raul when I was a kid. I always thought that when they made that switch to Raul, he added that fire. I kind of knew what my place was immediately. Again, you don’t really know until you’re there, how incredibly it gelled.
Rekow: That’s what was amazing to me about the videos that I was watching. When Karl and I play together, we really hear each other. We know where we are in the bar. That only comes from time and listening and a certain chemistry. I mean, some guys can play together for their whole lives, and not have the same chemistry that Karl and I have. Last night I was just thinking how thankful I am to have met Karl, because he’s a part of me. He’s my right arm, and I’m his right arm.
Perazzo: [nodding approvingly] Likewise, for me. My family, all my cousins, they’re always bragging about Raul, like “he’s the man!” [laughs]

Chemistry Lessons

DRUM!: There was a moment while you were rehearsing when you two looked at each other at precisely the same instant. You just seemed to say something significant right then.
Perazzo: We had spoken to each other. There is an inner language, and if you’re humble enough, you can understand the language. You can understand what Dennis said to me as he went to the cymbals. So I look over at them and it’s like, “I got it.” And they’ll smile at me or wink. Raul and I are to a point where we say the same thing at the same time. We’re almost twins now.
Rekow: This happens to us a lot. That’s chemistry. Basically, any musician in the Santana band has to have big ears. You have to listen to the soloist and support the soloist. There’s a couple ways of doing that. You can do it, first of all, by holding the groove. The second is to embellish behind them without getting in their way. There’s another thing too where sometimes it’s a call-and-answer. Sometimes Carlos will ask a question on his guitar and either Karl or myself will answer it. And it just so happened that a little while ago Carlos asked a question, and Karl and I gave the same answer at the same time. That’s why we looked at each other.

DRUM!: How long does it take to get to that point?
Perazzo: It takes years of listening, and years of submission. I mean, look. I’m Karl Perazzo, that’s Raul Rekow, and that’s Dennis Chambers. I submit to those guys, and vice-versa. There’s no “I’m the leader over here.” That’s not going to fly. I think that’s what makes the magic. After a gig in Seattle Dennis said, “I don’t know why so many drummers have a hard time. All I’ve got to do is sit back and listen.” That’s Dennis Chambers saying that. And Carlos told me one time, “That’s why God made the world round, so that everybody could have center stage.”

DRUM!: When did you two know you had something special, playing together?
Perazzo: To be frankly honest, the very first day, in 1991. And I’ll tell you why. I grew up listening to Raul, I’m a fan. Before a brother, I was a fan. You’re talking to a student.

DRUM!: Raul, do you agree? Was your connection that immediate?
Rekow: Definitely, it was. And I can take it back further than that. Just before he came into the Santana band, I was doing a gig over at Caesar’s Latin Palace in San Francisco, and Karl was substituting one night. Right from the very beginning, the first note, we knew that we were compatible. It is something very special that Karl and I have. To be able to play in synch, first of all, is one form of independence. Karl and I have worked out routines where we play the rhythm, improvise on top of the rhythm, sing the chorus, and then sing the lead as well. To put all that together with two people, we’re covering the ground of at least five or six people. So to be able to carry that big a load, and not drop it, is incredible.

Dennis, The Third Right Arm

DRUM!: Now that you’ve got Dennis Chambers behind the kit, has he changed your approach to collaborating together as a unit?
Rekow: It doesn’t really change what Karl and I do, so much. It actually makes our job easier.
Perazzo: Yeah, it frees us up a little bit. We don’t really have to play as much, wouldn’t you say?
Rekow: Absolutely. It makes it easier, because we’re all carrying the load equally. It’s distributed equally. That’s another thing about that tape I was watching the other night, because I saw Graham Lear on drums, and [José] Chepitó [Areas]. And I’m thinking back about the drummers in the band. Rodney Holmes, Walfredo Reyes, Billy Johnson, Horacio “El Negro” Hernandez, Ricky Wellman, and now Dennis Chambers. I mean, that lineage of drummers, we’re so honored to have played with all of these incredible drummers. Each one of them is, for me, within the top five or ten drummers in the world, you know? Playing with Dennis is definitely something that Karl and I have looked forward to. We had our first real opportunity to play with him on Let’s Set The Record Straight by Tom Coster.

DRUM!: Did you rehearse much with Dennis before doing sessions for the album? Did you feel him out a little?
Perazzo: We had a couple days of rehearsal, but not to feel him out. We wanted to oblige him, you know. We’re not saying, “When you come here, this is how it’s supposed to be.” I mean, we have to change for him too, you know. But we felt that his playing and timing was so strong, we had maybe a day and a half of rehearsal and went right into the studio. And we recorded a number of tunes, and they all came out great. I think a couple of them will make it on the record.

DRUM!: What impresses you most about Dennis’s drumming?
Perazzo: His tone is so big, his sound is like … man. That’s one of the first things I noticed. Obviously, he comes from Parliament, so that carries all of that.
Rekow: The other thing is, the Baltimore trio — Carter Beauford, Ricky Wellman, and Dennis Chambers — those three have a big sound. The kick drum and the snare, there’s no question as to where the time is, for all three of them.
Perazzo: Yeah, those guys are brutal, man. And I learned right away just how easy it is to play with Dennis. He’s a big listener. He has a good sense of when Raul and I are going to do a fill, he has a really good insight into that. Or he’ll just say very humbly, “You take it.” And I’m like, “Dude, you’re Dennis Chambers. You can do that one-handed.”
Rekow: Right.

DRUM!: Dennis has done all of this amazingly complex stuff with other artists, and it’s all from memory, it’s all ears. No chart reading.
Perazzo: I think that’s just the gift of God, the ability to hear like that. That’s how Raul and I study. We’re not big readers.
Rekow: On that same note, Buddy Rich couldn’t read music either. Reading music is definitely an advantage, but then again, you can make it a disadvantage. Some people choose not to make it a disadvantage; Dennis is one, Carlos is another. Myself, I don’t read — well, I can read, but not very well. I can’t sight read. I have to sit there and decipher things. So it’s easier for me to just listen to it and learn it that way. And Dennis is the type of guy, kind of like Buddy Rich, if you play him the song one time, the next time around he’ll hit it and he’ll catch all the punches, all the fills, all the breaks. [sighs] Incredible ears.
Perazzo: I read. I’m kind of a mediocre reader, but it’s something that I want to do. I went my whole life not knowing a lick of music. People ask me, “Man, what is that? Is that in seven? What are you doing?” I don’t know. I just play, that’s it. Now that Raul and I are doing more clinics, and we have a video coming out [Supernatural Rhythms and Grooves], I felt that I needed to challenge myself and take some classes on reading, and maybe dip into melodic piano and all that.

Cookin’ Gumbo

DRUM!: How do you describe what makes a rhythm section really cook?
Rekow: You have to really listen hard. It’s difficult to play in a section and not step on each other’s toes. Once in a while it’s going to happen where both of you will want to do something at the same time, and if that happens it can be a mess. So trying to listen and understand where the other person might be doing their fills, and try to do your fills somewhere else.
Perazzo: Yeah, just controlling your emotions, you know? I stress practicing, and I don’t mean practicing mama-daddy and all that. You’ve got to go there too, but practicing and learning about yourself and what makes you happy musically. And learning different types of music; don’t stay on one thing. That can make you miss a lot of work. When a percussionist asks me, “How do I play with a drummer?” I always tell them to learn to control their emotions. Like Raul said, listen. Just because you know everything, doesn’t mean you have to play everything. Just because you feel it or hear it, doesn’t mean that it has to go there. I just think that kind of stuff is important for young kids. I remember being there, man. At a young age and just … really built-up energy. It’s like [clenching fists] n-n-n-ow! But over the years, you learn how to play the music within the music.
Rekow: At the clinics, I try to use the analogy of, think of a gumbo. You’re going to make some gumbo, and that’s going to be your style. You have to study the greats before you, study your idols, try to learn from them as much as possible, and take a little bit from each one of them. And those are the spices and the ingredients that are going to go into that stock that’s going to make that gumbo. But the most important part of that is the stock. Are you going to use a fish head, or a pork bone? That’s really what’s going to give that whole thing the basic flavor. That’s you. You can’t forget that you are the most important ingredient. And try to develop something that’s new and different than everybody else.
Armando Peraza, the very first year that I had the pleasure of playing with him, I mean I was in awe. I’ve idolized him my whole life. And I was a bit tentative, to say the least, but also excited. So when he came in, he took me to the side and said, “It’s a pleasure to be able to play with you.” And I said, “Are you kidding? It’s an honor to be able to play with you.” And he said, “Raul, I want you to know something. You have a sound that is unlike anyone else I have ever heard. Don’t ever forget that. Don’t ever lose that.” That was the biggest vote of confidence that I could have ever gotten in my career.
It made itself apparent to me one night [at a] tribute to Armando Peraza at the Masonic Auditorium. Francisco Aguabella was there, Emil Richards, the bass player from back then Al McKibbon, all the great players were there. There was an intermission, and after the intermission I was asked by John Santos to come up and play conga. I went up there and started playing, and my wife was out in the audience. And after it was over my wife told me that Armando came running out when the band started, and stood behind me with this big grin on his face. He told me afterward, “Raul, I was back there talking to Francisco, and I heard you play. And I knew from the very first note that it was you.” For me, that’s the biggest honor, that my tone is distinguishable from someone else’s. Some people work their whole lives for that. I’m still trying to work on my tone, I still have a long way to go.
Karl has an incredible tone on congas and timbales, and bongo drums — anything he picks up, he has a real pure tone. Actually, I’m still trying to work up towards his tone. [smiles]
Perazzo: You’re crazy. [laughs]
Rekow: No, I’m not crazy. Your tone is very clean and crisp. I’m a little bit more primitive in my approach. If I don’t know how to do it, I’ll struggle and fight my way through it and get there, one way or the other.
Perazzo: But that’s the wonderful thing, man. When you’re there, you know it. You feel it. It’s like a reward. It’s like digging, and digging, and digging, and finding that gold ring, you know? I mean, I’m a student too.
Rekow: We’re students for life.
Perazzo: Just because, hey, I play with, you know, doesn’t mean anything. I still go home and practice. I practice because I still have that hunger to learn. You can’t lose that, that’s the most important thing.

Perazzo’s Percussion Setup

Drums:
• 1. 12” Remo Mondo Snare Drum
• 2. LP 15” Timbale
• 3. LP 14” Timbale
• 4. LP Bongos
• 5. LP Galaxy Quinto
• 6. LP Galaxy Conga
• 7. LP Djembe

Cymbals: Sabian
• A. 18” Hand Hammered Thin Chinese
• B. 12” Hand Hammered Regular Hi-Hats
• C. 14” AA El Sabor Crash
• D. 18” AA El Sabor Crash
• E. 15” AAXtreme Chinese
• F. 8” AAX Splash (bottom)/6” AAX Splash (top)

Percussion:
• G. Percussion Table
• H. LP Jam Block
• I. LP Cowbell

Rekow’s Rig

Drums:
• 1. LP 12 1/2” Galaxy Tumba
• 2. 11 3/4” Galaxy Conga
• 3. 11” Galaxy Quinto
• 4. Djun Djun

Cymbals: Sabian
• A. ThunderSheet Gong

The Other Side of Santana’s Rhythm Section

Dennis Chambers, with two broken arms and a sprained ankle, is a rhythm section. Known more for getting his funk and fusion on, Chambers now finds himself as the kit-anchor to Santana’s mystical rhythmic gumbo. And despite any differences going into the gig, Dennis — who has worked with Don Alias, Mino Cinelu, Manolo Badrena, and Larry Vitangelo — knows as well as anybody about the power of listening.

Sharing the rhythm role comes easily to Dennis. “Oh yeah, it’s very easy,” the cigar-puffing Baltimore native explains, “because I like to think of myself as a very giving musician. When I come into a band or recording situation, it’s not about me. It’s about us. Which means you respect everyone there, and you give everybody room. When you’re playing with rhythm sections, whatever the configuration is, you have to listen. Whether you’re a drummer, percussionist, or a bass player.”

This time he has to listen to two burning percussionists at once. It’s actually the first time he’s ever been asked to do that. “It’s interesting to see two guys that work so well together,” he says. “There’s no ego or any problems between [Karl and Raul]. They’re fun to watch every night. Last night they broke into a solo, and they were just dealin’. They were having a good time over there.”

And is Dennis having a good time? He takes a drag from his cigar, “I haven’t hit that consistently hard, for that long a period of time, since P-Funk. It’s killin’, man. I’m havin’ a blast.”

Top 10

We asked Karl and Raul to discuss a few of their favorite rhythm sections. Here’s their Top 10 in alphabetical order.

Ray Baretto. “In the ‘70s, with Orestes Vilato on timbales,” Rekow says. “Orestes took timbales to the next level, back then. On bongos was Johnny Martinez. They probably had more chops than the others at that time.”

Cachao. “His conga player back in the ’50s was Tata Guines,” Rekow says. “Changuito, Giovanni, myself, we all listened a lot to Tata Guines. On timbales was Guillermo Barreto, and on bongos was Yeyeito. They were so tasty, and had chops.”

Diga Rhythm Band. “Growing up in the early ’70s, this was one of the first things I heard, Zakir Hussein’s band,” Perazzo says. “I couldn’t even tell you how many people were in the band, maybe 20. That was like the hybrid of tabla with fusion. Oh my God, that was unbelievable.”

Pete & Coke Escovedo. “They were the local guys,” Rekow says. “Pete took a few of us under his wing, and would allow us to come and sit in when they were playing. That was some of the best schooling I ever had. From that opportunity I gained a lot of confidence.”

Dizzy Gillespie. “With Chano Pozo,” Rekow says. “That was the beginning of Cubop in the U.S. Another rhythm section was Chano Pozo’s band in Cuba. It was called Cojunto Azul, which means ‘the blue band.’ It was Chano Pozo on congas and Mongo Santamaria on bongos.”

Eddie Palmieri. “In the ’60s he had Manny Oquendo on timbales, Tommy Lopez on congas, and Jose Mangual on bongos,” Rekow says. “In the ’80s, Endel Dueño played timbales, Anthony Carillo played bongos, and Giovanni Hildalgo played congas. He had so many great rhythm sections.”

Mongo Santamaria. “When he had Armando Peraza and Carmelo Garcia, who played the timbales, in the ’60s,” Rekow says. “They had so much fire, just between Armando and Mongo was enough, but Carmelo could actually steal the show from those guys.”

Santana. “Santana [with its original rhythm section] — Chepitó, Mike Carabello, and Michael Shrieve — was one of the first to bring that [Latin influence] to the forefront in rock,” Perazzo says. “As far as Santana rhythm sections, I always thought that ’80s lineup with Raul, Armando Peraza, Orestes Vilato, and Graham Lear was explosive and exciting.”

Tito Puente Orchestra. “Tito Puente is the Buddy Rich of the timbales,” Perazzo says. “He played music, not just patterns, on the timbales. He had always been a showman. A lot of people don’t have that anymore. It’s a lost art.”

Weather Report. “In the early 70s, with Airto, Alex Acuña, Manolo Badrena,” Perazzo says. “Alex’s fills were a little different than conventional fusion or jazz drummers of that era. Manolo and Airto brought a real energy to the table. It was unpredictable.”

Kalani’s Endless Evolution

Originally published in DRUM! Magazine’s May 2005 Issue.

Kalani may be able to drum circles around us, but why bother? Fact is, he’d rather circle drums around us.

He hasn’t always felt that way. Flash back to his high school years in Oakland, California, and you’ll find him as another Bonham-dazzled kid with a fistful of sticks and a head full of attitude. His place was with a band onstage, preferably atop a riser bathed in lights.

It’s different now. For one thing, though he draws crowds wherever he appears, he’s harder to see. That’s because he’s down on their level now, in the middle of the action. His audience has changed too. In fact, it’s kind of misleading to call them an audience at all, since they’re not just staring at him as he plays. They’re playing too, with congas, bongos, djembes, shakers, claves, shékeres – any kind of percussion that can be toted into some public place without help from roadies or techs.

These people – young and old, men and women, diverse yet united in rhythm – gather around Kalani because of an epiphany he experienced years ago. It didn’t happen overnight, but over time he came to realize that as much as he loved to drum, the traditional drummer’s role left him less than satisfied.

So he traded in his high-profile gigs with Barry Manilow and Yanni, scaled back on his session work, and changed the basics of his life. His clinics morphed from lectures into jam sessions. His performances became everyone’s performances. He stowed his sticks and switched to hand percussion. (The old kit is still back home, though, and he does make a point of practicing on it.)

Most important, he traded the stage for the circle – specifically, the drum circle. And in exploring its power to expose participants to a rush similar to the kick of stardom, he became something of a star himself. Through his books and his ongoing work as a facilitator, Kalani has helped raise the number of people who have explored the drum circle as a way to enrich their lives and improve their health – even while conceding that musicians are perhaps less likely than anyone to actually try them out.

“Many drummers have a perception that drum circles are groups of people who can’t play the drums that well,” he points out. “But I can tell you that learning how to facilitate drum circles has helped me immensely as a musician. It’s improved my listening skills. It’s improved my ability to form and impart ideas, to think in larger forms – life skills. I would challenge any drummer who’s interested in that to go do a drum circle, sit, and play. It’s an eye-opening experience.”

Understanding this experience begins with being clear about what a drum circle is. As Kalani sees it, there’s more to it than just getting a bunch of drummers together in one space and letting them wail. He saw a lot of that back in the ’60s, while hanging out on Sproul Plaza at UC Berkeley. The multicultural vibe of the times found sonic expression in the rhythms laid down by this group. The schools he attended were racially diverse, so he was open to the Afro-Cuban flavor of these gatherings. They helped prepare him for the ideas he would explore in years to come – but strictly speaking, they weren’t exactly drum circles as we know them now.

“We might call it ‘park and beach drumming,’ and it’s been going on for eons,” Kalani explains. “It’s probably been happening in this country for 50-plus years, but up until recently only with groups that had some kind of tribal self-identity, like the Rainbow Gathering. The main distinction we can make is that the drum circles we think of nowadays usually have a facilitator or at least a host – somebody who organizes them, as opposed to those park jams, which really don’t.”

Back in Berkeley, though, the younger Kalani wasn’t quite ready to appreciate these nuances. Less elevated issues preoccupied him, the most fundamental being to pursue coolness through rock and roll. He was, in his own words, a “problem child. I had dyslexia and therefore did not do well in some of the academic courses. From third or fourth grade I was always put in the gifted classes because I tested high, but those IQ tests tended to be graphic rather than text-driven, so I’d gradually slide back because my reading skills were so bad. I’d always do well in music, art, woodshop, metal shop, and those things, but really poorly in history, math, science, and reading. After a while I started to believe that I couldn’t do the work and so I gave up. I was labeled a rebel. So rock and roll was my music because it was rebel music.”

His tastes ran at that time to Boston, Black Sabbath, AC/DC, and Led Zeppelin – “Communication Breakdown” was a personal anthem. “To me, rock is honest,” he says. “It’s raw. A lot of the attitude in the music of these bands reflected how we as teenagers would like to think of ourselves. I liked its power, at times its simplicity, at times its complexity. It was accessible in lots of ways, but as with any music the more I learned about it and studied it, the more I sensed that it takes years and years to play it well – even simple beats.”

Of course, none of these bands featured hand percussion; even when he saw Santana, Kalani listened more to the kit than the congas. The standard set was his focus throughout high school, though a summer spent at the Cazadero Music Camp, amongst the Northern California redwoods, alerted him to the pleasures of hand percussion within a year after he’d started playing. He enjoyed the congas and steel drums there but came back home with his mind still set on rock and roll.

Today Kalani gives credit to drumming for his decision in eighth grade to get serious about schoolwork. “I had this test coming up on the history of non-Western civilizations,” he says. “Back then I wasn’t used to studying. I would show up for class but I just didn’t do any homework. But I was also gaining some confidence and notoriety from playing drums. So I tried to apply myself to this test. I wound up getting a B+, which was a high grade for me at the time and higher than some of the kids I thought were smart had gotten. That was a turning point because I realized then that it’s not about what you do as much as about what you think you can do. And while I can’t prove there was a direct connection, I do know that playing the drums brought up my confidence level and improved my mind/body connection – and I believe that translated into better concentration and higher academics.”

His grades were solid when Kalani graduated and left for California State University at Northridge to major in percussion performance. More important, he had learned how to learn, to honor his curiosity. Already he was listening to a wider range of music: The Tubes album What Do You Want From Live provided a bridge from rock toward other rhythm concepts through the interactions of drummer Prairie Prince and conguero Mingo Lewis. This led him to check out Chick Corea’s Return To Forever and other groups that were finding ways to put rock, jazz, and Afro-Cuban elements together. All this was on Kalani’s soundtrack as he arrived at Northridge.

He was at the right place at the right time. In the early ’80s Northridge was one of the few schools in the U.S. to offer a class in hand percussion, taught by Jerry Steinholtz. Though Kalani’s emphasis was on drum set and orchestral percussion, he signed up for that course and came away a changed man. “There were about 35 percussion majors when I got there and about 20 of them were very much into hand percussion,” he recalls. “You could walk down the hallway and hear people practicing congas all over the place. All of the big bands at Northridge had hand percussion. The hand percussion street band was the hub of the wheel. It was very much a part of the culture.”

Aside from the instruments themselves, Kalani drew toward the community aspects of playing hand percussion. “You could play very easily in lots of settings. It could happen in somebody’s living room or on a bench in a park. It could be spur of the moment, just like in a lot of the cultures whose instruments we’re using now. It becomes something you’re not only studying, it’s something you live with whether you’re hearing music from other cultures or practicing. It becomes part of your vocabulary and integrates into who you are. Hand percussion is about much more than music; it’s a shift in the way you think, the way you speak, who you socialize with.”

This leads to the heart of the drum circle dynamic: the idea of community in music and, therefore, of music in life. “You play with your peers,” Kalani emphasizes. “And in the cultures that produced these instruments, that means playing with family and friends. After dinner, for example, people will grab a couple of instruments or whatever is sitting around – a bottle, a plate, a glass – and play music. Mostly it’s to accompany singing, or maybe somebody would dance. But it is definitely a part of the community. That affected me immediately when I started playing hand percussion. It became clear that you’re part of a unit, as opposed to providing all the percussion from the drums in a rock band. That means that if your listening skills aren’t that good they have to get good because you have to integrate well with all the other parts.”

This had an impact on all of the work Kalani did in the Northridge music program. As an undergraduate he played the full range of classical repertoire, from nineteenth-century chestnuts through Debussy and Ravel and up to contemporary works by Crumb, Penderecki, and the avant-garde. Whether performing Ravel in orchestral settings or Daniel Kessner’s atonal Continuum for solo marimba in his senior recital, he found that hand percussion ensembles had improved his ability to interpret every style of music.

“It made me a much more sensitive musician because playing with other percussionists taught me how to listen,” he explains. “You have to know how much of a delay there will be when the violin section comes in on a certain note, so that if you’re going to play a triangle with that note you’ll need to have half a breath. You’re experiencing the deep points of composition, like form, structure, a huge range of dynamics, a wide range of meter, timbre, and tempo. That correlates to how in drum circles we divide the group into sections. Rather than just have an hour and a half of drumming, we approach the event with a sense of shape, of beginning, middle, and end. All that comes from basic compositional tools that I learned about at Northridge.”

As a senior he also benefited from lessons with Weather Report alumnus Alex Acuña under the auspices of the “studio music option” that was included with his major. Though they did tighten up Kalani’s conga technique, mostly they examined rhythm concepts, not just through adapting the clave but also in building more momentum through holding back.

“Alex is a player more than a teacher, so you have to tell him what you want to learn,” Kalani says. “This was good because I could take more initiative to shape the direction of my studies. We wound up looking mainly at how to say more by playing less. To me, the great artists will play the notes that are needed and nothing more – the Miles Davis approach. Inexperienced players don’t always tune into the fact that a lot of other people are already playing in percussion ensembles or drum circles, so you don’t need to play a lot of notes; that only replicates what other people are doing. You just put in a few carefully placed notes to bend the rhythm a little this way or that, to push and pull. People like Tata Guines and Carlos ‘Patato’ Valdes – and Alex too – know how to find those few, excellent, sweet notes on the conga.”

After graduation Kalani started freelancing. Thanks to connections he’d made at Northridge and through other musicians with whom he’d been playing gigs, he was able to pack his calendar with a wide and wild variety of jobs. He played weddings, private homes, churches, and shows with Barry Manilow and Yanni at places like the Wembley Arena and the Acropolis in Athens. He cut jingles at Paramount Studios in Los Angeles, sat next to Larry Bunker and Emil Richards in 60-piece orchestras on film dates, and played Persian music from 11:00 at night until 4:00 in the morning in smoke-filled dens. He even did quadruple duty with magician Richard Tutacko in Reno, co-producing the music, running the laser show, triggering sampled sound effects, and doing emcee shtick.

In other words, he hit the ground running full-speed toward a big-time career, yet after a while a sense of dissatisfaction began to surface. He noticed it first while giving a series of clinics on the road for Toca. He related well to people – and that had an effect on how he chose to format his presentations. “I was doing performance-based, ‘come-dig-me’ clinics,” he says. “People come in, watch me do my thing, and maybe get inspired – or a little depressed, like, ‘I can’t do that. I’m going to burn my sticks when I get home.’ That’s why I started to gravitate toward showing the people what they can do. I wanted to give them an opportunity to experience playing, so I had to come up with ways to do that together without putting pressure on them to perform. My purpose was to give them an opportunity, not to task them.”

The approach paid off, as happy participants, in what Kalani was now calling his “jam nights,” began buying more gear. This set him on the path toward drum circles, whose collective energy mirrored the changes in his clinics. Gradually he began scaling down his “normal” gigs and eventually even cutting back on recording his own music; the last CD released under his name, Insights, came out ten years ago. Facilitating, writing about, and taking part in drum circles became his main commitment. The deeper he got into this world, the more he began to see life in general, not just music, through different eyes.

“It’s not that I don’t like performing – I do,” he maintains, “but the most exciting thing to me now is to be with a group of people, creating something together that’s meaningful in that moment, as opposed to simply reproducing a product that we’ve rehearsed for weeks and are now playing over and over again. People who sit there and listen at concerts might be experiencing it for the first time, but to me that kind of performance lost its edge. I’d rather be in the moment, doing something that’s completely improvised and much better suited to that group of people who are shaping it with me as we go along.”

Picking up from drum circle pioneers such as Arthur Hull, Jim Greiner, and Barry Bernstein, Kalani would tweak the format and find new ways to apply its energy over the next few years. Under his facilitation – “leadership” isn’t the right word for these group phenomena – drum circles have taken place in schools as means of developing awareness among children of rhythm and structure in music, with an eye toward applying what they learn to non-musical communication, mutual support, scholarship, and appreciation for diversity. “If they’re working on vocabulary,” Kalani says, “we might make a chant out of some of the basic words. The kids can form their own chant rhythms in teams. Or they might use a formula for a math problem to come up with a rhythm, or chart the volume changes in a rhythm or piece of music.”

Teachers aren’t exempt from drum circles – Kalani has a curriculum for them as well, under his “artful teacher” program. Neither are those who already play drums, a skill that in this context may be more of a barrier than a benefit. This problem cropped up a few days before his DRUM! interview, during a drum circle that Kalani put together at Bang A Drum in Los Angeles to raise funds for victims of the December tsunami. “Out of 40 people there I’d say that five or six were professional musicians,” he says. “One of them was on bongos, another on congas, and they’d play these fast flurries of notes because they were probably just thinking, ‘Well, I’m an advanced player, so I’m not going to just play quarter-notes on a cowbell.’ That’s cool, but it had this breakdown effect in the groove because it confused a lot of the beginners there.

“So during a break I said, ‘We have some advanced players here, and I’d like to invite them to support the first-time people by playing the pulse and laying down a stronger foundation.’ That makes it a win/win situation because when everybody starts playing again it’s a lot more cohesive, and the drummers find satisfaction by going into a place of service through playing something really solid and simple, like Charlie Watts. And it brings the group together because I’m making a suggestion, not saying, ‘Hey, can you guys not play so much?’ Because it’s not about competition. Competition means that you have one winner and a hundred losers. In a drum circle there is absolutely the possibility of having a hundred winners. That’s my goal now, to work with music for personal and spiritual growth. That is completely who I am.”

Arthur Hull & Babatunde Olatunji: Changing The World, One Beat At A Time

By Arthur Hull Published August 4, 2009

With his passing in 2003, Babatunde Olatunji’s legacy to western culture will be his creation of today’s grassroots nonprofessional drumming and dancing community. Baba spent more than three-quarters of his life tirelessly working towards building community through “rhythmaculture.” He was, in a true sense of the word, a rhythmical evangelist.

As a musician, Olatunji introduced African musical elements to the west, which had an immediate and lasting affect on American jazz. He created worldbeat music, generations before the term had even been conceived. Olatunji was also included in the Grateful Dead’s musical family, having contributed to the 1992 Grammy-award winning Planet Drum album, produced by Mickey Hart.

As a teacher, his workshops brought to us a deeper understanding of African culture in both dance music and song. Olatunji also helped other great African drummers and dancers come to the U.S., including Titos Sompa from the Congo and Ladji Camara from Guinea. He guided them in New York in his Drums Of Passion dance and drum troupe, before they established themselves as elders in the national ethnic arts community.

As a community builder, Olatunji was a man on a mission, and is the great grandfather of our ever-growing personal percussion movement. With his inspiration and guidance, this group has developed into a national community-drumming network.

The following interview was pieced together from a number of long conversations that took place while I drove Olatunji to our various “Drums Of Passion” gigs during the 1995 West Coast summer tour. He was very curious about the newly developing cultural phenomena called facilitated drum circles, and we spoke at length about it. Baba’s observations from years ago, when there were only a handful of drummers exploring facilitation, is even more appropriate now that there is a fully developed rhythm event facilitator community.

As we move closer to Baba’s dream of “a drum in every household” may we honor his memory with every beat of our drum.

Hull: Let’s talk about when you first came to America.
Olatunji: I was playing the hand drum when I was on the boat, coming here in 1950. I remember the engineer on the boat, the M.V. Eluru of the West African Boat Line that brings all the cargoes from West Africa to the United States through New Orleans. It wasn’t a passenger boat. It had a few cabins that they would sell to passengers, but it was actually a cargo boat. The engineer said, “A strange man in a strange land shouldn’t sing a strange song,” because every morning I would play my hand drum just to amuse myself. It was a sakara — it’s a small hand drum, which has the form of a tambourine. I came over to become a Rhodes Scholar, studying to become a diplomat. I was hoping to be able to one day represent Nigeria in the U.N., or as a diplomat or an ambassador to some country.

Hull: Instead you became an ambassador of African culture in the U.S. How did you make that transition?
Olatunji: Because of circumstances that led me to doing what I’m doing now. When I arrived on the campus of Morehouse College in Atlanta, I saw a lot of African Americans, brothers, who looked like people I know very well at home. I saw people who looked like my cousins, or my uncle. I saw women who looked like women I liked very much. And I said, “You look like friends of mine.” And they’d say, “Oh no, I’m not from Africa. Don’t you ever tell me that. I’m a Negro and I’m from the United States.” I couldn’t believe my ears. I said, “Your ancestors are from Africa.” They were very sincere, but I could not fully understand why they said that. They asked me questions about whether we had lions running the streets. I was not discouraged, though, because I had discovered the sincerity in their voices, in the way they asked the questions, they wanted to learn. Then I discovered Hollywood’s unholy war on Africa — the betrayer of Africa. Movies I saw in the ’50s portrayed Africa with Tarzan and Jane swinging from tree to tree, people sleeping in trees, headhunters, as if nothing good could come from Africa. So I really wanted to identify myself with Africa, and say, “Let me educate you about Africa.” And that is how the first program was put together. The first dance company, the first production, that’s how I started. Then after graduating, I moved to New York. I decided to move there on my first visit to New York in my freshman year. I saw Harlem and said, “Oh, this is where my people are. This is the place to come to continue the program.”

Hull: How long did it take before the public began to take notice of your work?
Olatunji: That started just after the release of the Drums Of Passion album in 1959. It was right there on Billboard’s Top Ten for weeks and weeks. That started getting us national attention. Then also, it was during the ’60s, a period when social change was happening in this country, which also gave me an opportunity to participate in this change.

Hull: Young people were looking for and discovering a new way of living and recreating their culture.
Olatunji: That’s right. So I was credited with the cultural awareness that was going on, of the African Americans and all young people both black and white. How many black radio stations did you know then? Very few if any. There was one in the New York area, WLWU, with a very wonderful man Murray The K, who would always open his shows with “Akiwowo” [from Drums Of Passion]. And he would play it and say, “Well the chief is here today. The change is coming. Look out you guys.” The young people on college campuses both black and white would listen to Drums Of Passion.

Hull: That’s basically where I first heard Drums Of Passion, in college. It paved the way for the workshops you did throughout the country. And that began the birthing process of the drumming communities that we see today.
Olatunji: We first introduced African dancing and drumming on college campuses throughout the United States. We traveled the length and breadth of the United States and visited over 1,000 colleges and universities over the last 20 years. Probably any college in the East to the Midwest, Minneapolis to California. In the ’80s we opened with a jazz band at the same time we were running the dance company. The jazz band consisted of people like Yousef Lateef and Charles Lloyd, and the manager of Birdland would always give me 13 weeks to open all the big bands that came there. And then we opened the Troubadour in Los Angeles and another club in San Francisco in 1963 before the march on Washington. When we would go to places to perform, I’d also take the opportunity to say, “Do you have a center where people go? Let me go and give a lecture there.” That was very important because it became more than just people coming and doing a concert for the students. I’d give them a workshop in drumming and dance. It was an opportunity to sell the act, but also an opportunity for people to have an understanding of what we are doing. It’s important to let people get a little closer. So that they can see and experience and feel what you are doing and what you are a part of. It’s also okay for someone to perform and for people to clap their hands at the end then leave. But to really be a part of it, to know that they can be a part of it, is more.

Hull: Why do you think people from all walks of life are picking up a hand drum and getting involved in this hand drumming phenomena that is sweeping the United States today?
Olatunji: Well, they are going back to their roots. We’re people who started with body percussion, with clapping of the hands, stamping of the feet. I guess it’s the way we started to amuse ourselves. That’s how we learned to imitate sounds of birds and all kinds of things we hear around us, because of man’s capacity to imitate. That’s how we figured out how to make different instruments. So we started way back, and now we are going back to just ourselves. Rediscovering ourselves. And from there on we can move forward. We are trying to put together the great things of the past with the present for the future. You know the sky is not the limit anymore, it is space now. We are discovering that we need to come back down to earth, from where we started. It’s as if we are trying to balance things up, in essence.

Hull: We are trying to balance the technological society that has taken us away from ...
Olatunji: That has taken us away from the reality of the earth that supports us.

Hull: ... the reality of our connection with the earth and our connection with each other as people ...
Olatunji: It gave birth to us in the first place. We need to recognize that it will always be there. It’s there for us to use, replenish and leave for forthcoming generations, so we cannot afford to destroy it. We are learning to do that now. We are also finding the simple things that people can do together. All people from all walks of life, all colors, have various things that they can do together, and it’s the simplest thing to make music and sing together.

Hull: Let’s talk about your workshops. They do more than just educate people about African culture. They are basically a place for a community to come together. You address a tremendous amount of your work to building and feeding a healthy community though the dances, songs and rhythms that you teach. Do you always try to convey such a message through your workshops?
Olatunji: Well, I must confess that I deliberately make sure my presentation is geared towards the message that emphasizes togetherness, the one that promotes love and the one that makes everyone feel important. I know I must think about what I’m going to say, and I know also that my actions speak louder than my words. So I also try to practice what I preach.

Hull: Such as “getting even”?
Olatunji: As the old Chinese proverb says, the only people that we should really get even with are those who have done us a good turn. So I don’t let go of anybody who has done something good for me. Those are the people that I spend my time and energy with. I have no time or spare energy for anything or anyone who is being detrimental to my spirit, or keeping me from my goal. When you think about it, it’s true. The energy that you put together trying to get even with people who do unpleasant things to you can kill you. But the energy that you put together to get even with people who are nice to you gives you more power, gives you joy, and that accelerates you.

Hull: You often hear people talk about the spirit of the drum. This phrase is used a lot, but hasn’t been well defined. We as a group feel that something happens when we gather to drum together, and people say “Oh, that’s the spirit of the drum.” But what is it?
Olatunji: [laughs] A great teacher of mine once said, “There are some questions that can never be answered, and would be useless if known.”

Hull: [laughs] And this is one of them!
Olatunji: Not totally. It is answerable. The spirit of the drum is something that you feel but cannot put your hands on it. You feel when people come together to play. It does something to you from the inside out, but you can’t really put your hands on it. You feel it while you’re playing and after you play for a while, sometimes for 24 hours, sometimes for two or three days. It hits people in so many different ways, that to try to define it would just be a matter of semantics, the use of words. But the feeling is one that is satisfying and joyful. It is a feeling that makes you say to yourself, “Yes, I’m glad to be alive today. I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad I’m a part of this world.” It stays with you until other things come and take your attention away from it, but you will always remember it.

Hull: Another part of your mission is to be the focal point for orchestration. As a facilitator, you bring people together to express their rhythmical spirit in a community drum circle. As our drumming community grows so does our need for more facilitators. And as new facilitators crop up, the question is, what priorities should they have? I think as long as they are promoting the community rather than themselves, they are learning a basic and very important aspect about the mission.
Olatunji: First of all, whoever is given the opportunity to be a facilitator must have realized that it’s an opportunity to develop our own talents. It’s true; drum teachers might have certain knowledge that probably will prepare them to facilitate a drum community. But you cannot allow self interest to supersede the goal. I’m not playing a double role. I have to play the role of the facilitator, not the teacher, to bring out the common ground to all of the people in the community. That is the goal.

Hull: So, a drum teacher can have good facilitation tools, which you can use in a drum circle. But if you put them on top of the hierarchy of priorities then all of a sudden you’re teaching a drum class rather than facilitating spirit in a drum circle.
Olatunji: That’s right.

Hull: But, if you don’t use the tools that you’ve generated as a drum teacher then of course ...
Olatunji: You fail.

Hull: I’ve seen some people who aren’t good drummers become good drum circle facilitators.
Olatunji: Yes.

Hull: Because they understand the importance of the mission.
Olatunji: Because you are not there to teach or to show people how well you can play. You’re there because you know how to bring music out of them. You have to say, “Look, you’ve got something that you probably don’t know you’ve got. I will prove it to you that you can do it by just doing it.” That’s what we’re talking about.

Hull: You taught me a great lesson. A few years ago while I was being pushed out into the national drum community circuit, you took me aside and said, “You come into town and get them all excited and leave. What are you leaving? You have given them inspiration, but have you introduced them to teachers in the area?”
Olatunji: Where can they go after you’re gone? What are they going to do tomorrow or next week?

Hull: Now wherever I go, I contact all the drum teachers and facilitators in the area that I can, and have them come to the drum circle so they can be introduced and acknowledged.
Olatunji: So that the community will know “Oh yeah, we’ve got these people in our community.”

Hull: What would you like to say to the growing number of facilitators who are coming forward and fulfilling this need in the community?
Olatunji: The great teacher said, “Blessed are the peacemakers, that they shall inherit the earth.” Facilitators have to rejoice in the fact that they are messengers. They are given an opportunity to be the one who is called upon to help build the bond that exists between people. He’s the one who goes around telling it to the world, “Don’t you forget. We all have a job to do. We need to heal our community and heal the planet.” He becomes the servant of all. Because of that assignment he will be provided for automatically. Because it has been ordained that the flock will always take care of the shepherd. So the shepherd has to be there for the community to remind you that you are just as important as everybody else.

Hull: No one is any more or less important in a community drum circle. Everyone has something to give to bring the community song alive and to make the magic.
Olatunji: That’s what makes it become an irresistible force that can evolve and become an immovable object.

Hull: The media is calling this grass roots movement “the hand drumming phenomena.” It’s really the beginning of something that is going to affect the culture of the United States in some strong ways. I’d like to put you in a time machine and send you ten years into the future. Based upon what you have seen happening within the U. S. since 1950, where do you think hand drumming will be ten years from now?
Olatunji: Well, it depends on how we promote it. I think we will have to teach it to our schoolchildren as part of their education, like football or basketball. That way it will not be a fad. We don’t want all of them to be musicians, but they will know it because they have touched it.

Hull: It will be a part of our culture.
Olatunji: Yes. It needs to be a part of the culture for the simple reason that the world is here in America. And because the world is here, the world has brought its culture here. The world culture then must be preserved here as well. There will be people who know how to play sakara in Berkeley even if its not being played in Lagos, so at least it’s being preserved.

Hull: That’s why it has to be integrated into our cultural expression.
Olatunji: It’s happening now. This is a mosaic. It’s what makes this country great. There is no other place in the world like America, right? People come from all parts of the world to make America what it is. Cultures must be preserved for that reason. Let me tell you what’s going to happen. We are so lucky that some of the people who are now in our drumming and dance classes and our workshops can become executives. So they’re going to use it. It’s a good thing. They are young now, and are interested in what’s happening, and they are going to make sure that this thing survives. They are going to be different than the CEOs that we have now because of their exposure to multi-cultural situations. It is a quiet cultural revolution that will unite all people. It will solve many of the problems that seem so impossible. I have a great hope for this happening in the future. That will be a wonderful thing to see.

Rebound Man: How Pablo “Chino” Nuñez Climbed Back From Rock Bottom

By Joe Bosso
Originally published in DRUM! Magazine’s June 2008 issue

As the old adage would have us believe, you’ve got to pay your dues if you want to sing the blues. Turns out that the same is true for salsa musicians. Pablo “Chino” Nuñez will be the first to admit that he never did much in the way of dues paying – gigs came his way easily since before he could shave – but in 2002, after a career that had already spanned 30 years and had seen the acclaimed percussionist perform with the likes of Celia Cruz, Tito Puente, Ray Barretto, Marc Anthony, Ruben Blades, Johnny Panhreco, and Victor Manuelle (the list truly goes on and on), Nuñez, an explosive, expressive, and highly versatile player, with chops so prodigious that one would never expect him to be out of work anytime or anywhere, joined the ranks of New York’s homeless.

A confluence of negative events – a diminishing live and studio music scene along with the post-9/11 Manhattan economy – conspired to bring Nuñez to his knees. And a messy, acrimonious divorce didn’t help. “It was the weirdest thing,” says Nuñez. “For years and years I had tons of work. I was playing with the greats all the time. Money was usually never a problem. I was never rich or anything, but I had enough – plenty, in fact. But right around the time of my divorce, everything started drying up. And the thing is, you can’t force a gig to happen. You can’t will it to appear. It’s all about timing.” One thing drummers and percussionists can appreciate is timing, and they’re the first to know when it’s off. “Mine wasn’t just off,” says Nuñez. “Mine was stopped cold.”

Nuñez took to living in his car, a 1986 Caprice Classic, which he parked in a gloomy, industrial section of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. “At night I had to keep the car running just to try and stay warm,” he says. “A friend loaned me a coat. I managed to stay alive in that car, but man, it got cold, even while running the heat.” Nuñez now manages to laugh at the memory of the vehicle he once called home. “What a piece of crap, I tell you. It was brown and beige, but there was some bodywork done on it, and it had some rust, so it was something of a five-tone. The muffler was such a mess – you could hear me coming a mile away.” Still, the Caprice served a vital function, keeping Nuñez from having to live in a homeless shelter. “That was the one thing I refused to do. By hook or by crook, I wasn’t going to go to a shelter.”

For Nuñez, the experience of living in his car, while bad, and at times downright terrifying (“gangs banging chains on the hood when you’re trying to sleep, cops shining their lights on you and making you move”), didn’t compare with the shame of having to return his 13-year-old daughter Maggie to her birth mother (whom Nuñez never married). “My daughter had always lived with me,” he says. “Her mother had a history of substance abuse, which is one of the reasons I was awarded custody in the first place. But when I wound up homeless, I had to take Maggie to her mom and tell her I couldn’t care for her anymore. It was the worst thing I’d ever been through. Talk about an arrow through my heart.” Maggie’s mother not only opened her home to her daughter, she invited Nuñez to stay there as well until he got on his feet again. But the percussionist declined. “I just couldn’t do it,” he says. “My main concern was that my daughter was okay. As for me, I went back to my car, back to the streets.”

Nuñez ended up getting a low-paying job collecting money for a gas company. “At first I couldn’t afford an apartment so I had to stay in the car,” he says. “I had to wash my face and brush my teeth in the bathroom of a McDonald’s. And I was always trying to make sure my car didn’t get towed. But I was so happy to have that job and to be collecting a steady paycheck. It was only $500 a week, which meant that, after taxes, I was bringing home something like $300 or $350. I managed to get an apartment again, which cost me $800 a month – about as cheap as you can get in the New York area. I was always a buck or two shy when the landlord came around.”

Although Nuñez tried to remain positive, he admits that there were times when he’d sit in his apartment “with just one light on, no food, no TV, no nothing, and I’d think some very dark thoughts. How could you not?”

Slowly, however, Nuñez’s luck began to change: A friend who owed him $1,000 came through with double that amount. And then the real break came: Oscar Hernandez, who founded the Spanish Harlem Orchestra, managed to track Nuñez down. “I’d just gotten my cell phone turned back on,” says Nuñez, “and suddenly there was Oscar’s voice saying, ‘Hey, I got a gig for you.’” A year earlier, Nuñez had played on the Spanish Harlem Orchestra’s debut album, Un Gran Día en el Barrio, reviving the rootsy salsa sounds of Ray Barretto, Willie Colon, and Eddie Palmieri, among others, and now that the record was being released, Hernandez was lining up a tour, 60 dates in all, and he wanted Nuñez.

“I turned him down flat,” Nuñez dryly says. “It’s not that I didn’t want to play – on the contrary, I was dying to play – but didn’t want to lose my day job.”

Hernandez, however, wouldn’t take no for an answer, at least not so quickly. Calling Nuñez “crazy,” he faxed him the dates and told the percussionist to just “look them over and think about it.” Nuñez took the itinerary from the fax machine and sat down at his desk. His eyes started to fill with tears. “I didn’t know what to do. Do I take a chance on music again, or do I stay with my day job, a steady thing? It was really hard thinking that music might be over for me. Tears were literally coming out of my eyes, because I knew in my heart what I wanted to do, but my head was telling me something different. So my boss came by and saw the piece of paper. ‘What’s that?’ she said. I handed her the paper, and she looked at it and then she looked at me and said, ‘What are you doing here? You’re a musician. Go. This is what you need to do.’ Thank God she told me that. She made the decision easy for me.”

The Spanish Harlem Orchestra tour was a smash, and the money Nuñez was able to pocket, more than $40,000, (“the most bread I’d seen in years”), put him back on track. Besides increasing the bank account, there was an additional boost to his self-esteem after Barrio received a Grammy nomination. The Orchestra’s 2004 follow-up, Across 110th Street, featuring Ruben Blades on four tracks, won the 2005 Grammy award for Best Salsa/Merengue Album. The album also featured Nuñez as an arranger, which he says helped to get his name out there. “Little by little, other offers for work started coming in – paying jobs, people wanting me to do arrangements and stuff. So here I am today, out of the Caprice and back in action!”

FLYING SOLO. If what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, perhaps it also makes you more artistic. After he was financially stable and back to making music, the creative fires in Nuñez were once again set ablaze. The result was the release of his own solo album in late 2007. A year and a half in the making, Doctor Salsa might have come out sooner had it not been for a few setbacks. “Three of my singers got sick and couldn’t do their vocals. One of them, Jose Papo River, got a lung infection that became so bad, he almost died. He was supposed to sing four songs on the album, but he ended up only singing three. He’s fine now – ready to rock and roll, so to speak.”

Nuñez performed most of Doctor's arrangements, and he cowrote the songs “Te Invito” and “Hoy Les Cantamos,” but it’s the timbalero’s talent for developing an overall aesthetic, seeing the bigger picture, as it were, that is his real forte. “I embellished the CD as I went along in ways that I hadn’t planned on. I had an original vision for the record, with certain songs and a certain kind of flow, but with so many obstacles in my way – people getting sick, people’s schedules changing, all that stuff – I ended up just letting the CD be what it wanted to be. I make the analogy that I created a piece of avant-garde art. There’s no real structure to it. It has its own unique form. It means something different to each person who hears it.”

Given his recent trials, you would think Doctor would be fairly dark thematically, but Nuñez operates by a different logic. “I try to keep all of my messages positive, mostly because that’s the kind of person I am, very upbeat. But the thing is, I’ve been tested severely. I’ve been through rough times, and I believe that my faith is what carried me through all of the hardships. So if I can convey any kind of message in my music, it’s going to be about keeping one’s faith. For example, the song ‘Llego Mi Oportunidad’ is all about giving praise and thanks to the man upstairs. It’s me saying, ‘Thank you for the gift of music, the gift of life, and the gift of my family.’ You know, every day I wake up and I’m so thankful that I can go to work at a job that I love. Not that I consider what I do work. Making music is a privilege – it’s not a job.”

FOUNDATION OF RHYTHM. Born in Puerto Rico in 1960, Nuñez has a vivid memory of his first musical moment: “My sister bought me a pair of timbales when I was six or seven years old. My father told me to put them on the bed to muffle them. I didn’t have drum sticks, so I had to use pencils to play them. I had one of those little record players that kids have – the volume and fidelity was on par with a transistor radio. But music was in my blood, so I was playing everything I could get my hands on: Motown, James Brown, Sly & The Family Stone, Simon & Garfunkel, the Carpenters, Captain & Tennille – whatever was on the radio – that was the stuff I was playing on my little record player.”

Not only were drums in his future, but Nuñez’s talent for arranging, which he expressed later in his career, was apparent at an early age. “For some reason, I could pick apart the chord changes and I could analyze the arrangements: ‘Okay, they’re going to the bridge here, and they’re doing a crescendo there.’ I had no formal musical training, of course; it was all by ear.”

Even though he was influenced by the rock bands and musical trends invading America, Nuñez’ first love remained hand drums. “Percussion instruments always fascinated me. I did like the idea of a regular drum kit, but the cymbals kind of intimidated me. I think I saw one of those monster Neil Peart kits and was like, ‘Holy cow! What do every one of those cymbals do?’ It seemed overwhelming to me in a mathematical way. But then I saw some Latin percussionists augmenting their setups with bass drums and lots of cymbals, so that made me rethink the whole thing. I became less intimidated. I know a lot of percussionists who are great drummers, but I never really wanted to be a master of both. Latin percussion was always in my heart. Congas, bongos, timbales – anything I could pound with my hands or hit with some sticks, that’s what got me grooving.”

When Nuñez describes himself as a natural, it’s not a boast but a statement of fact. As a kid, whenever he watched someone play a pattern on a conga, bongos, or timbales, he not only could play it back but also improve on it. Nuñez is self-taught, even when it comes to reading music. His autodidactic bent is a gift, partly because formal education rubbed him the wrong way.

“Actually, the one time I was in a proper music class was in junior high, and it was a disaster,” he says. “I remember this one particular day when we were supposed to play the theme to Rocky. Now, I was already playing bongos for Celia Cruz – I landed that gig because I was playing with all these local bands, and word of mouth traveled and eventually Celia heard about me. But I didn’t walk around the school acting like I was anything special – not my style, you know?

“Anyway, we’re trying to play the Rocky theme and the trumpet players were all out of whack – out of tune, off time, a total mess. I couldn’t take it. So I turned to the music teacher and I said I wasn’t going to play until the trumpet section could get it together. The teacher didn’t like that very much. To him, I was being insubordinate. I tried to tell him, ‘Look, I play with pros, and I know what I’m talking about.’ I was just trying to take a stand musically, and, in a roundabout way, I was trying to help everybody up their game, you know? The music teacher was having none of it, though. He didn’t believe me that I was playing with pros, he didn’t think the trumpets weren’t happening, and he didn’t appreciate my attitude. To him, I was just a jerk.

“The upshot was, I was sent to the principal’s office; I was suspended – the whole nine yards. That was the extent of my formal musical training. Everything else I learned on my own, playing with bands, learning from other musicians who were better than me. In the end, it all worked out. Still, I learned an important lesson: You’ve got to be humble in life. If you go around tooting your horn and being a know-it-all, chances are it’s going to bite you in the ass.”

CROSSOVER APPEAL. It’s ironic that so many of his peers view his tenure with Cyndi Lauper as Nuñez’s big break. If anything, the arrangement was more beneficial to Lauper. “She wanted to explore reggae and Latin music, which was very bold of her – to take her pop hits and transform them into a kind of world music vibe, it was a big step. And her voice, my God, I had no idea! She has this image of being a little kewpie doll, you know, doing bubblegum pop like “Girls Just Want To Have Fun” but let me tell you, she has a set of pipes on her. She can sing for days, and with power, too. A very big gift.”

Even with lighter fare such as this, it was the rigor that Nuñez brought to the proceedings that accounted for his appeal. “I got hired pretty easily. The thing that caught the attention of a lot of producers was the fact that I would always ask for charts – a lot of percussionists don’t do that. But I had taught myself to read, so it was important for me on any session I did that I knew the song inside and out. A lot of percussionists just go with the flow, which is fine and has its place, but if you want to really play music properly in a studio setting, you should know the music. If you don’t waste the producer’s time and money, he’s going to want to hire you back.”

The visibility and pay of playing with a mainstream pop star notwithstanding, it was working with Ruben Blades that proved to be the most enriching experience in Nuñez’s life as a professional percussionist. “Musically, he’s a bad dude. He’s an entertainer, he’s a showman, he’s a storyteller. He’s very loose when it comes to making music, though. He runs down the material and lets you run with it. But that doesn’t mean he won’t call you out if you’re doing something he doesn’t like; he gives you a lot of leash, but he’ll tug on it hard if you’re up the wrong tree. You have to be on top of your game to play with him. But once you master that, then it’s loose – and a lot of fun.”

GOING GLOBAL. For the time being, Nuñez is fully engrossed in preparations for touring behind Doctor overseas, with a show date already locked down for Greece. With the help of a sponsor, he will be able to take all 13 members of his band. “We’re not getting paid that much, but at least we’re getting a chance to bring the music to the people,” he says. “Summertime is going to be a better time as far as touring goes; there’s tons of salsa festivals and music extravaganzas taking place everywhere during the summer, so we’ll be taking advantage of that. Right now, the hot spots for my music are mostly in Europe. London, France, Spain – we’re big in all of those places, which is great – a nice way to be a tourist and get paid for it!”

As far as America warming up to salsa goes, it’s something of an uphill battle, although Nuñez takes comfort in the lessons of history. “It’s just like jazz, the way the European audiences were quicker to embrace it over American crowds. But the States are coming around. New York, Chicago, San Francisco, L.A. – those are big markets. And, as you might expect, we can play all through Florida – the whole state is in love with salsa music. Slowly, other cities are waking up. Salsa isn’t going away. If I can have anything to do with it, it’s going to get bigger and better.”

Nuñez’s Setup

DRUMS LP Tito Puente Commemorative Bronze
Shell Timbales
1. 14"
2. 15"

CYMBALS SabianM
A. 14" HHX Evolution Mini-Chinese
B. 18" V-Crash

PERCUSSION LP
C. Medium Pitch Jam Block (red)
D. High-Pitch Salsa Cha-Cha Cowbell
E. Salsa “Downtown” Timbale Cowbell
F. Roland SPD-S Sampling Percussion Pad with kick trigger and Loaded Wave samples

Pablo “Chino” Nuñez also uses LP Hickory 6/17 sticks

Chino’s Chops

By Glen Caruba

Timbalero Pablo “Chino” Nuñez shows off straight-ahead salsa on his latest release, Doctor Salsa. This record is a great modern example of how timbales can lead a rhythm section and kick a full horn section in lieu of a traditional drum set. Ex. 1 comes at the end of the opening track, “Te Invito,” and the over-the-bar-line unison fills are punctuated by the horns every other grouping of sixteenth-notes (represented by the accents). Keep in mind that the grooves to these selections have the foundation of cascara (playing the timbale shell), or campana (the large cowbell in a timbale set) as the underlying rhythm.

On “Permiteme Sonar,” another cool metrically deceptive horn line accented by Nuñez’s timbale kicks and cymbal crashes set up the chorus quite effectively, as shown in Ex. 2. Ex. 3 arrives at the end of the first verse on the title track. Plenty of syncopated kicks and horn stabs interlaced with the vocals make for this well-executed channel out of the section.

One Man's Passion For The Motherland

By Phil Hood Published July 17, 2010

Down in the concrete and grit of Los Angeles (or Culver City to be exact) is an oasis of African percussion called Motherland Music. Los Angeles' gift to the hand drum community is the work owner Dan Rice, who was bitten with the hand drumming bug on a trip to Africa many years ago and never got over it. Since then Dan has devoted his life to spreading the hand drumming gospel with fidelity to the music and culture of Africa. His shop is packed with rare handmade instruments from ashikos and djembes to a few non-drums such as an African okra. it also has plenty of space for group lessons, drum circles, and spontaneous jams.

Rice not only imports instruments, he and his staff can build or repair almost any kind of drum — the day we visited they were cleaning up the bearing edge on a djembe. If you're the L.A. area and have yet to make it to Motherland Music, then by all means check it out. Motherland Music, 2921 La Cienega Blvd., Culver City CA 90232, http://www.motherlandmusic.com

Dan Rice of Motherland Music.

They repair, customize, and build in the shop..

Need new heads? Rice can cut new ones from his supply of exotic skins..

The amazing wall of djembes, all imported from Africa.

Rice works with native builders to get congas and other drums made to authentic specifications.

The store also has a wide array oaf other native drums, shakers, and percussion instruments of all types.

African masks and native marimbas.

The store has space for drum circles and group classes.

Cyro Baptista

Ingesting A Musical Feast

By Jonathon Flax Published August 2008

On the final cut of Brazilian master percussionist Cyro Baptista’s new album, Banquet Of The Spirits, a soothing voice with a thick accent imparts a history lesson. Underlined by spooky bulbul tarang (a type of Indian banjo), melodica, slide bass, and cymbal crashes — the latter spaced apart like waves pounding the shore — Baptista’s wild tale introduces “the only law of the universe,” Anthropofagia.

First developed in a 1928 manifesto by Brazilian poet Oswald de Andrade, Anthropofagia theorizes the unique character of Brazilian culture as a remnant of tribal cannibalism. Just as the first Portuguese colonists in Brazil in the 16th century ate — yes, literally ate — Bishop Sardenia and the Catholic commissioners sent to moralize them and curb their rampant orgies, so too does the modern Brazilian consume with brio all things that arrive in the country. New foods, new politics, new art, new music, all of it is heartily digested, sometimes regurgitated, and in the end transformed into something new. Or so the theory goes.

“We ate the American constitution, we ate the French revolution, Jimi Hendrix, Shakespeare, Voltaire, Baudelaire, Donald Trump, JFK, George Bush, John Coltrane, Charlie Parker,” Baptista bellows on the record’s finale. And the list goes on as the music swells to a free jazz eruption.

“We keep eating, and eating, forever and ever, we’ll never stop! We eat again, and again, and again!”

In many ways, >Banquet Of The Spirits is a soundtrack to Baptista’s lifetime of cultural and musical feasts. The A-list percussionist has over the last 25 years shared the stage with Paul Simon, Herbie Hancock, Trey Anastasio, Laurie Anderson, Yo-Yo Ma, Wynton Marsalis, Sting, Cassandra Wilson, Kathleen Battle, Medeski, Martin & Wood, and many others, while his own theatrical percussion ensemble, Beat The Donkey, which has graduated several of its members to Stomp and Blue Man Group, recently celebrated a decade together.

Yet Banquet Of The Spirits also pays homage to an earlier time, before the phone started ringing with offers of high-profile gigs. Before, in fact, there even was a phone.

Down On The Farm.

It’s a rainy late Sunday afternoon when I arrive at Baptista’s home studio in New Jersey, just minutes from the George Washington Bridge and the bustle of Manhattan. The building that houses the studio — and a veritable fleet of road cases — is almost entirely obscured by the leafy overgrown trees in Baptista’s backyard. The only clues that point my way are a trail of unusual handcrafted percussion instruments, strewn about just outside the studio’s front door, and the familiar sounds of Baptista practicing on an assortment of PVC pipes, using flip-flops for mallets.

“I first used PVC pipes in 1974,” Baptista recalls with a laugh as he invites me into his comfy, cluttered workshop. “The Blue Man [Group] wasn’t even born yet! And I think it’s amazing that these guys now own Las Vegas with these PVC pipes. This is amazing that they did that!”

“Amazing” is a word Baptista uses a great deal. Like the man himself, it is infectious. And Baptista does not reserve the word only for his stories about globetrotting alongside the rich and well known. He expresses an equal amount of enthusiasm for the many financially lean years that followed his arrival in the United States from Brazil in 1980.

“This album [Banquet Of The Spirits] is in many ways about that time,” Baptista explains, recalling his first experiences in America at the Creative Music Studio in Upstate New York. CMS had awarded a scholarship to Baptista, who had no idea what to expect as he made the journey from South America. “I was very lucky,” he says. “CMS wasn’t like a school school. It was like a farm, and the musicians that were not on tour would come and hang out there. That’s where I met [fellow Brazilian percussionist] Nana Vasconcelos, my mentor. And that was the place of beginning for world music in this country.”

The young Baptista would come into contact during that period with other CMS notables such as Trilok Gurtu, Don Cherry, Collin Walcott, and Jack DeJohnette. “And man, I just came from Brazil, and to fall into this place for me was incredible. I stayed three months, and I’m still trying to understand what I learned there.”

Trumpeter Cherry’s pioneering, proto-world-music trio, Codona, which also featured Vasconcelos and Walcott, was enormously influential to Baptista during his CMS residency. To learn up close from these musicians — so adept at synthesizing sounds and rhythms from disparate cultures to create a provocative new sound — had a profound effect on him. “Codona was the first to mix Brazilian music with Indian music, with folk American music, and with jazz,” he says. Fittingly, Banquet Of The Spirits features not only Baptista’s own eclectic compositions, but also three renditions of songs by Cherry and Walcott.

Vasconcelos’ impact on Baptista, meanwhile, went beyond just percussion. “When I first saw Nana,” Baptista says, “I thought that this guy is doing something that I really want to do. I became his shadow. And I learn so much with him, not just about music, but how to cook, about the business of doing music, and I was really lucky as a student to start playing with him.”

From CMS, Baptista would decamp for New York, intent on spending the $70 in his pocket before returning to Brazil. “And I’m here now 28 years with that $70,” he laughs.

From Here To There.

For the genre-bending Banquet Of The Spirits, Baptista assembled a quartet that includes keyboardist and Beat The Donkey alum Brian Marsella, bassist and oud player Shanir Exra Blumenkranz, and drummer Tim Keiper, also from BTD. Featured guests on the record were saxophonist and long-time Baptista collaborator John Zorn, who also served as the album’s executive producer, and vocalist Hassan Ben Jaffar.

The four musicians did several gigs together to hone the material, and to prescribe a few set transitions within each arrangement. “It’s very important, the transitions,” Baptista says. “The way we go from one thing to another is like making a connection and making a story about what we are doing.”

Most of the songs in their earliest forms included pieces of jams married to preexisting rhythms or melodies written by Baptista. Although the process was at times akin to a high-wire act, the results were often a happy surprise. “Sometimes it hurts when we make a mistake,” Baptista says. “But then it’s like, ‘Whoa! This mistake is amazing! Let’s play the mistake!’” By the time it came to put the music to tape, the band tracked a good portion of the record in one afternoon.

The standout Banquet Of The Spirits cut “Macunaima” provides a window into the method of Baptista’s madness. The map of the song looks something like this: Brazilian bayon, into traditional jazz, into guest John Zorn’s alto sax improv, into a breakneck ska groove, into more traditional jazz, into more Zorn-led free-form insanity, into some rather convincing heavy metal bombast, into French spoken word over bird calls and drum set soloing, back into traditional jazz, and culminating in the falling action of more bayon.

Baptista explains how this song was inspired by a musical improvisation game called “Cobra” that Zorn used to play with other performers back in the early ’80s, a time when musicians just outside the mainstream of the New York jazz scene — Zorn, Baptista, and Marc Ribot among others — lived and congregated on the lower-budget, Lower East Side of Manhattan.

“So this is the ultimate example of Anthropofagia,” Baptista says, “because you have all of these rhythms combined into a single song. It starts with the bayon, that’s me; then it have the jazz, that’s Brian, who is an amazing jazzman; and then Zorn, who was a guest. We just go from one story to the other, where each of us dominate different kinds of language.”

In the studio, the band executed these hairpin stylistic turns by using hand signals. “Like this,” Baptista says with a raised fist, “would mean improv, and this” — now making the familiar devil horns sign, but pointed downward — “is heavy metal.” Laughing about some rather gymnastic maneuvers employed in getting each musician’s attention, Baptista explains that it mattered little “where we are. What we know is where we go.”

The record draws upon many diverse cultures, as well as nearly three decades of Baptista interacting with musicians, not strictly as a “Brazilian percussionist,” but also as a New York musician. “I don’t think you’re going to see anyone describe this record as ‘Brazilian,’” Baptista says. “Maybe that is going to get me in trouble. My roots are for sure Brazilian, and I can go crazy and do all this stuff that I do, but always I can come back to my foundation. But I live [in New York] 28 years. I’m also from New York. That is also what I am. And I think that if you come to New York to live as a musician, or as a writer, or a poet, or any kind of artist, that’s what you are going to get here.”

Street Beats. What Baptista got when he first arrived in New York, with those $70 burning a hole in his pocket, was a lot of struggle. Much of the ensuing years were spent playing on the street or in the subway, and couch surfing was the norm. Still, Baptista speaks wistfully of that time, which informs much of Banquet Of The Spirits.

Baptista’s first street show consisted of little more than him playing berimbau on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Third. Soon, however, he hooked up with a roving VW van-full of percussionists from Brazil and toured the island of Manhattan with them daily. “It was unbelievable,” he recalls. “We would start at 10:00 in the morning, and we would hit Washington Square Park, Winter Garden, Rockefeller Center, Columbus Circle — we played everywhere.” Though police would often break up the impromptu gigs as crowds occasionally swelled into the thousands, the musicians walked away with a trap-case full of dollar bills and coins.

“One day I was playing snare with this group, and a guy start to look at me,” Baptista remembers. “And I just arrive here and I didn’t know nothing. And I’m doing a solo and this guy looking at me so close. And then somebody say, ‘You know, that’s Max Roach,’” he laughs. “And then … I start to pee a little bit. My legs don’t stop shaking I was so nervous!” Afterward Roach approached Baptista. “He told me, ‘Man, you are amazing. Here is my card, please call me.’ But I was so shy I never call him!” Sixteen years later, Baptista would run into Roach again in Italy. “I said to him, ‘Max, I met you once,’ and he just looked at me and said, ‘Man, why you never call me?” Baptista laughs.

“It would have made my life so much easier,” he sighs.

But It Wasn’t.

Nonetheless, Baptista’s life would begin to get a little easier after he was offered the role of an imprisoned percussionist in the 1987 Nick Nolte film, Weeds. Gigs with Zorn and other New York notables in the jazz scene would follow, and then a career-making call would come in 1990 from Paul Simon, a touring gig that Baptista would hold off and on for six years.

The Simon gig paired Baptista with Steve Gadd for the first time. “Playing with Gadd is incredible,” Baptista says. “When I first played with him it was so funny, because I come from a country where you needed to play on top of the beat all the time. With almost all Latin rhythms, and especially in Brazilian music, you need to be on the super top, like, ‘You think that you are playing fast? No! It’s faster.’ And if you play just a little behind, it’s, ‘Please don’t come back to this place again.’ I mean, you can lose a body part! People get really pissed with you. So I grew up with that.”

Then, Baptista says, “When I first came to play with Steve, in the ’90s, it was so hard for me at first, because he abuses the back of the beat!” Baptista demonstrates with a dead-on beat-box impression of a classic Steve Gadd-type groove. “Between every [hit] that he does, you can go off, take a shower, have a cup of coffee, make a telephone call ...”

“And then one day he said to me, ‘Man, you don’t know how to play behind the beat, do you?’” he laughs. “Man, I didn’t even know it existed! And that was great for me. Because it is something that he controls so well, he is the master of that. I learned so much about feeling the music in another part of my body, because that’s what it is. In Brazil, we feel so much here,” says Baptista, gesturing below the waist. “We are the Southern hemisphere. When we count the music we do it with our feet. Here, you are [snaps fingers]: 1, 2, 3, 4. Here, you play basketball, baseball; we play soccer. It is two hemispheres, coming together. I don’t say one is right and one is wrong.”

Elsewhere on his loaded resume, Baptista highlights touring with Herbie Hancock around 2000 as perhaps the most satisfying and educational time in his career. “I learned so much with this guy,” Baptista says. “Such an amazing musician and person.”

It was Hancock, Baptista explains, who opened him up to taking big chances on stage. “One day Herbie say to me, ‘Cyro, you know, it’s amazing. Everybody loves when you play. The audience loves you and everything is amazing. But you know what? In this band, you’re never going to be fired if you make a mistake. But maybe you’ll be fired if you don’t make a mistake.’ And that opened a door for me to really take a risk. And maybe is going to be bad, no? Or maybe is going to be something you never did in your life. But you’ve got to do it!”

The Good And The Bad.

Baptista admits that he never imagined that he would play with so many world-famous artists. He seems relieved not to have had to do something static, or to always be “Brazilian,” or to repeat himself in one long-running gig. Yet balancing so much work with artists of every genre, how does Baptista the sideman constantly adapt and stay flexible for each new situation? “That is the million dollar question,” he says. “Because it’s true, one day I’m playing metal with Zorn, and the next I’m playing with Kathleen Battle, the opera singer.

“But I think this is why people want me,” he continues. “Because surely there are other percussionists who could play much better in a certain situation. But I think it’s that, these people want to bring a story to their work — my story. And maybe they call me but they don’t really know what I am. They say, ‘Maybe this guy will play tambourine there and a cowbell here …” and suddenly I’m playing a megaphone through effects pedals and they are like, ‘Whoa, what is this?’ And they either fire me right there, or they love me. They don’t have much choice!”

But although Baptista speaks warmly of most of his collaborations, such as his recent projects with Laurie Anderson, Wynton Marsalis, and Trey Anastasio, he seems determined now to focus his energies on his own work, specifically his new quartet, which will follow up Banquet Of The Spirits with a second album later this year.

“To tell you the truth,” he says, “I always have a little bit of a problem to be a good sideman.” It’s rarely the music that gets old for him. Instead, it’s personal issues like ego and politics that take a toll. “Man, this can be a nightmare,” Baptista admits. “People complain about, ‘Why you not listen to my bass drum in the monitor!’ People, very famous, having fistfights during rehearsals,” he laughs wearily. “I’m saying to myself, ‘These guys are millionaires! Why you not enjoying the situation?’ These bad sides, I try not to get involved with any of that.”

A Sense Of Home.

Baptista finds himself in a seemingly endless loop while at once touring to promote Banquet Of The Spirits and performing percussion workshops across the country. “You go to a place, you do a concert, and get out,” he says. “Then go on to the next and the next and the next, and you really don’t have any connection with that. For me it’s getting difficult to accept this.”

The percussionist longs to balance it out by becoming more involved in his community, with music as his vehicle for communication. “Today, everything is so individualistic,” he sighs. “But music was originally about getting together around the fire. It was about ritual, about survival, about bringing us together.

“It’s part of the Anthropofagia — this idea of transformation. That through music, through this process, we can turn poison into medicine. It’s a very serious law, a sort of bible.”

Yet any authentic, lasting transformation involves a struggle, no? “Struggle is good!” Baptista bellows. “If you put up a fight, always you going to find a solution. I think music is not made for people to suffer; it is for making people happy. So that is the final result.

“And if you can get to that, it is amazing!”

Baptista’s Setup

DRUMS: LP Galaxy Giovanni Series

1. 8" Tito Puente Timbalito

2. 13" Tito Puente Timbalito

3. 11" x 30" Quinto

4. 5.5", 7.25", and 9" Generation III Triple Bongos

5. 11.75" x 30" Conga

6. 12.5" x 30" Tumba

PERCUSSION: LP

A. LP Granite Woodblocks

B. LP Bongo Cowbell

C. Remo Roto Tom

D. 17" Zildjian Medium Thin Crash

E. Jackson Krall Cowbells

F. Empty Oxygen Tank

G. Peter Engelhart Bells

ELECTRONICS

H. Roland HPD10 HandSonic

15 Years Behind The Timbales With The Allman Brothers

By Robert L. Doerschuk Published July 28, 2009

Picture the Bronx in the early to mid ’70s. What comes to mind? In the shadows of the trestles that bore the Nos. 2 and 5 trains into and back from Manhattan, life and music played out to a salsa rhythm, or maybe early disco, depending on where you were in the borough.

Where Marc Quiñones grew up, you might have heard the latest albums by the Cuban trumpeter Alfredo “Chocolate” Armenteros or La Conspiración or Chino y Su Conjunto Melao -- bands that his Uncle Rafael played with. You might also have heard Tom Jones, Engelbert Humperdinck, or Frank Sinatra, all of them favorites of his mother.

What you wouldn’t have heard was The Allman Brothers.

“They weren’t a big hit in my neighborhood,” he says, laughing at the irony. “Certainly I wasn’t listening to them or to any rock and roll for that matter. The closest I got was Santana, and I listened to them only because they had a lot of drumming going on.”

Quiñones still lives in the Bronx, but from his earliest days of jamming at his uncle’s gigs as an underage interloper, his horizons have stretched far beyond the city’s limits. Eventually they would lead to a most unlikely job as percussionist with those same Allman Brothers. From their first sessions together, for Shades Of Two Worlds in 1991, the multiple influences that inform Quiñones’ style on conga, bongo, and timbales fit with surprising ease into the blues/Southern rock approach that the band more or less invented in the late ’60s.

Onstage and in the studio with the Allmans, with superstars Mark Anthony, Rubén Blades, or Celia Cruz, on tour with David Byrne’s all-star Latin ensemble, on film soundtracks like Do The Right Thing and The Mambo Kings, in the pit with Paul Simon’s Capeman musical, and even back when he was sharing the stage with Tito Puente as part of the precocious Los Rumberitos quartet, Quiñones insists that he always plays essentially the same way – his way, with a personal touch that he developed more through intuition than analysis.

Born To Drum. Quiñones knew, when he was old enough to know anything, that he would someday play percussion, just like his uncle and his father – like people they brought over to his house every weekend.

“Now, Spanish Harlem was known for salsa music blasting out from the windows and people socializing in the street, but the Bronx was different,” he explains. “We lived near the Bronx Zoo, and there was a park-like area there where people would take over a few benches, drink, and have a good time playing drums and singing until the wee hours, without any interruptions from the police. And there was jamming at our house too; people would come over and have an all-out drum festival. Really, I was surrounded by drums pretty much from the beginning.”

By age three, Quiñones was listening and watching carefully as his father’s friends dropped by for their rhythm jams. Though he worked full-time to support his family, José “Tony” Quiñones was a fluent conga player. As he was growing up in the Fort Apache section of the Bronx, he hung out with kids who would one day make their mark as percussion masters. These longtime friends and colleagues – Milton Cardona, Frankie Rodriguez, Frankie Malabe, Andy and Jerry Gonzalez – were among the regulars at those weekend sessions, and each contributed to the knowledge that young Marc absorbed from the sidelines.

Soon Marc was playing too. “They tell me I started physically playing at three, but in my mind and my heart I had been playing before then,” he says. “Even before I was born, my father and my uncle were playing at my house, so who knows if by osmosis that was transferred to me while I was in my mother’s womb? Music was always happening: Cuban music, Puerto Rican music, salsa music, music where the drumming was prevalent. So maybe it was just meant to be.”

With all the talent flowing through his living room, Marc had the opportunity to study directly with one or more of the top Latin hand drummers of the day. Tony Quiñones, in fact, had taught hand drumming privately in Spanish Harlem for a while. But for whatever reason, Marc never took lessons; almost everything he now knows as a percussionist came to him through self-education. In later years, his father would teach him the basics of music theory and introduce him to melodic instruments; he would learn enough this way to play trumpet in his high school band. Drums, though, were always his home, and he built that home solely with his own hands.

He began on his father’s congas, hand-made instruments from a manufacturer whose name he has long forgotten. He also began going to Uncle Rafael’s gigs, despite the obvious problems involved with bringing kids into nightclubs. “The funny thing is that sometimes he would be babysitting me, so he’d have to take me along,” he remembers. “The club owners would give him a hard time because I was only six or seven years old. They were like, ‘We can’t let this kid in here.’ Uncle Rafael would tell them he had nowhere to leave me; he was like, ‘If I can’t bring him in, then I can’t play. I’ll have to leave and you won’t have a conga player tonight.’ So they had to give in. They’d tell him, ‘Well, keep him in the corner, because if anybody sees this child we’ll lose our license.’

“And,” Marc laughs, “before you knew it, I’d be onstage, playing along with the band.”

Percussion Prodigy. Soon the young Quiñones was a regular at the drum gatherings that ran regularly throughout the city. On Saturdays he spent hours joining in with the hand drummers near the Bronx Zoo or elsewhere in the borough, at Crotona Park. Sundays were spent with another group at Orchard Beach or going into Manhattan for the largest of all the weekly events, in Central Park. He learned quickly – so quickly that by age nine he had already made his debut at Carnegie Hall, as one of the battery of drummers in a production that Quiñones recalls as “almost a Latin version of Tommy.”

One of the lead characters in that show was a good friend of Marc’s father. Sensing something special in the young conguero, he urged Tony Quiñones to take his son down to Roberto Clemente State Park in the Bronx, where Tito Puente was looking to put some of New York’s most talented children into a percussion quartet that he would feature in his shows.

“So we went there,” Quiñones says, “and that’s where I met Bobby Allende, who was at the time seven years old, his brother Tito, who was a few years older, and this kid named José Jusino, whose brother is Eric Velez, Marc Anthony’s conga player. We played together, and Tito Puente was so taken with us that for the next three or four years we played with him everywhere around the city: Lincoln Center, Madison Square Garden, the Central Park band shell, and at all these outdoor festivals. We even played with him at nightclubs. He had this regular gig every Wednesday at the Corso, and he would have us come down and play. This was a school night, so here we are, these kids in a club, falling asleep at the table until it was time to perform.”

(As a side note, Quiñones and Bobby Allende have remained close friends. Like Quiñones, Allende would earn a high-profile, though somewhat abbreviated, position with a hugely successful rock band – in his case, Santana. Currently the two are working together on a joint percussion recording project, under the name “Q and A.” Allende was profiled in the Sept. 2005 issue of DRUM!)

The four percussion prodigies called themselves Los Rumberitos, and they were a smash. Backed by a pianist and bassist, with Puente playing along, they’d showcase their versatility by switching instruments, with each boy taking a turn on congas, bongos, and timbales. The act lasted about six years, until they reached their mid-teens and the novelty began to wear off. By the time they broke up, though, all four had advanced significantly as players, though once again more from their own work and from watching Puente in action.

“Growing up, before I started taking an interest in timbales, I would listen to a lot of Tito’s records and try to emulate his solos,” Quiñones says. “The funny thing was that before I got to see him play, I was learning it all wrong. We played this thing called an habanico, which is a roll that introduces the next section of a song, like when you’re coming out of a mambo section. It sounds like a single-stroke roll, but it’s actually a double-stroke. So when I finally saw him playing, I was like, ‘Oh, man! This is totally off the wall!’”

Just as important, Puente encouraged all four members of Los Rumberitos to keep growing as musicians. “He appreciated our talent,” Quiñones says, “and he was always very warm to us. Even in his later years, he was always supportive. We became a family because, with us being so young, I think he took to the fact that we had potential.”

Masterclass. When Los Rumberitos broke up, Quiñones concentrated on high school until he was old enough to start working the club circuit. His reputation was already established, thanks to the exposure he’d earned through playing with Puente on bills that included three or four other bands. So it was no surprise when he got a call, at age 17, from one of the top Latin singers of the time, Rafael de Jesus, who had just left trumpeter Luis “Perico” Ortiz’s band to cut a solo album.

“He hired me for that session,” Quiñones says, “and I have to admit it was intimidating because this was my first opportunity to record with real artists – heavyweights like [pianist] Oscar Hernandez, who is music director for the Spanish Harlem Orchestra, and the conga player Juan ‘Papo’ Pepin, who was a big influence on me. Sal Cuevas, one of the biggest salsa bass innovators, was on the gig as well. So there were lots of heavy cats, and here I am, this newbie, thrown into the mix.”

Apparently Quiñones acquitted himself well, since de Jesus invited him to join his band. With that, the doors flew open, and soon every open night, when he wasn’t working with de Jesus, was filled with freelance jobs for other bands. “From when I was 16 to 20 years old, I played with basically every salsa band in New York City,” he says. “My steady was with Rafael, but I also played with José Alberto ‘El Canario,’ who had his own band, and with Raphael’s old boss, Perico. Back then there were so many clubs that there weren’t enough musicians to go around, so I subbed a lot. There might be three clubs in one block, so on one night I’d start at one, go across the street to play the next set, and then pack up and go to the third club. It was ridiculous.”

It wasn’t only his playing that raised Quiñones toward the top of the percussion list. Thanks to his years of playing trumpet in high school, he had developed an ability to sight-read charts – not a common asset among even his more seasoned colleagues. His skill at playing treble clef lines on sight translated into an even stronger capability with percussion parts – which, unlike a trap drummer’s score, consists only of slashes to mark each impact and accent.

The music business being as it is, even all this work wasn’t enough to cover living expenses after high school, and so Quiñones mixed his nighttime regimen with a nine-to-five ordeal as a Citibank teller – “handing out money,” he points out, “rather than making it. During this time, I was really just playing music for fun. It wasn’t a job; it was more about making a little money, hanging out, meeting girls, you know what I’m saying? I always thought I’d have to subsidize my playing with a real job.”

That began to change when bassist Sal Cuevas tipped Quiñones off to a job sitting in for Milton Cardona on a recording date with Willie Colón. At the time this seemed no different from the fill-in gigs that Quiñones often played. What he didn’t know was that the band’s drummer, Johnny Almendra, had noticed how easily the young substitute handled each arrangement, thanks to his reading. Nor did he realize at the time that Colón was having problems with Cardona, who had the habit of missing rehearsals and shows every now and then.

So when Colón called out of the blue with an offer to join his band as a conguero, Quiñones jumped at it. The day job was instant history, and for the next five years he traveled and recorded with the celebrated trombonist and New York salsa pioneer. He worked his way up as the band’s bongosero, timbalero, and eventually music director, with responsibilities ranging from leading rehearsals to making sure everyone had the right uniform for the night to getting the band to the airport on time.

Following his run with Colón, Quiñones signed on with Rubén Blades, a world-class job that placed him at the pinnacle of Latin music from 1986 through ’89. This, in turn, led to a stint on timbales with Talking Heads founder David Byrne, who devoted a year to fronting a huge, 17-piece Latin ensemble whose members included a red-hot rhythm section, with Cardona on congas and José Mangual Jr. on bongos, and more than a few legends, including Colón, Ray Barretto, and Celia Cruz. When that tour closed, Quiñones was recruited to play percussion with jazz fusionists Spyro Gyra. Though that position lasted for just a year, it ended at an opportune time.

Allman Who? Following a show in Tallahassee, Florida, Quiñones was relaxing, making himself a sandwich, backstage, when a total stranger came rushing up to him. “He’s ranting and raving about my playing, like, ‘Man, my wife and I couldn’t keep our eyes and ears off of you! You’re amazing! You know, I think I’m going to have to steal you from this band!’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, whatever, man,’ but I gave him my number, and when he left, the manager of Spyro Gyra was like, ‘Man, that’s Butch Trucks from the Allman Brothers!’ Which meant absolutely nothing to me.”

Shortly after that, Trucks called with an offer to fly Quiñones down to Memphis, where his band was getting ready to lay down tracks for Shades Of Two Worlds. “I say okay, even though I still have no idea who the Allman Brothers are. To me, it’s just another session. I see Jaimoe sitting on a cooler, chilling out; I think he’s one of the roadies. I thought one of the guitar techs was Dickie Betts. But Butch and Jaimoe will both tell you now that it was a blessing that I had no idea who they were, because I didn’t have any preconceived notion of what I should play.”

They got to work, and right away producer Tom Dowd took note of that same reading ability that had helped Quiñones hit his stride in New York. “They were paying this complicated instrumental that went from 4/4 to 7/4 to a 2/4 bar here and there. The changes were going by so fast that I asked Tom to sketch out a diagram for me. And he goes, ‘You read music? Great! That makes it easier for us.’ He sketches out a part and we knock it out, and he’s going on about how amazing that is, because Gregg Allman and Dickie Betts can read only chord charts.”

After the session, Quiñones flies back home to news from Spyro Gyra leader Jay Beckenstein that the band has decided to “go in a different direction” and let him go. For two months, nothing much happens. Then Trucks calls again, this time with news that everyone in the band was so knocked out by his work in Memphis that they wanted him to play on their upcoming European tour. “That was 15 years ago, and I’m still here,” he smiles.

Quiñones was the answer to the band’s long search for a final rhythmic ingredient. Both drummers, Butch Trucks and Jaimoe, had always wanted to add percussion to the mix. Both had, in fact, gotten up from behind their kits on occasion to make that addition. Yet everyone was committed to the two-drummer concept, which stemmed from the late Duane Allman’s admiration for how James Brown used that formulation to maximum funk effect. From his perspective, Quiñones played in this setting more or less as he had played over the years with every other band: the same patterns, the same feel. Apparently, no adjustment was needed to fit into what Trucks and Jaimoe had cultivated – but there was, he concedes, one new twist to working with the Allmans.

“Before coming to the Allman Brothers, I’d never worked solo,” he points out. “I was always part of a percussion section. With Willie Colón, I shared the stage with two other percussionists. With Rubén Blades, there were three other percussionists. With the Allman Brothers, I’ve got two drummers to contend with as opposed to a bongo player, a conga player, and a timbale player. That’s the only adaptation I’ve had to make. Otherwise, my approach has always been the same: Less is more.”

Looking ahead, Quiñones can foresee the end of his journey with the Allmans. “It’s slowing down a little,” he admits. “They’ve been on the road for almost 40 years, so they’re getting tired of it. But I never thought I’d be in this band as long as I have, so I can’t project what’s going to happen. Five years from now I could still be doing the Allman Brothers or I could be doing something different. I’ve never projected the future and I’m not going to start now, other than to say the spectrum is wide. From the opportunities I’ve been blessed with over the years, I know that anything is possible.”

Butch Trucks

Quiñones' Percussion Sidekick

The voice is craggy, like a road rutted by a thousand touring vans. But even though he’s talking about something that happened more than a decade ago, Claude Hudson “Butch” Trucks sounds as amazed as if he’d first heard Mark Quiñones only yesterday.

“That was back in … my God, it was 1991,” the veteran Allman Brothers drummer recalls, amazed as well at how quickly time can pass when you’re having fun. “He was playing with Spyro Gyra and completely dominating them – and that’s not a half-assed band. So I went backstage after the show, told him I played with the Allman Brothers, and said, ‘I’m stealing you.’ He acted very impressed, but after I walked out he turned around and said to everyone else in the room, ‘Who the hell are the Allman Brothers?’”

You’ve already read Marc’s account of this encounter, but what you haven’t heard is how his playing affected the Allman’s groove, as assessed by the drummer who had been in charge of that groove since the band’s debut in 1969. Fact is, despite their formula of working with two drummers, Trucks and Johnny Lee “Jaimoe” Johanson sensed almost from the start that something was still missing from the rhythm. That something was a percussionist.

“Since way back when we did ‘In Memory Of Elizabeth Reed’ on our second album [Idlewild South, 1970] we’d been looking for a Latin percussionist because a lot of the jamming we do lends itself to those rhythms. But we play louder than the average band, so finding someone with the musicianship and the power to play with us was difficult.”

For a while, they thought they’d found their man in Mark Morris, the now-seasoned session player whose credits include Johnny Cash, George Jones, and Dolly Parton. “He had the musicianship, and he did a couple of albums with us, but when he got onstage with us, he was completely lost,” Trucks recalls. “He might as well not have been there.”

From the start, though, Quiñones fit right in, in part by changing the roles that the two drummers had defined through their years of playing together. “Before Marc joined the band, I held down the fort so Jaimoe could play around me,” Trucks explains. “Now that Marc is there, I don’t have to worry about that. I’m much freer to explore and take more chances. I can throw threes against fours, and if my three doesn’t happen to come out with my four, it’s okay because Marc is there.”

Sometimes it’s more than okay, Trucks admits, with an affectionate laugh: “When we’re playing at full tilt and I get completely and totally lost, I’ll turn around and look at Marc. He’ll give me the 1, and then I hit it hard and act like I knew what I was doing. Sometimes that happens so often that I get a crick in my neck from turning around and looking at Marc. The honest truth is that he embarrasses me because he’s just so good.” —Robert L. Doerschuk

Ralph Irizarry: Timbale Titan

By Robert L. Doerschuk Originally published in DRUM! Magazine’s July 2005 Issue

“Ralph!” screamed the road manager. “The White House has got your pants!”

Ralph Irizarry, renowned timbalero, grabbed his road manager’s cell phone and jammed it into his ear. The confusion was evident, even through the teeny speaker. People were running around, barking orders at one another, shouting questions.

Then the voice of a Secret Service officer, authoritative and in control, cut through the din. “Sir,” it snapped, “we’ve located the trousers.”

“There was very little time for us to get out to the airport,” Irizarry explains, looking back on one of the most memorable gigs of his career. “So we drive like crazy to the big gate at the White House. I get out of the van, and there’s a butler there, dressed in a tuxedo, with this shopping bag that says ‘White House.’ He’s holding it with two fingers, like there’s something dead inside. And he says, ‘Your trousers, sir.’ I take the shopping bag, I get back in the van, and we just make the flight.”

Now, much of the world knows Ralph Irizarry as an innovative timbalero whose work with Ray Barretto, Ruben Blades, and especially as leader of his own two groups – Timbalaye and Son Café – redefine the parameters of Latin jazz percussion. But he’s also a guy who seems to find himself in situations that you can laugh about after some decent amount of time has passed. On this particular day, he and Blades had just played at the White House for President Bill Clinton. They’d been given the royal treatment, with a tour of all the rooms that only kings and heads of state get to visit. They’d been given a warm sendoff and were on their way to a flight out of the country when Irizarry noticed that he was missing his passport.

“My road manager says, ‘Well, what pants did you have on?’” he remembers. “I said, ‘Oh, yeah, it must be in my pants pocket. But I can’t find my pants, so I told the tour manager, ‘I think I left my pants hanging on the door inside the stall where I changed in the basement of the White House.’ So he calls the Secret Service, and all of a sudden everybody in the White House is running around trying to find my pants.”

Everything worked out okay in the end, much as it did after the equally surreal first meeting between Blades and his future timbalero … but we’ll get to that one in a minute. It’s important first to understand how Irizarry arrived at the position he enjoys today, as one of the most innovative percussionists – and one of the funniest cats – on the scene.

Chalk both up to his thirst for experience, in life as well as music. Long before launching his solo career, before his 13-year run with Blades, his first major gig with conga master Barretto, and his sessions with David Byrne, Paul Simon, Earl Klugh, Celia Cruz, and other headliners, Irizarry was a kid in New York City – but he wasn’t raised in any bosom of Latin music. In fact, he was more likely to hear klezmer or R&B than salsa outside the first home he can remember, in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn.

“I was born in Spanish Harlem, but we moved to Brownsville when I was just two years old,” he says, “so I have no recollection of being raised in a Latin neighborhood. There weren’t that many Hispanics or blacks in Brownsville at that time, in the ’50s; it was primarily Jewish. I grew up going to the mom-and-pop stores on the corner, drinking egg creams and eating pretzels. The little old men would give me candy and stuff. At night my mother and I would go window-shopping down Pitkin Avenue, completely safe, even at midnight. Everybody was very friendly. It was a great environment.”

They wound up in Brooklyn because Irizarry’s father, a hard-working believer in the American dream, dedicated himself to pulling his family up to the higher rungs of society – which meant, at that time, moving into areas where minorities hadn’t yet settled. As the neighborhood began to change and more black residents began moving in, Irizarry happily adapted: he made new friends and developed a taste for black-eyed peas and rice with collard greens, macaroni and cheese, and other soul food staples. He also began going with his pals to the Loews King Theater on Pitkin Avenue, where DJ Murray the K hosted regular live shows that featured Little Stevie Wonder, Martha And The Vandellas, Jackie Wilson, and other hot-ticket R&B acts.

His father, though, eventually decided to move once more, this time to South Ozone Park in Queens, sometime in the early ’60s. Irizarry again found himself among non-Latin friends, though by this time he had started listening to music, Latin as well as pretty much everything else you could find on the radio or in his father’s store.

“He sold a variety of goods, including Spanish trios, bolero trios, Mexican singers, and Cuban music, on albums that he’d sell for 99 cents,” Irizarry recalls. “We’d wheel them out onto the sidewalk on a cart and blast them through a speaker all day. I was like a little businessman when I was eight or nine years old, running the cash register, and listening to all of this Spanish stuff or Cuban things by Cortijo y Su Combo or Machito.”

But this was only a part of Irizarry’s early playlist. He was into the Beatles, Motown, and Top 40 in general, and since age six or seven he had been listening to jazz. His oldest brother had returned from the Air Force back then, with a stereo system and a bunch of albums by Dexter Gordon, Freddie Hubbard, Miles Davis, and other post-bop giants. All of it fed into Irizarry’s growing interest in becoming a drummer.

The idea had been in his head since Brownsville, where Irizarry came across his first rumba, or rhythm jam session in a local park. There were always three or four conga players pounding away, but right from the start Irizarry had eyes only for the timbales. “There was always just one guy playing them,” he says. “He played standing up, while all the conga guys were sitting down. And he played it with sticks, which fascinated me. When he would do his rolls, it would always send chills up and down my spine. I just had to play that stuff.”

The opportunity presented itself when someone in the neighborhood, being short of cash, repaid a debt to Irizarry’s father by giving him a set of timbales. “My dad took it because he was getting tired of my brothers, my sister, and me all banging on the table to see who could jam better; we had these competitions over who would be the ‘table king.’ When he brought the timbales in, we made sticks out of clothes hangers, which were made out of wood, and started banging the hell out of them. Now, in those days timbales had calfskin or goatskin heads, and on that first day we broke them all, so the timbales went up into the closet and that was that.”

For a while. One day, after they’d moved to Queens, somebody informed the family that plastic heads, durable and affordable, had come into the market. “So I went out and purchased some plastic heads and put them on the timbales,” Irizarry says. “It was love at first sight. The next day I went out and bought brand new timbales. I bought bells. I bought cymbals. I spent a whole bunch of money. And then I saw Tito Puente, who put the timbales out in front of the orchestra, and I said, ‘Wow … this is good.’”

Around that time he began playing his first gigs, as timbalero with a band led by singer Jorge Maldonado. (Forty years later, in 2005, Maldonado would record as guest vocalist on the current Son Café CD, ¡Bailando con Azúcar!) But before getting too much of a foothold in the local circuit, Irizarry got the news that he and his family would relocate yet again, this time to his parents’ original home in Puerto Rico.

“Actually, I was quite excited,” he says. “I was 17 years old and had never been there, but I had been seeing Puerto Rican bands at the Village Gate and different clubs around New York, so I couldn’t wait to take my timbales down to one of the places where this music was created.”

The excitement began to wear off almost immediately. “The first thing I saw when I got off the plane was this guy carrying a couple of chickens under his arms at the airport,” he laughs. “It was hot as hell – a different kind of heat. Then I looked around and saw that everybody was Puerto Rican, and this gave me a feeling that I had arrived, that I was finally home – until I started talking to other kids and realized that they spoke a different Spanish than I did. I was speaking a cross between Spanish and English, which everyone understood in New York, but people made fun of it in Puerto Rican. That pointed immediately to the fact that I was not from there – I was a ‘New Yorican.’ That’s not so prevalent now, but when we moved there, even if you had open arms and an open heart and you wanted to belong, you couldn’t get accepted.”

This didn’t exactly open the door toward finding gigs as a timbalero either. The best one, with La Terrifica, ended abruptly when one of the leaders booted him out to make room for one of his cousins. “The New Yorican was always the first to go,” Irizarry remembers, “even though the homeboys, the guys who were from there, weren’t doing such an incredible job. I also began to notice how they’d abandoned their folklore; the bomba and the plena, the folkloric rhythms of Puerto Rico, were pretty much sacrificed to play Cuban rhythms and the salsa monga” – literally, “moronic salsa,” which shifts the emphasis away from the beat and more toward the singer.

“After three or four years of this I was sick and tired of the abuse that we New Yoricans had to put up with, so I decided to return to New York.” Moving in for a few months with one of his brothers, Irizarry accepted a day job that his sister had arranged for him at Merrill Lynch near Wall Street. He broke back into music with various bands that specialized in charanga, a nostalgic Latin genre that featured violins and wooden flutes, with rhythm parts restricted to simple repetitions. They worked in elegant rooms, such as the Copacabana, the Casablanca, the Cork & Bottle, and Barney Google’s, where Irizarry earned his paycheck mainly by tapping out quarter-notes on a cowbell. There were moments where he could stretch out a bit, though – and one such moment led to his first major break.

“I was working with Orquesta Novedades at the Corso Nightclub on 86th Street and Third Avenue,” he says. “It was snowing like hell that night, really coming down. The owner, Marty Allen, came up to me and said, ‘Ralph, I’ve invited Ray Barretto to come and see you play because he’s going to form a new band. I told him you were kind of hot, so he’s coming down.’ Well, of course, I got nervous. But after two sets there was no Ray Barretto. We started the third and last set at around 1:00 in the morning – and this was on a Sunday. I had already given up on Ray when we started the last tune, which just so happens to have had a timbale solo. I play the solo, and of course it was great because I knew Ray Barretto wasn’t there. And when I look up there’s this big guy, six-foot-three, in the front door, brushing off all this snow from his coat. It was Ray, and he promised to give me a call.”

That call didn’t come for three months, but right after that Irizarry was rushed into rehearsal for two weeks, after which he made his debut with the band at Madison Square Garden, opening for the Fania All Stars before 23,000 fans. It was a thrill he still remembers – and a challenge, especially after spending so much time doing charanga. “Ray played congas and he had a bongo player too,” Irizarry points out. “In charanga there are no bongos. You play the bells differently. You have to control your feelings. It swings, but if you’re not careful you can easily overplay. I went from that to Ray telling me, ‘Ralphie, I need you to do a couple of cymbals, I need a snare, I need a floor tom, and a bass drum on this gig.’ So I went from playing quarter-notes on a little cha-cha bell to playing almost a whole drum kit.”

This was especially significant, given the fact that for all his love of rhythm and every kind of music, Irizarry had never been especially interested in playing a full set of drums. Before hooking up with Barretto, he’d never even touched a kick drum pedal. “I’m 100-percent timbalero,” he insists. “In fact, when I came back from Puerto Rico I started taking theory lessons from Freddie Waits; I’d pay him back by giving him timbale lessons. But I never sat at a drum set with him the four or five years I was going to his house. I was just never curious to go that far beyond the timbales.”

A gig is a gig, though, so Irizarry adjusted and even started to feel okay about the setup. Certainly the climate in Barretto’s band was more stimulating than the charanga gigs. “You must be creative within Ray’s arrangements,” Irizarry points out. “He demands it. His charts are just guides; you have to add your own voice. Right after I’d started with him I tried to sneak in this little fill, and he stopped the band and said, ‘What the hell was that? Why did you sneak that in? If there’s something you want to say on your instrument, as long as you feel it, do it loud! Play it!’ That really inspired me, that he was so secure with his position that he wanted his musicians to be creative.”

After more than four years with Barretto, Irizarry heard that several musicians had recommended him to fill a timbale vacancy with Ruben Blades. With Barretto’s blessing he accepted an invitation to meet at the superstar bandleader’s house, which was near Columbus Circle and Central Park in New York. The doorman waved him in, and upstairs he ran into members of the band, who informed him that Ruben was on his way.

That’s when Irizarry decided to make himself at home.

“Everybody was in the living room, but I was kind of hungry, so I go into the kitchen and I see these potato chips on the counter. I open them up and start eating. But, you know, you get thirsty, so I open his refrigerator and he has some cans of Coke. Now I have a can of Coke and some potato chips, and I’m walking around, and I see a door. I open the door and it’s his bedroom. He’s got this 36" movie screen/TV, and I see the remote control on the bed, so I turn the TV on. I sit on the edge of the bed. I’m eating the potato chips and the Coca-Cola. I start getting a little more comfortable, so I prop up a couple of pillows, and I’m laying against the pillows with my feet halfway up the bed, eating the potato chips and drinking the Coca-Cola.”

Then the bedroom door opens and Ruben Blades looks in.

“Now, I’ve never met him before,” Irizarry continues, “and I’m on his bed, watching his TV, drinking his Coca-Cola, and eating his chips. He doesn’t say nothing to me. He closes the door, goes into the living room, and says, ‘Yo, guys … who’s that guy watching my TV, eating my chips, and drinking my Coke?’ They say, ‘That’s your timbalero, Ralph Irizarry.’ And that’s how I met Ruben Blades.”

Somehow this led to a 13-year association with Blades, whose innovative sound – Latin music spiced up with a full drum kit, synthesizers, and multiple musical influences – earned bookings at major venues and jazz festivals throughout the world, not to mention that memorable appearance at the White House. For all its attractions, though, Irizarry eventually reached the point where he knew he had to make his own statement, so in 1996 he gave notice and launched Timbalaye with its debut on the Shanachie label.

As an unrepentant timbalero, Irizarry sees Timbalaye as more than a burning band – it’s also a personal statement. “I wanted to do a Latin jazz project without a trap set,” he explains. “If you listen to It’s Time, our latest record, you’d think there’s a trap drummer, a timbalero, and a bongo player, all at the same time – but that’s me, playing everything at once. I’m able to do any kind of backbeat funk rhythm and continue to play the bells, and I play an 18" Roto Tom with my left hand as a kick drum, so you hear kick, snare, and closed hi-hat. In other words, I’ve started with what Mongo Santamaria and Willie Bobo were doing with Cal Tjader – a great rhythm section playing jazz tunes with Latin rhythms – and gone a step further by doing it myself.

“What I’m trying to say is that I love trap drummers, but authentic Latin instruments in Latin jazz can say as much as a great trap drummer can say with all his stuff.”

And it’s even better when the timbalero remembers his pants.

Ralph’s Rig

Percussion: LP and Remo

1. 18" Remo Roto Tom with 18" Ring Control Muffle

2. 10" Remo Snare

3. 15" LP 257 Bronze Timbale

4. 14" LP 257 Bronze Timbale

5. LP 228 Black Beauty Cowbell

6. LP 007 Rock Bell

7. LP 1207 Jam Block

8. LP ES-6 Salsa Mambo Bell

9. LP ES-2 Salsa Cha Bell

10. LP 229 Mambo Bell

Cymbals: Zildjian

A. 12" K Splash

B. 13" Closed Hi-hats (K on top, A Mastersound on bottom)

C. 19" A Custom Projection Crash

Ralph Irizarry also uses Vic Firth sticks.

Trilok Gurtu: When World Cultures Collide

By Robert Doerschuk
Originally published in DRUM! Magazine’s November/December 1999 Issue

Rhythm fads blow across the landscape — hurricanes of beats, or gentler showers, soft as sambas. Each feeds our musical harvest and leaves something of itself behind to flourish on its own. So it is these days with the Afro-Cuban craze, and so it was in years past with salsa, or with bossa nova before that, or even further back, with a purer African strain preparing us for jazz.

Somewhere lost in this mix is the fascination with Indian music that flared in the ’60s. At first glance, our curiosity about this style seemed as ephemeral as the Summer of Love itself. George Harrison’s Raga 101 indulgences may seem hokey in retrospect, yet they left something in our collective memory — a recollection of loping rhythms with melodic inflections, punctuated by fingered flurries and trading something more complex than fours with the sitar player. Though filed away with dusty love beads and threadbare bell bottoms, these scents and sound of this music remains. All it takes is one thump of a tabla to bring it all back.

It took world music to return to Indian music the legitimacy it deserves within Western contexts. More than any other artist, Trilok Gurtu should be credited for rescuing this music from its psychedelic associations and finding ways of integrating it with less gimmickry into jazz and rock. The world-music phenomenon allowed this to happen, but it took a musician of Gurtu’s remarkable skills to take advantage of our broadened tolerance and prove that there is plenty of power to be drawn from his artistic traditions.

He did this through a series of recordings and performances with some of the pioneers of world music. After leaving his hometown of Bombay in 1973, Gurtu gigged around Europe, including solo percussion performances on the streets of Italy, and made a short visit to the States before picking up his first high-profile work back in Europe with the visionary trumpeter Don Cherry. Collaborations followed with saxophonist Jan Garbarek and fellow percussionist Zakir Hussain. With guitar giant John McLaughlin, violinist L. Shankar and ghatam and mridangam player T. K. “Vikku” Vinyakram, Gurtu formed the group Shakti in the mid-’70s. By bringing fruition to McLaughlin’s Eastern orientations and keeping up with his stratospheric execution, Gurtu and his colleagues pointed the way out of the fast-lick swamp into which fusion had sunk.

In 1985, after Oregon percussionist Collin Walcott was killed in a car crash, Gurtu took his place. As the prototypical world music ensemble, Oregon provided an ideal forum for Gurtu, whose work with the group on Ecotopia and 45th Parallel took the notion of atmospheric as well as rhythmic drumming to a new level. His success with this ensemble opened the door toward challenging voice-and-percussion work with Brazilian singer Nana Vasconcelos, additional collaborations and tours with McLaughlin in the late ’80s and early ’90s, and a string of solo albums, beginning in 1987 with Usfret and leading to his most recent release, Kathak. This disc features some of Gurtu’s most eclectic work, with guest shots including two performances with his mother, the traditional-style vocalist Shobha Gurtu; a more R&B-inflected cut with Neneh Cherry, daughter of his former mentor Don Cherry; and an unexpected rock-oriented guitar workout from Steve Lukather.

The diversity of Kathak hints at Gurtu’s background. His family enjoyed prominence in the realm of non-Westernized classical Indian music. He began tabla studies at the age of five, with a series of distinguished teachers. If there’s any one lesson learned in his studies that can enlighten drummers locked in a Western perspective, Gurtu insists that it relates to the importance of thinking — and playing — vocally.

“What I’ve studied is to sing first,” he explains from his apartment in Hamburg, Germany. “Already I was setting drums up with a language, so I’m not looking for what to hit and when to hit it. I know I want this tone, or I want this melody, or I want this motif. So from the start, my drumming is very melodic. That’s what you want: You don’t want beats, you want melodies. You want that everybody, a layman, would understand it.”

This attention to tying vocal articulation to drum performance extends into understanding what might be called Indian concepts of swing. It’s a difficult notion, perhaps, especially for drummers who have been raised on a diet of backbeats, but even the polyrhythmic structures on which Indian music is built can be made to pulse with a disarming simplicity. It all depends, Gurtu points out, on looking at the overall structure from a distance. “I’m not playing swing from American jazz,” he says. “This is my own style of playing, which is to break it into phrases, like words into sentences. It’s a long thing to explain, but you take small motifs, like 5-3-5-3,” — he articulates this rhythm pattern as he had done thousands of times in his student period — “or you have 5-6-5, 4-4-4-4, 9-7, 4 1/2-3 1/2-4 1/2-3 1/2 — whatever. Then you start developing these phrases from each small motif.”

The important thing here, Gurtu observes, is that each group of rhythmic motifs adds up to 16. This is the key to applying Indian polyrhythmic principles to Western frameworks. “You live in a 4/4 culture,” he says. “But if you know how to play 4/4, you can play anything. Everything should be done in 4/4 first: 5 against 4, 7 against 4, whatever you’re doing. If you play 5 against 4, that also means you’re playing 4 against 5. It’s logical; everything is logical. That’s why Indian music is very, very scientific. You can play slow, and you can analyze it scientifically. In fact, most of the solos in India are also in 4/4, but a very long 4, called teentaal — groups of 16 or 32. It’s broken down, like a clave, but you’re playing in 4/4. Everything else, whether it’s 5/4, 7/4, or whatever, is up to your imagination. If you make a difficult thing sound simple, this is natural.”

To understand the long pulse of Indian polyrhythms, Gurtu advises taking your time. “Play slow. Slow! So that you feel every beat, every melody. You feel the space, so whenever you’re playing fast, you’re feeling slow. You’re not hectic; you’re relaxing everybody. In Indian music, we play very slow, so you can see the whole picture. You should see the longer picture, a bigger picture, not a smaller picture. You can get so engrossed in showing your chops, like, ‘I’m going to do this! I’m going to do that! I’m going to do what I practiced at home half an hour ago.’ You’ve got to forget all that and just flow with what’s happening when you perform. All these things will flourish only if you remember that what you practice, you can’t play, man.”

How do you deal with the urge to burn, whether tackling new music or wowing audiences? Gurtu’s advice is, well, a bit facetious. “You have to have somebody who is with you when you’re practicing, like a soloist who will tell you, ‘Hey, man, when I play, you play that lick we practiced for two hours.’ When you’re performing, you need to be spontaneous. When you come onstage, you have to forget about what you practiced.”

Though he has spent several decades proving the point through his own music, Gurtu acknowledges that many of his peers are skeptical about the ability of Indian music to fully cross over into Western forms. “I’ve been told, for example, that Buddy Rich wanted to play in 5/4,” he says. “But one of India’s greatest drummers, Palghat Raghu, said, ‘They [Western drummers] do not understand, because they’re not brought up in that culture. We are speaking different languages.’ But I think it depends on starting with a motif. You need a motif, or a hook. It doesn’t matter if you play in 5 1/2 or 7 1/2; you have to set it up. So Palghat Raghu said to me, ‘Trilok, will you do this with me?’”

Gurtu laughs at his recollection of this conversation. Skepticism about culture jumping exists, apparently, on both sides of the musical divide. Yet even as a preteen, Gurtu had no problem absorbing from every kind of music he encountered. Unlike the rest of his family, he responded to the call of rock and roll, and soon put a routine together that involved playing Indian music at home, often accompanying his mother’s vocals, then dashing off to familiarize himself with the exoticisms of trap drumming.

“I did everything all wrong,” he chuckles. “The first time I tried to play traps, I had two friends helping me, trying to hold everything while I was playing. But it was moving, and I was shouting at the guy, ‘You’re not holding it properly, man!’ It was fun, though. The hardships were really fun. I didn’t study through video or cassettes, like people study now. Nobody taught me [Western] drums or independence; I learned all that myself. Everything was a blessing in disguise. So I developed a style of my own — again, bad or good, at least it was me.”

Those hardships included an injury sustained early in his experiments with stick playing. “Somebody told me, ‘You have to hold this grip,’” he remembers. “I was playing with a straight grip, like everybody played in those days, not the marching grip — I don’t even know what that grip is called. But this guy was saying, ‘Man, you’re all wrong!’ I tried so hard to get it right that I broke my thumb on my left hand.”

The secret to Gurtu’s stick playing was to think of it as an extension of the hand technique he was learning in his tabla lessons. “You have to use your fingers to play sticks, right? See, I don’t have to play sticks to express myself with fingers, so when I do play the sticks, I use my fingers and my wrists exactly the same way I would use to play tabla. So it’s an advantage. It gives me a different way to bounce the stick. It helps me to play lighter, but get more sound. You can be loud, but it should be effortless. So nothing opposes anything else, as long as you express what you want to express.”

Armed with an evolving concept of drum kit design, Gurtu began playing around Bombay with a rock band called Waterfront. It was, putting it mildly, a freewheeling outfit. “I’d play with anybody, man,” he says. “Hippies. That was Flower Power then, you know? We were covering mostly the British bands: Cream, for example. Steve Winwood I liked very much: Traffic, Spencer Davis and all. I would cover Hendrix songs; I liked Hendrix. And I played a solo in some Blind Faith song” — he articulates the 5/4 pulse of “Do What You Like.” “But that also came from jazz. These people, all of them, could play. Nowadays, the musicians look good onstage, but some of them can’t play.”

Eventually, Gurtu developed an appreciation for American funk and jazz as well. “Coltrane Plays the Blues was one of the albums that turned me on to jazz, just like Hendrix or Traffic, and of course the Beatles had turned me on to rock. But Sly & the Family Stone I liked very much. The funk was very good, you know? And the drums were very good: That was Greg Errico. I was hearing all that, not that I knew anything. I just like what you call the vibes of it, I had a deep affection for all this music, whatever it was.”

Armed with all these influences, Gurtu and Waterfront rushed out into the Bombay club circuit, and began getting kicked out of whatever gigs they managed to score. “This was in the late ’60s or early ’70s,” he recalls. “We were playing tough music for the Indians to appreciate. We never got a gig in a disco; we never had that beat” — he chuffs out a bonehead bass drum pulse. “Never got that; we were too high-flown. One gig lasted less than two weeks, then we were thrown out of the disco. Nobody could dance to it.”

A few years later, another failure of sorts would play what Gurtu considers a vital role in defining his evolving style. This was his application to the Berklee College of Music, America’s Mecca of jazz education. Looking back, Gurtu is convinced that Berklee’s decision to turn him down is the best thing that could have happened to him.

“Berklee actually refused me admission for a long time,” he says. “But I’m so thankful that it happened. I would have been like another studio musician there. I wouldn’t have been myself. Instead, I had to start looking inside myself, inside my own culture. I developed my own drumming, my own drum set. Bad or good, I’m Trilok Gurtu. I play in the greatest festivals of the world — Glastonbury, Montreux, Bumbershoot, Ravenna, everywhere — because I am what I am. But at one time, the Berklee College asked me, ‘What the hell are you doing, Trilok? What is this you’re doing?’ That made me go inside to find out what I want to express on my own. So it was a blessing in disguise when they didn’t accept me. Man, I’m very thankful to the dean who was there at the time. I’ll treat him to dinner.”

Is Gurtu slamming Berklee in particular, or perhaps America’s narrow cultural vision? Gurtu quickly corrects the impression: “Oh, no, no, no! Berklee is a great institute! I really wanted to discover arrangement, composition, and harmony there. I didn’t even think of studying drums at Berklee, although I think [legendary drummer and drum instructor] Alan Dawson was there; this was in 1975 [Dawson’s last year on the Berklee faculty]. But in the end, I studied all that on my own, and here I am, writing my own music for all my records.

“That’s why I left New York [in 1978, for Hamburg], because I got put off. I said, ‘Man, this is the way I get treated? And here you are, with jazz taking from Africa and India!’ Look at Coltrane. Look at Miles. They made modal music, right? That’s taken from India. It didn’t come from New Orleans. So these people were running after my culture, and I was running after them. So stupid! I took all my steps back.”

As for America’s heritage, Gurtu insists that it’s time to accept that our music was multicultural from the get-go, generations before the phrase “world music” was invented. “It didn’t start in Texas, you know,” he laughs. “They were breeding cows and horses there, and fighting each other with guns, like ‘who’s the fastest here?’ See, if you look at American music, so-called jazz is American music, right? Jazz has put America on the music map. But jazz comes from Africa; it’s Africa plus classical music. How much America has taken, I don’t know. But I think you took it and then said, ‘Oh, God! Now we have a sound of a whole, which is called blues.’

“Now, blues is existing everywhere in the world,” he continues. “I can play you 12 bars from Burundi that are exactly like blues. So your resources are endless. And if you consider Africa, then you are also talking about Afro-Cuban and Afro-Brazilian, which are the most fashionable things right now, especially Cuban. As for me, I’m still going deep into India and Africa. In India, there are [traditions of music] that are 3,000 years old — I’m talking about before Christ! How can those kinds of resources end? It’s still modern. So the way I play, with all that, everybody says is modern.”

How, then, should American musicians acquaint themselves with the music of other cultures? Gurtu suggests that we start by looking around our own backyards. “You have a very good educational system,” he says. “That’s why your musicians are good. That’s why you also say, ‘Hey, man, we don’t need anybody else. We are good.’ But as long as you have something you can learn from somebody, you’re going to call them. You have a lot of incredible African musicians living in America; I think you have a surplus of all that. But what do you want to do with it? Do you ever sit down with your teacher and say, ‘Listen, I only want to go on stage when I’m ready?’ Or do you say, ‘I just want to learn this so I can express myself in this or that way?’ I mean, you do have good tabla players there, man. You have people who understand music from Ghana. But what you do with it that’s your own thing, nobody can help you with that.”

Examples abound of American musicians who have embraced and profited from studying non-American music; Vinnie Colaiuta is the first example that springs to Gurtu’s mind. But there are others, perhaps less obvious, including one who is possibly the most unexpected guest on Gurtu’s new album Kathak. Guitarist Steve Lukather appears on a track titled “Seven Brings Return,” which is, not surprisingly, in 7/8. His style is easily recognizable, with the same sound, aggression, and solid chops he has displayed since his glamour days with Toto. But it’s arguable whether he really dug into the meter as freely as Gurtu and the rest of his band, The Glimpse, routinely do. The casual listener could be forgiven for thinking that Lukather was mainly blowing familiar licks over a pattern that was one beat short of his normal groove.

Gurtu emphatically disagrees. “Steve really wanted to play something different. He’s tired of playing rock, he said. So he told me he was very honored that I called him to play on Kathak. I just asked him, ‘Could you play something different from what you’re usually playing?’ That’s what he tried, and I think he did a great job. He told me it was a little difficult for him, but he played in the 7. He did a good job, man.”

The same fearlessness that inspired Gurtu to enlist Lukather and encourage him to explore has inspired the percussionist to look at drum-set design without any preconceptions or reservations. His kit grew gradually over the years, starting with a single hand drum and small cymbals that he played during hand-to-mouth days in Italy from 1972 to 1974. Eventually a friend gave him a set of Paiste Tam-Tams, which Gurtu promptly detuned in an effort to find a more original sound. Oregon percussionist Collin Walcott gave him his first hi-hat. But one essential ingredient proved maddeningly hard to track down.

“Everybody laughed at me, because I wanted to use 10" snare drums,” he recalls. “I was looking for 10" snare drums, but nobody was making them. Now, a lot of people will claim, ‘Yeah, we were playing 10" snare drums back then.’ Bullshit! I was looking everywhere, I was asking everyone. I even went to children’s stores! Anything bigger was not happening for me. This thing was in my head: 10"! 10"! Then, one fateful day in the early ’80s, Gurtu stepped off an airplane at the start of an Australian visit, where his friend Gary Rich met him at the airport. “Gary said, ‘Trilok, what would you like from Australia?’ I said, ‘Man, get me a 10" snare drum’ — it was a joke, right? But this guy made me a 10" snare drum! Then I got a 10" snare drum from Chris Brady, of Chris Brady & Craftsmen. That’s when I really started playing. People would say, ‘Where is your bass drum?’ I’d say, ‘This is my bass drum!’ — 10" Pinstripes. Then I made this conga/kick drum with a 14" drum underneath, and two other snare drums. The language started coming into my drumming, and everybody knew this is Trilok’s sound. Everybody knew that nobody plays like this guy from India.”

Along with other innovations, including a technique for submerging vibrating percussion into a bucket of water to create a unique, shimmering timbre, Gurtu’s no-limits attitude marks him as a player of rare insight. Whether following his example into new musical territory or working to master your grasp of a more familiar style, Gurtu assures that the American model offers greater opportunity than you might think for creative self-realization.

“Remember, American jazz drumming just started around 1920. It’s still growing. You’re still in a developing process, which is fantastic; that’s why you can come up with new things. Tabla is already done; the only thing you can do with it are new compositions and new ways of playing, but the sound is the same. This makes it really great for you that world music exists, and that everybody is digging from each other. That’s what we are supposed to do in this universe. We are supposed to find each other, or take from each other. And even if you steal something in music, you must have enough of a style to be able to steal something and still make it your own.”

GURTU GEAR

Drums & Percussion: 1. 24" x 12" Remo Dohl
2. Remo Trilok Gurtu Spring Drum
3. Bucket of water
4. 16" x 2-1/2" Remo Ocean Drum
5. 18" Remo Mini Timpani
6. 10" x 5-1/2" Remo Snare
7. 10" x 6-1/2" Remo Vented Snare
8. 6", 8", 10" Remo Fan Toms
9. 12" Remo Fan Tom
10. Tabla
11. 16" x 11" Remo Kick Conga

Cymbals: Zildjian A. 13" K Hi-Hats
B. 18" K Flat Top Ride
C. 18" A Custom China
D. 22" A Custom (with four rivets)
E. 8" K Splash/10" K Splash/12" K Splash
F. 12"/14" Oriental Remote Trash Hats

Trilok Gurtu also uses Zildjian Trilok Gurtu Artist Series sticks and Remo heads.

Jamey Haddad: Inventing And Reinventing His Sound

By Kristin Bartus Published September 2008

“I’m about as cool as I can get,” Jamey Haddad says over the phone from his home in suburban Cleveland, Ohio.

What the veteran drummer and percussionist means is that after pushing back our interview half an hour so he could finish up a couple of things, he’s as ready as he’ll ever be to proceed. But it’s funny he put it that way because the description is actually very apt. Jamey Haddad is a cool cat. His chilled-out attitude and comedic storytelling ability (complete with accents) alone would make him cool. When you add his infectiously intense passion for music, he oozes coolness.

It’s kind of unbelievable how cool he is today in particular, considering what his last few days have been like. Haddad just returned home from a trip to Beirut that got cut short when fighting broke out near the concert hall where he was supposed to perform. Upon his arrival home, Haddad’s 15-year-old daughter, Georgia, told him she wasn’t feeling well. Two hours later she was in surgery for an emergency appendectomy. After happily announcing how great his daughter is doing now, Haddad nonchalantly notes, “It’s always something.”

Although the school year has ended (he teaches at four different music schools in Ohio and Massachusetts) and he has the summer off from commuting to the East Coast two days a week, he only has two more weeks at home before hitting the road for two months of touring with Paul Simon. Haddad has been playing with Simon for about ten years now, just one of many diverse acts with which he’s performed. The long, long list includes renowned jazz and world musicians who reflect his roots, like Dave Liebman and Paul Winter, popular musicians like Simon and Judy Collins, Broadway songstress Betty Buckley, and even Yo-Yo Ma.

Haddad can currently be heard on the recently released album Esperanza by 23-year-old prodigy Esperanza Spalding, who has been called “the most talked-about young jazz bassist on the planet.” When bassist/vocalist Spalding performed one of her new songs on The Late Show With David Letterman, Paul Shaffer gushed, “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say this is the coolest act we’ve ever had on the show.” It seems only appropriate that Haddad would be collaborating with her.

“I’m someone who I think maybe can join some loose ends together between people who are reaching outside from traditionally where their training is or where their background or ethnicity comes from,” he explains of his diverse collaborations. Modest too. Add another coolness point. He jammed on drum set with Dean Martin’s marimba player at age five; he’s traveled around the world learning all sorts of hand drumming traditions; and he’s even designed his own instruments: Jamey Haddad has found something pretty special to offer performers and listeners through his years of musical self-discovery. And at age 56, he’s still making new discoveries every day.

The Natural. Haddad’s drumming days began in Cleveland, where he was born and raised by American parents of Lebanese ancestry. Middle Eastern food and music showed up in his life regularly as a child. It was at a Lebanese-flavored party where Haddad first remembers being drawn to the drums. He was four years old and enchanted by watching his aunts and uncles having such a grand old time.

“I never saw them have so much fun, just carrying on big time, sweating and dancing, and people were playing music. It went on all day. When you’re a little kid and you see that, it’s like, what could possibly compare to that? I felt a real affinity for just being able to participate in it. I just felt it instinctively.

“I remember saying to my father, ‘If you get me one of those drums, I can play it.’ He kind of laughed at the time, but he said, ‘Okay.’” So his dad got him a Middle Eastern darbuka drum. Haddad’s uncle gave him a couple of lessons on the drum and then turned him loose.

That Christmas, his grandfather got him a drum set. Shortly thereafter, Haddad began lessons with a guy named Howard Brush, who was off the road after playing drums for guys like Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis.

“I was really dyslexic as a kid and I stuttered a lot and I was kind of a mess — and my teacher was really a great guy,” he recalls. “I would go in for my lesson and he’d give me lessons to do, but he could see I was having a problem reading. But he liked me and I guess he thought I could play. He was a marimba player, so he would just say, ‘Hey, let’s play a tune.’”

Brush would show him something very basic about how to play along and then, “He’d play a tune and I’d play along with him,” Haddad says. “He was just cool and he made the music experience be really about real-time decision-making, relating. I became like a tune-aholic from that experience. I’ve always enjoyed accompanying from that point on. It always seemed like a natural fit for me just to come up with some sort of solution when somebody played because I was always allowed to do that.”

Haddad took lessons for a couple of years and after that just played his drum set all the time. He continued to play the Arabic drum as well. When he got into his teens, his grandpa took him to a jazz club called The Theatrical. It was there where he first heard Bob McKee, a local drummer who used to lead the orchestra on The Mike Douglas Show. Haddad began taking set lessons from McKee — and started hanging out at McKee’s drum shop on a daily basis.

When he wasn’t hanging out at the drum shop, 14-year-old Haddad was begging his older sister to let him tag along when she went to dances and clubs with her dates. They often went to a club that would showcase Motown acts like The Four Tops, Smokey Robinson, The Temptations, and Stevie Wonder. “They would bring me down with them because they knew I was a drummer,” he laughs. “They knew I was crazy for it.”

Haddad not only loved to listen to the music of the era, he loved to dance to the music. At the dances, where a couple of different blue-eyed soul groups would always play, “We would dance and I knew all the tunes just by listening to them.” So when he heard some bandmembers talking about needing a new drummer, he told them, “I know all the music. I can play right now. They kind of looked at me and laughed and said, ‘What do you mean?’” “Somebody who knew me said, ‘I think he could probably do it.’ So on the last set, they let me sit on the last tune. They asked me to pick a tune and I said, ‘You pick. I know them all. I told you I know them all.’ They picked a tune and I played it and I actually got the gig.”

Higher Education. There was never any question that Haddad would pursue a life of drumming. “It always felt right to me,” he says. By the time he finished high school, he was regularly gigging in clubs. He enrolled in a local college and continued playing all the time.

Haddad played a lot of jazz gigs at a club called the Smiling Dog Saloon, where he’d perform opposite such big names as Herbie Hancock, Sun Ra, Stan Getz, and Dexter Gordon. When he wasn’t gigging, he’d be hanging out at a music store owned by jazz guitarist Bill DeArango.

“I would go there and he’d have people playing in the basement and he’d be talking about music and playing us older records, but also never insisting that we do anything except [explore] the spirit of improvisation — the language of music, of really trying to get your voice together. Some guys played more swing, other guys played funky, but as far as he was concerned it was all cool. He was just interested in communication.”

About a year and a half after high school graduation, Haddad’s parents told him that if he wanted to go away to music school, they would support it. He didn’t really know much about music school. The one place he had heard about was Berklee. He knew that some of his jazz fusion favorites like Keith Jarrett and Joe Zawinul had gone there, which was a huge selling point.

In spite of all of his performing experience prior to heading to Berklee, Haddad says he “still had a ton to learn” because he had never been involved in any formal school bands. In addition to learning from the school’s prescribed curriculum, Haddad gained a great deal from the time he spent with the “wave of Brazilians” who happened to come to Berklee at the same time he did. “They were different from the jazz musicians because they actually intimately knew their music in a way that was different.” Their music was part of their culture.

While at Berklee, Haddad got the opportunity to work with one of his idols, Brazilian musician Airto Moreira, who he’d heard on his Miles Davis and Weather Report records. “That was like a dream to me because he was kind of doing what I really liked. He was actually playing drum set and playing percussion.”

“I was always involved with playing some sort of hand percussion, but at that time, we never really saw anybody much who could play really extensive hand drumming kind of stuff.”

Go East, Young Man. Haddad left school early in favor of gigging. He spent time playing in Boston and Vegas before heading to New York City in the late ’70s. Inspiration-wise, it was a great time. Wayne Shorter had made a record with Brazilian guitarist Milton Nascimento, which brought world music into the jazz mix. “It was hard-hitting, gorgeous, orchestrated, funky, rock, jazz — it was all the elements we love in great music,” Haddad remembers fondly. “A whole new playing field — one that made sense to a funk mentality, to a young jazz mentality, to a freer playing kind of mentality, a mentality that encompassed the sound of nature and happenstance.”

Then the group Shakti appeared and also rocked Haddad’s world by coherently merging jazz with a variety of traditional Indian drums. As far as his own music, however, Haddad was struggling to make a living. It was almost 1980 and hard for musicians to get enough paying gigs to cover the increasingly expensive costs of New York City. So he moved back to more affordable Cleveland.

“I was pretty depressed, though, when I came back here,” Haddad says. A friend suggested Haddad check out an older South Indian mrdangam player named Ramnad Raghavan who used to play with Shakti and was teaching at Oberlin and Cleveland State.

When Haddad went to see him, “He asked me to keep tala, keep cycle, and he just played. He was just really grooving, like in 4/4, and he showed me how to keep an eight-beat cycle, and then he started modulating the time. He kept time with his foot too, so you could see where he was coming from, but after about five minutes, man, I didn’t even know what my name was.

“This guy just dropped me off like down the road somewhere and took off. He was laughing and playing and smiling and offering me nothing but love, but at the same time totally dusted me off. When it was over, I said, ‘Brother, I’m yours, man. If the universe decided to send me back here to Cleveland and send me to you, I got the message. I’m here.’ I saw him three or four times a week for about four years.”

Haddad says he has a thousand instruments and the mrdangam is the most difficult one for him to play. Raghavan eventually encouraged him to apply for a Fulbright Fellowship to study drumming traditions in India. He got the fellowship. “When I got there, it took me about a week to realize that I would never play this music, nor should I play this music, but it was a really great experience.

“I was really focusing on being a jazz musician and trying to integrate some of what I’d been part of through his experience into my playing life. But when I got there, I realized what they didn’t know about what I loved was a lot too — for as much as they had going on. There’s something special about what I had going on back home. It all made sense. I figured out who I was more and I was going to let the experience just have its way with me and let it just go into the mix and just do my best.”

Haddad had a similar experience a few years prior when he had spent part of a year in Brazil. Although playing with the Brazilians “was such a love fest of people and music and generosity of music sharing,” in the end he knew it wasn’t his music.

“It was never that cut and dry: What music do you play? What is your music? I was fortunate around that time that I got a call from Dave Liebman, a great saxophonist and jazz musician and he asked me if I’d be interested in playing with him.”

Liebman Residency. “He had some pretty advanced thinking about harmony and song form,” Haddad says about working with Liebman. “There was so much to learn and so much to try to remember and have it be part of your instinctual process. It seemed like it would never happen, but man, on the road we’d hit and I wouldn’t need the music after the third night or so. I used to go to bed dreaming about how to improvise, approaches on the tune.

“There are very few things that are that intense that you could perform at, that incorporate so many of your physical, mental, and spiritual parts of you,” Haddad says with awe. He ended up playing and touring with Liebman for more than ten years.

Amid Haddad’s many travels and studies of drumming styles, he was also experimenting with creating his own drums. He says he’s inspired to design instruments based on the sound he’s missing and to suit his technique. His Hadgini is a double-headed ceramic drum that fit the style of split-finger playing he was into. The Koohabata integrated the influence of the Cuban bata drums, the mrdangam, Indonesian kandang, and the West African djembe. His Hadjira was a way to get the basic functions of the Indian kanjira, the Brazilian pandiero, and the Arabic riq.

“I was trying to figure out how to integrate that sound into what I was doing,” he says. “I was working on trying to play my drum set in different kinds of alternative setups.

“I started bringing more instruments to the gigs and different types of things. Sometimes I’d be playing drum set gigs and people never knew I played percussion at all, and I’d be doing percussion gigs and people never knew I played drum set. And at some point, there’s a practical reason why, just schlepping all this stuff is just crazy. So you start to find ways to integrate it, so it will seem like a seamless thing.

“I got better — I think I got better at it anyway — as time went on.”

A Word About Simon. Paul Simon seemed to like what Haddad was doing. In 1998, Simon overheard one of Haddad’s demo CDs and asked to meet him. Haddad has been working with him since and admires his ethic. Even on the hundredth gig of the tour, Simon rehearses as long as he did for the first show.

“To make a tapestry of sound that never really existed in any particular culture before — it’s not necessarily rock and roll and it’s not African music — you’ve got to play a lot in order to have real meaning.”

Today. After spending much of his adult life based out of New York City, Haddad decided to resettle in Cleveland about five years ago. One up-side: The cost of living doesn’t force him to take every bit of work that comes his way anymore. He’s enjoying playing regularly with a couple of different groups, one with “the great Panamanian piano player” Danilo Perez.

“They improvise a large part of their concerts, based on elaborate, long song forms that could be extended,” he says. “Anything could happen at any moment, and they’re up for it, and they have the talent for it. That’s where I see myself, in a band like that.”

He also gets his kicks these days trying to hunt down instruments to showcase in one of his passion projects: The Musical Instrument Museum, which is set to open in Phoenix in 2010.

When the school year resumes, he’ll continue to impart his wisdom on world music to the next generation of performers as well. “I do my best to take people to that place, to try to let them see that it’s truly about them, about awakening something in them,” he says of his students.

Esperanza Spalding was one of his students at Berklee. “I guess it worked,” Haddad jokes, but adds, “I couldn’t really take credit for anybody — especially someone like her. She came and she was a burning star from the downbeat. She’s an inwardly directed musician. There’s so much coming out of her. She has no choice but to just bear witness to it as it’s happening.

“I guess when she went to do her record, she invited me to come because maybe she thought, again, I could help tie up some loose ends. I was honored to do it because I really love her.” In Spalding’s liner notes, she thanks her teacher for his “insane creativity and belief in my thang.”

Contributing assorted hand drums and percussion (including the Hadgini and Hadjira), Haddad brings vibrant, authentic depth to all the songs he’s featured on throughout Spalding’s eclectic jazz album, which ranges from sultry to funky to sweet to sad. Although Spalding wrote or cowrote most of the songs on her album, she kicks it off with “Ponta de Areia,” a song by Milton Nascimento — the same Brazilian musician who so inspired Haddad when he was her age.

Haddad recommends people check out the old footage of Nascimento performing on YouTube, promising, “It’s going to rock your soul.” Why? Because Nascimento exemplifies what music is about, Haddad explains, his voice rising with intensity. “It’s about how much you ‘get it’ while you’re doing it.”

Christine Stevens: Drumming For Peace In Iraq

By J. Poet Published March 2009 Issue

In a town in northern Iraq, there’s a bullet-riddled building that once was a headquarters for Saddam Hussein’s Ba’athist Party. The foreboding two-story structure, where enemies of the state were once “interrogated,” recently underwent a startling transformation. On a November day in 2007, the sound of drumming, laughing, and dancing echoed through its corridors. Thirty-eight drummers of all religions and ethnicities moved together as they participated in a drum circle, part of a conflict-resolution leadership training program. The sound of violins, ouds, and neys complimented the ancient rhythms of the daf, the large frame drum that’s the foundation of Iraqi traditional music.

One of the facilitators of the gathering was Christine Stevens, who jokingly calls herself an “overeducated drummer.” Stevens has degrees in jazz performance, social work, and music therapy, but got hooked on percussion after attending drum circle training with Arthur Hull. She has incorporated drumming into her therapy practice and founded UpBeat Drum Circles, a consulting company that offers diversity training, teambuilding, and wellness presentations using drumming to facilitate self-healing and communication.

“We hear talk about rebuilding Iraq all the time,” Stevens says, “but who is going to rebuild the soul of the Iraqi people? They’ve suffered unbelievable trauma and loss and no one is addressing that.” Stevens has drummed with members of Fortune 500 companies, students at Ground Zero in New York City, and survivors of Katrina in New Orleans, but giving a drum circle workshop in Iraq presented the biggest challenge of her career.

“The soul is like the light in your heart,” Stevens says. “When it gets blown out by war or suffering, it can stay out. You need to relight it. Music rebuilds your spirit and your soul and drums make music that’s accessible across all cultural, racial, religious, and political lines. In our trainings, we had Kurds and Arabs sitting next to each other. When the rhythm took over, everybody was up and dancing, holding onto one another’s shoulders. The day of the first class, you could feel the tension between people, then someone would play a taqsim [melodic improvisation on a theme] and people would start jamming. You could feel the apprehension dissolve.

“When you use words, you’re communicating from your head and misunderstandings can arise. When musicians communicate, they use the language of energy, which is pure and elemental. You can’t misunderstand the feeling you get when you’re playing music with someone. There’s no conflict when you’re together in the groove. Mickey Hart says that life is built on rhythm. When you share that with someone, you share a sacred space with that person, and that’s what makes peace.”

Stevens was amazed at the positive results of the training. “At the end of the week, we asked people to fill out a questionnaire. They said they were 80 percent more connected to the group than when they started, and rated the training as 93-percent effective.”

Only a couple of years before, Stevens wouldn’t have been able to imagine leading drum circles in Iraq. But then she received an email from an American woman named Melinda Witters, who was stationed in Iraq with an organization called Kurdistan Save The Children. Witters explained that her mission was to develop community action groups, and asked if Stevens would be willing to take part in her Ashti Drum Project (ashti means “peace” in Kurdish).

“She wanted to have me train people to lead drum circles, with the idea of spreading drumming communities across Iraq,” Stevens says. “I immediately felt this was right. We know drumming can facilitate wellness and self-healing. If we can show this percussion-based collaborative art form can create peace between enemy groups in a war zone, then we’ll be paving the way for the drum to become a tool for global peacemaking. Any drummer who reads this interview knows that rhythm is the foundation of music, the element of music that pertains to forward motion. We wanted to see if drumming could, in fact, create peace in a time of war.”

The Groundwork. In 2004, after deciding to take on the project, Stevens was faced with a great deal of preparation. “We created a research project on indigenous drums in Iraq, including religious and tribal usages that date back over 4,000 years to the Zoroaster religion,” she says. “There are also Yazidi [a Kurdish religion], Christian, and Islamic traditions that are part of the culture of the Iraq/Iran and Turkish regions; those extend down through the Gulf States and North Africa. The use of the daf, a circular-shaped drum often adorned with metal bangles and paintings of beautiful women, remains an intricate part of the indigenous culture of Iraq, a culture that is still vibrant.”

The financial, logistical, and political aspects of a trip to Iraq, with no help from the American government, were not undertaken lightly. In the end, the trip was underwritten by the National Association Of Music Merchants (NAMM), an international trade organization; the Grateful Dead’s Rex Foundation; and Remo, which donated drums. (As a consultant to Remo, the world’s largest drum manufacturer, Stevens has trained Healthrythms facilitators throughout the United States and Japan.)

“I dyed my hair dark brown and wore a headscarf and was culturally respectful of my hosts,” Stevens says. “I was aware that Islamic countries are different in terms of tradition and culture, but what really amazed me were the similarities. People there love music and dance and often celebrate life by playing music.”

Actually getting into Iraq posed another set of challenges. In 2007 the group flew into Dubai, then on to Suliamania, Iraq on a small, local Iraqi airline. “We wired the money for the Iraqi airline to our sponsor in Iraq, who we can’t mention. They sent a guy into town to pay for the airline tickets. There were only three of us, me and two male drummers — Constantine Alatzas and Mark Montygierd. Each of us had to pack 50 pounds of drums into our bags, instruments that would be donated to help start the drum circle movement.”

Stevens and her group had a long nervous moment after landing in Iraq. The customs inspectors went through their bags and unpacked all their drums. “Then one of the guards started playing a rhythm on one of the drums and the other guards picked up drums and started playing and smiling. It was pretty transformational.”

Building Community. On the first day of training, Stevens and her partners met 45 teenagers assembled in the former Ba’athist Party headquarters. “I don’t know how they picked the kids or the buildings, maybe it was just what was available,” Stevens says. “Upstairs there were small isolation rooms where prisoners were once interrogated. They’d been made into small recording studios and music lesson rooms. Show me one American youth center that has a music room; I don’t think there is one. In Iraq, they all have at least one music room. Playing music in rooms that were once used for god knows what was symbolic of the transformation that we were hoping to facilitate.

“When we’d start a beat, everyone joined in. On one occasion, a violin player who was Kurdish was sitting next to an Arab dumbek player. They started playing and everyone was moving around the room together. It’s a tribal culture and the drum circle reignites the tribal connection.

“The kids, and the adults too, all told us that they weren’t musicians, then they’d pick up a drum and my jaw would drop. The young people we saw in Iraq have incredible skills on the drums. I saw an eight-year-old kid who could drum the pants off a lot of the professional drummers I’ve seen. They were doing things with their hands that seemed impossible. We taught them how to lead a group and empower people, but by the fourth day, they were showing off their skills on the oud and violin and teaching us. They came up with the idea of starting with a taqsim, then adding the drums to it.”

The next activity was an intense five-day training for adults — the Conflict Resolution Leadership Training program. “We had 38 trainees — 31 male, 7 female — 25 spoke Kurdish, 11 spoke Arabic, 2 Aramaic Arabic. They represented hospitals, rehabilitation centers, disability centers, orphanages, youth activity centers, community action groups, local governments, arts organizations, university students, and a performing ensemble. There were Sunni and Shia Muslims, Christians, Yazidis, and Sufis from six governances and more than 18 cities scattered across northern Iraq.

“About 70 percent said they were beginning drummers, but in the USA, they could all be teachers. We also had drummers and drum teachers, therapists who were working with children, and community action leaders picked by our Iraqi sponsors. There were Arabs, Kurds, and Assyrians from a diversity of religious backgrounds, all speaking different languages. I’d explain something and then wait while it was translated into Kurdish and Arabic.

“The first day there was some resistance; some people didn’t pick up an instrument. I don’t think it was because I was a woman. In Iraq, I was seen as an expert from America on the topic of music and healing, so I had credibility. If you hand out drums right away, you create tension. There are good and better players and people may get self-conscious. So we started with body percussion and I played the piano and did some stretching exercises. After we warmed up, I pointed at the piano and waited. Finally, someone came up and started playing, and things started to shift. I told them we were there to learn, not teach.

“The Iraqi melodic scale is different from the western scale, but the drummers all say dum atak atak atak, just like we say. Even between warring groups and across different languages, they all feel the common beat. When you have people giving 100 percent, even though they can’t even speak the same language, that’s when you make peace. At the end of the training, they said they were inspired. They understood the power of the drum circle doesn’t come from how good you are, but from how you empower each other and how you share.”

Before the team left Iraq in 2007, they presented a demonstration for the public, including children, parents, therapists, teachers, and local government officials. Hero Ibrahim Ahmed, wife of Iraqi President Jalal Talabani, attended. “First a traditional children’s dance ensemble performed,” Stevens said. “Then the people we trained started a drum circle and walked into the audience handing out drums. The audience included Kurds who had never been given anything by an Arab, and they shared their drums. That’s when I knew they got it. The audience joined in and there was dancing, singing, and drumming. You couldn’t believe you were in Iraq. It was heartwarming and it went beyond all barriers.

Follow Up. Stevens and her team didn’t intend to return to Iraq, but upon arrival back in the States, the powerful experience lured them back for another round of training sessions in 2008. “We found that things had improved a bit,” Stevens says. “We were able to travel around northern Iraq and do trainings in four cities. It’s still not safe, but it is safer.”

For the second trip, the team brought Dr. Craig Woodson, an ethnomusicologist whose specialty is making musical instruments the traditional way, using available technology and recycled materials. “I’d come in and make an adufe, a frame drum from Portugal, using four sticks and plastic packing tape,” Woodson explains. “One of the kids wanted to play a bass drum, which we didn’t have, so I found a store that sold plastic containers and found a trash bin we could use. We made a drum stick using packing tape, but the boy drummed so hard, he broke the bottom of the bin. I told him not to worry, and I fixed it by taping it together starting from the inside of the bucket.

“A lot of our work in Iraq was communicated by metaphors, so I asked the translator to translate exactly what I was saying. I told them that when things are broken, you have to repair them from the inside first, then get to the outside. I told them drum players build their instrument every time they play it. All drummers have their own unique setup — it’s not like a piano or guitar. We have the ability to take the drums apart, to retune the heads, to make new heads. It’s a connection we have from tens of thousands of years ago, of being builders and performers. When we make our own drums today, we’re reconnecting with this ancient tradition. I think they got the message, because while I was talking you could have heard a pin drop.”

The group’s ’08 visit included a stop in Halabjah, where Saddam Hussein once gassed 5,000 Kurds in one day. “The Kurds were forbidden the practice of their culture,” Stevens says. “But the drum is their tradition, and they’re extraordinary drummers. I took daf lessons before I went to get ready, but the finger rolls and the way they bounce it in their hands when they play it is something. It’s powerful and loud.

“Iraq is the cradle of civilization. Erbil, the oldest city on the planet, is there. It’s one of the first places on earth where music was played, but it’s not a free place and it’s still dangerous. Kurds can’t go to the Arab parts of Iraq and Arabs don’t go to Kurdish areas. The city we were in was like the eye of a hurricane, a small safety zone, but nobody’s comfortable traveling there. When they came to our five-day training, we realized they’ve never seen each other’s country, so we had an open-mike night for cultural sharing.”

Stevens also spent some time with Iraqi women during her second Iraq tour. “There are extraordinary women drummers in Iraq. And because woman and men are so separate, we often divided the drum circles into men and women. On this trip, I worked with a Kurdish woman’s group. I went to a women’s shelter and sensed a lot of resistance at first, but in an hour and a half they were up drumming and dancing. Women there have a lot more problems than the men. I didn’t feel safe at night on the streets, but at the same time, when playing music, I felt safer than I do in L.A.”

Stevens was impressed by the generosity of the Iraqi people. “They treated us so well,” she remembers. “They drove us to the market. It meant so much to them that the people from America cared enough to be with them. There’s a huge need for self-expression and harm reduction. It’s a place of great suffering and can use a bit of cultural homeopathy. When you share your music with people you lose your materialism. One day we went to the market and Dr. Woodson wanted to buy a daf, but the man who owned the music store wouldn’t let him pay. He gave him two drums.”

“The Iraqi people were very generous,” Woodson agrees. “After I got the dafs, I went into a little store, sat down, and started playing an Iranian tune. I played in a Persian club in the ’70s, so I knew the rhythms. Everybody did a double take; then the shop owner grabbed a duzele, a Kurdish double-reed instrument, and started playing. A crowd gathered and everybody picked up drums and joined in. Afterwards, I asked the translator what they were talking about. He said the owner of the shop said he felt socially elevated because a doctor from the U.S. came and knew how to play our drums. He was elated that he was able to play music with the doctor from America. That kind of connection is so simple and so powerful and it can make such a difference.”

At the end of their 2008 stay, Stevens asked the children they’d been training if they had any questions. “They wanted to know if we could show them some Afro-Cuban rhythms, so we had a salsa jam. The kids were dancing around shouting ‘Masallah,’ which is an Islamic blessing. America’s challenge is to go there and learn, to listen to their stories and their music. We go there with drums, not guns, to communicate musician to musician. When you’re making music, you’re sharing pure energy and there’s no conflict.”

Readers who want to help can adopt a drum circle in Iraq for one month for $125. UpBeat drum circles wires the money directly to Kurdistan Save The Children.

Daniel de los Reyes: Dream It. Build It. Live It.

By Jared Cobb Originally published in the December 2005 issue of DRUM! Magazine

Everyone has ideas. A couple of us even have good ideas. But very few people actually take the time, the energy, and the risk to pursue their ideas and see them through to the end – success or failure. Most ideas, regardless of their ingenuity, remain simply that: ideas. They float around in a sea of abstract existence until they eventually slip out the backdoor of the conscience, drifting down the forgotten river, never to be heard from again. It’s a rare occasion when a good idea makes its way beyond the dam of internal rationalization and into the hands of its maker. Rare, that is, unless you’re Daniel de los Reyes.

As a highly acclaimed percussionist, performer, producer, clinician and inventor, Daniel de los Reyes is a rare example of someone who possesses the right combination of intelligence, experience, connections, and guts that separates himself from the masses. His pedigreed upbringing allows him to dream big, his years of paying dues on the road allow him to filter these ideas with a business-minded sieve, and his passion for life and music – they are one in the same for him – allows him to pursue worthy ideas with the level of energy and enthusiasm that they demand. He’s a visionary with the drive to execute. But above all of this, he is and always has been one single thing: A drummer.

What’s In A Name? The de los Reyes name is to the Latin percussion world what the Trump name is to the New York real estate world. Daniel was born into a family that for three generations has been making a living at banging and shaking things. His grandfather, Walfredo de los Reyes II, laid the family foundation by co-founding the famous Cuban orchestra Casino de la Playa. His father, Walfredo de los Reyes III, went on to become one of Cuba’s most successful percussionists before moving on to conquer Puerto Rico and the States. As one of the first drummers to incorporate the drum set with congas and other percussion, he blazed a wide path that many would follow. He continues to wow crowds with his quick hands and deep knowledge at the ripe young age of 72. And now Daniel and his brothers, Walfredo Jr. and Kamar, keep the torch burning brighter than ever as they consistently stamp the de los Reyes name all over the percussion and entertainment landscape.

Many of Daniel’s first memories revolve around drumming and his father’s chaotic life as a professional skinsman. “Growing up in an entertainment family as a son of one of the greatest percussionists – I used to think that was normal, that everyone grew up like that,” he laughs. “My playrooms were the backs of show stages. I was always bothering the lighting guy or sticking straws in the holes of the drum shells and stuff like that. I used to take it for granted, seeing my dad play a show every night. And now that I look back on it, I realize he would play with someone different almost every night. They used to rehearse that day and play the show that night like they’ve been playing it forever. Every night. It was incredible. But at the time I just thought that was what you did.

“My dad was my first teacher, but we kind of locked a little bit. He always wanted to sit me down to study technique and stick control, and I would get restless. So he decided to put me with a drum teacher, and that was great. He was a lot looser, a jazz player. He helped me a lot but really, with my family around, how could you go wrong? And then every one of their friends was family. At any time you could have these great musicians around the house: Joe Morello, Alan Dawson, Billy Cobham, Alex Acuña, Roy Burns, Louie Bellson, and on and on.

“There was never a moment – at least a sane, sober moment – in my life where I wasn’t going to be a drummer. Maybe back in the old road days there may have been some questioning, but nothing serious. I’ve always known I’d always be a drummer and percussionist. I might do other things that pop up, but I could never leave the drums. I’ve found that we end up doing what our parents do. And I have to be careful with that because my father is very drum-selfish, where nothing is as important as drums. And that can sometimes cause trouble. But it’s all done with love and without malice. That’s just who we are.”

While his father is probably best known for his professional technique and mastery of tradition, Daniel has kept the restless spirit that festered in him as a young boy and became one of the top performing drummers in the country. His reputation in the business is one of relentless energy and excitement. You won’t find him slouched behind a pair of congas under the dimmed lights in the corner of the venue. Instead, look for the brightest spot on stage and there you’ll find him, sweating and smiling and beaming a contagious pulse of energy. It’s a reputation that has earned him some illustrious gigs, including Earth, Wind And Fire, Sting, Ricky Martin, and Billy Joel to pull just a few off the long list. But even performing with these icons wasn’t enough to subdue the restless hands of Daniel de los Reyes.

It’s A Jungle Out There. Not satisfied with merely performing top-shelf gigs and recording award-winning albums (like his acclaimed, self-produced San Rafael 560), de los Reyes is on to bigger – much, much bigger – and louder, and sweatier things. Welcome to the DrumJungle. Based out of his Vegas home, de los Reyes is the president and founder of DrumJungle, Inc., an explosive drum and percussion event that combines house music and dancing with traditional and contemporary ethnic rhythms performed by elite, veteran talent. Take the most star-studded percussion clinic available, throw in some addictive, pulsing loops, some beautiful dancing ladies, add fire and thunder, and center it all around the beaming charisma of Daniel de los Reyes, and you have just a sliver of the thrill that DrumJungle brings.

“I’ve been thinking about this for the last ten years,” he reflects. “Every time I do a tour or go to see a concert with a great drum section, it seems that drums are usually one of if not the highlight of the show. I know that drums can reach the masses, people other than drummers, because I’ve been doing it for ten or fifteen years. You start to pick up on certain things that work and certain things that don’t when you’re dealing with an audience, especially a large arena audience. I always knew that percussion works to get people excited. But it has to be well done and well choreographed and well drawn. So DrumJungle is the idea I had based on that premise.”

You’re probably thinking what many first think: cheesy Vegas show. You’re wrong. Erase it. Shred the document. For one, DrumJungle is not just one thing. DrumJungle is a corporation, a network, basically, of de los Reyes and his wide web of musician friends and family. It works like this: You call DrumJungle (www.drumjungle.com) and tell them what event you’re planning, what themes are involved, and how big of a show you want (according to your budget and venue). Then de los Reyes gets together with his co-producers and choreographs a customized show centered around the tribal/ethnic/fiery themes of DrumJungle. Then he calls upon his top percussion friends, and they’re off to knock on your door.

His first client was the legendary Guy Laliberte, founder of Cirque du Soleil, who needed an impressive opener to one of his largest shows ever. After a bit of collaboration and conversation, DrumJungle took shape and de los Reyes and his friends (including his legendary father, his brother Walfredo Jr., Gregg Bissonette, Ron Powell, Cassio Duarte, and about a dozen others) showed up and blew the roof off the place. “Let me put it this way,” he says, “that party started at 10:00 at night and ended at noon the next day. And DrumJungle was on the main stage and people just went berserk. After that show, I knew I was right. I knew it would work, because I‘ve been doing it for so long I can see when people are genuinely excited.

“When I play the drum festivals, whether with or without my family, the response is always so great. So I wanted to take that excitement beyond that audience and to people who aren’t necessarily drummers, percussionists, or even musicians. The music of today, the house/techno music, has a very driving tempo, so if you do a drum performance based off of that it ends up being very high energy. Our shows are nonstop from start to finish, usually around 130 bpm or above. You can’t stop moving because the pulse is always there. I feature different soloists who are masters of those instruments in different sections depending on what cultural rhythm we’re utilizing in different parts. And even if you don’t know who these musicians are, you’re marveling at what they’re doing. So it’s always movement and switching of instruments. It’s a serious, glorified drum seminar clinic … on steroids.”

Can Gregg Come Out And Play? It ain’t easy sharing a stage with Daniel de los Reyes. The audience practically has to wear goggles to protect their eyes from his blinding personality. And that’s just the performance part. Take into account his natural musical ability, and it makes the other DrumJungle roles even more difficult to fill. It’s a challenge he humbly recognizes and deftly overcomes. “One of the key components to DrumJungle is that I use some of the best musicians available. I bring these drummers with résumés like mine together to show people why we do what we’ve been doing for 30 years.

“I’m always jumping and moving around, and those are the kinds of musicians I always look for. They don’t have to be dancers, just musicians who are exciting and bring more to the table than just being the best on their instrument. They have something else to them. Some people capture you more than others when they’re playing and there’s something to be said about it. It’s not just great chops. Gregg Bissonette is a perfect example. He’s an incredible professional musician that can do any kind of music there is. Same with my brother. They can do it all, but it’s the energy they provide that’s unbelievable. Horacio [“El Negro” Hernandez] is the same way. The energy, the smile on his face, it’s priceless. So I recognize that and bring it together and choreograph it. I structure it and put it together so we have certain sections where I know I’ll feature certain musicians on their best instrument. Like Bissonette on a Latin rock section or my brother on an African section, or something like that.

“A lot of times, people in the audience will look up and recognize these guys from playing with some of their favorite popular bands. But the majority don’t recognize them: They just look up and realize there’s something special going on, something they’ll never see again. I bring the best of the best, and they’re all my friends and the bottom line is: At the end of the performance, people are going nuts and they want more and they want it again and again. And it makes people want to play the drums, which is great.”

All this talent doesn’t come cheap, and de los Reyes takes pride in paying his musicians well for their time and energy. Despite what you may think his last name brings, he’s still a musician and is susceptible to all the pitfalls the rest of us deal with in our careers. He laments, “Unfortunately, the way the music business has gotten the past few years, you usually have one person that produces a whole record with hardly any live musicians. And that has put many people out of work, and a lot of those people are pretty intense, incredible musicians. Do you really need that kind of quality musician to play most pop gigs on tour? Not really. Do you need to hire a musician that demands $7,000 or $10,000 a week? No. You can pay a young guy who will do it for basically nothing.

“I’ve been playing drums since I was two years old. I’ve devoted a lot of time to this profession and what is that time worth? Same with all these other guys: What is their time worth? So I’m going to pay you what you’re worth. And that’s what I like to do. I like hiring Horacio and giving him his pay and having him go, ‘Man, all right!’ Even the younger guys I hire, I still pay very well – but of course they don’t make what a Gregg Bissonette, who has many more years invested, will get.

“A lot of drummers and percussionists out there have never been in the situations I put them in. The bottom line is I’m doing a drum event that I’m putting together and how awesome is that! Anytime I see percussion or drums being played I get a big smile on my face. It’s built inside of us and that’s what makes drummers such an interesting community. Yeah, we’re sometimes competitive among each other, but we still have this language that no other instrument has. It’s awesome.”

Ring Leader. It would tempt many to just sit back and take advantage of the names on the stage and simply let their celebrity and their chops take over the show. But if you’ve ever been involved in any kind of organized (or disorganized?) drum circle, you know that leadership is necessary and organization essential. “It might look like more of a jam session between really good musicians, but that is not the case. Any time you have up to 16 musicians on one stage, you have to have structure, or else you’ll end up with a Times Square traffic jam. I write out all the music and get pages out to everyone along with the audio. And once they have this ‘map’ memorized, which I require of them, then that’s when the improvisation comes in.

“It’s just like a drum corps, but it gets really intense where you have to play traditional rhythms over dance music. So if your forte is African and we’re playing a Cuban section, you need to know the melodic structure that the part requires. And on top of that, the deejay is playing loops that I constructed in the studio. So there has to be structure within the improvisation. There has to be a map. Especially for people who play the repetitious foundation parts. Like the cowbell parts, they are very important. They have to know all the starts and stops and play all the rhythms correctly. It’s intense, and once it gets going it’s nonstop. And then my favorite parts are when we really mix it up. I don’t mind putting heavy metal guitars over an Arabic section while singing African.

“I’m also cuing everything on stage. Everywhere. All the time. Hand signals are crucial and we have a whole bunch of them. Again, just like a drum corps. There are even more signals with the whistle as far as cuing other musicians and the dancers and everyone. It’s all being choreographed on stage. So it’s a big task. It’s badass.”

And everything changes at a moment’s notice, and the changes can be drastic from one show to another. As mentioned earlier, DrumJungle is a fully customized drumming experience. The producers work according to the client’s parameters to provide the perfect show for each individual situation. It’s a great concept, but at the same time it opens de los Reyes and his counterparts up for some interesting, to say the least, situations.

“Sometimes people call, and they just want a percussionist to play along with some music. All right, I can do that. But pretty much anyone can do that. This is a full-blown performance. We did one event where people wanted ’80s music but with a lot of drumming. So what I did was I composed it just like I’ve always heard those songs in my head – loaded with percussion and drums. And they loved it. And I’ve been hearing it my whole life like that. The way I have always heard music was like: Well that track is awesome, but it could use some more drums.

“The music is very important to how the show takes its individual shape. On top of all this movement and instrumentation, there are loops that we incorporate that are manipulated in the studio. So, for example, the deejay might drop in a Guns N’ Roses riff and the crowd goes, ‘Oh, that’s Guns N’ Roses.’ Well, yeah, but it’s being playing over a North Brazilian rhythm.”

Inventing The Future. And the ideas keep coming. When de los Reyes isn’t traveling the world with a premier artist or rocking a studio with session work or blowing onlookers away from the DrumJungle stage, he’s turning the cranks in his brain to find the next invention that drummer’s won’t be able to live without. It’s another carry-over from his childhood – all those days tinkering with the equipment while dad played on stage – that has developed into a full-fledged enterprise for de los Reyes.

By far his most popular and successful invention is the One Shot shaker from LP (maraca and studio “soft” versions coming soon) that provides a downbeat shake without the inevitable back-shake. Simple enough. Others include an innovative utility beater by Regal Tip that attaches to pedals for play on cowbells, woodblocks, and tambourines without sacrificing their natural sounds, as well as a forthcoming mega-pad by DW that incorporates timbales, cowbells, and congas all in a portable practice rig that fits in a backpack.

These are all ideas born from his mind, either by necessity in the studio or by curiosity in the workshop. And, like his other success stories, none of them happened by accident.

“What I do is I protect my ideas with a 12-month provisional patent, then develop a plan as to which companies I’m going to contact. And I use the reaction of those companies to see if it’s worth it to go further with the idea. Sometimes the amount of money you have to pay for a patent is more than the idea’s real earning potential. That doesn’t mean it’s not a good invention: It just means there isn’t a strong market for it. If they take your idea, then you negotiate your terms regarding the patent fees, the marketing, use of your name, and all those things. But you have to be truthful with yourself and judge how much money a product can really make.

“As with anything, you have to be creative and focused. You have to create a plan and write it all down. Give yourself deadlines and prioritize things.”

It’s just another building block in the de los Reyes musical empire. Born a percussionist in a percussion family, Daniel is certainly making his family name proud as he shoulders what must be a considerable burden. There are men that shy away from an intimidating historical presence, and then there are men that carry that prestige to new levels.

“Right now I’m just shooting for the moon,” he smiles. “And why not? My ideas are big, but I can make them happen.”

DANIEL DE LOS REYES PERCUSSION RIG

Percussion: LP
1. 14" RMV Timbal
2. 12.5" Galaxy Giovanni Djembe
3. Jam Block (on Gajate bracket)
4. 12.5" Armando Peraza Tumba
5. 11.75" Armando Peraza Conga
6. Rock Bell (on Gajate bracket)
7. Guiro
8. 7-1/4" and 8-5/8" Armando Peraza Bongos
9. 14" and 15" Tito Puente Timbales
10. Tambourine
11. Cha Cha Bell
12. Tapon Bell
13. Mambo Bell
14. 18" x 18" DW Floor Tom
15. Shekere
16. Cuica
17. 12" RMV Repinique

Cymbals: Sabian
A. 14" HHX China
B. 12" HHX Splash
C. 10" HHX Splash
D. 16" Ozone Crash
E. 18" HHX China
F. 24" Gong

Daniel de los Reyes also uses Regal Tip sticks, Remo and Evans heads, DW pedals, M-Audio software, Shure Microphones, Powerstix sticks, Hiptrix sticks, Clearsonic panels, Gibraltar hardware, SKB cases, Ultimate Ears monitors, and an assortment of LP, Rhythm Tech, Afro Rhythms, Lawton, and Factory Metal percussion.

ONE-SHOT EXERCISES

Created by Daniel De Los Reyes, LP’s One Shot Shaker line of instruments address age-old complaints with conventional shakers, whose internal beads strike two or more sides on their journey. Even seasoned professionals have trouble keeping them where they want them, and in time – especially when recording long tracks in the studio. One Shot shakers are constructed with a durable metal body, and its unique design provides only one “live” section for the beads to strike. This enables the percussionist to play forward/downstrokes only, just as he or she would strike a timbale with a stick. No shadow or ghost notes follow. The result is that complex patterns flow from natural body movements and become simplified. Endurance is increased. Simple rhythms become easier to play, complex rhythms a breeze. Here are some examples of rhythms that you can help you get started. They can be played with one hand or two.

Pete Escovedo & Sheila E.: It’s A Family Affair

By Dave Sokolowski Originally published in the March/April 2001 issue of DRUM! Magazine

No matter which musical style is considered hot at any given time, there’s a good chance that someone else did it first, and maybe even did it better. Remember when swing hit big a few years ago? Horn players loved the work and slick young dancers learned all the right moves, but the sound had been around for the better part of 60 years. And with the success of so many rap-rock acts lately, it helps to remember that Rage Against the Machine released its first album in 1992.

So when Ricky Martin, Christina Aguilera, and Marc Antony all started integrating Latin American rhythms and sounds into their music a couple years back, industry folks proclaimed Latin American rhythms the next big thing. Suddenly, Latin was in.

And that’s not to suggest that plenty of people don’t deserve popular recognition. Carlos Santana has certainly paid his dues over the past 30 years, and the folks from the Buena Vista Social Club have been concentrating on their sounds for generations. But when we think about Latin jazz and Latin drumming, one name sits at the top of the all-star list — a name of not only a person, but a family, a philosophy, and, most importantly, a perfect example of dedication to an art despite popular whim. That name is Escovedo.

DRUM! spoke with Pete Escovedo and his daughter, Sheila E., wanting to tap into a pulse that has rooted Latin rhythms in American culture for the past 30-odd years. From Pete’s early days with Santana and Sheila’s start with George Duke; through Pete’s orchestra and Sheila’s pop hits in the ’80s; to now, when both have new albums that keep the family name and rhythms in our minds — this family refuses to quit.

So what’s their take on Latin sounds and rhythms that have suddenly become so popular? How does it feel to work your entire life on an art form that, when it’s finally realized by the masses, may or may not be just a passing fad? And what is it like to be a member of one of the most influential and creative families to play the timbales?

“Well, to sort of go back to the beginning for me, my dad was a frustrated singer who wanted to play and actually sing in a big band, so his love of the music carried on to myself and my brothers,” Pete says. “He used to take us along for the ride to go hear these big bands, there were probably five or six different ballrooms here in [the San Francisco Bay Area] that my dad used to frequently go to. He would like to go in and sit in with the bands. They were mostly the bands from out of town. They were all bands from different parts of the country. They would have these Latin dances in the afternoon and so we would tag along and listen to a lot of this music coming out of the hall. That I guess planted the seed in us.”

Well, it certainly helps to have music in the house. And so, as Sheila grew up, she also was exposed to some powerful music and musicians, which led to her taking up the drums at an early age. But her manner of learning was a bit different from her father’s.

“I learned by watching and listening, so if I saw him play, whatever his right hand would do my left hand would do and vice versa,” Sheila says. “But when I sat down to play, once he got up the drums were already set up for a right-handed player, so I didn’t know I was playing left handed on a set for a right handed player.

“Our techniques are different, just from a generation,” she continues. “Five to ten years earlier than myself, that generation plays totally different than we do, even my dad and I. Every five years or so, seven years, there’s a new generation of kids that are playing entirely different than what we do. My dad’s style of playing is the old style of Tito Puente. They take their time. They play with a lot of space, they talk in pauses, they play in pauses, which is great because they don’t do a lot of rolls, it’s not about how fast and how much you can do. It’s very tasteful, and people don’t play like that any more.”

While it’s true that people don’t play like that anymore, it also helps if you’re exposed to passionate people, like the percussionists and performers from Cuba and Latin America, at an early age. “My introduction to Latin percussion was the fact that, back in those days, no one really taught anyone how to play,” Pete says. “If you didn’t go see [Cuban players] and hang out with them and become their friend, you were not going to get any instruction because nobody was teaching that stuff in school. There weren’t videos or books. Nothing was available. Everything was close-knit. I think a lot of the Cuban musicians and a lot of the Puerto Rican musicians come from New York. They kept everything pretty much in a tight circle, which was more family tradition and who you knew.”

But without instruction or some sort of formalized schooling, can someone maintain professional-quality technique? While the road certainly offers regular rehearsals, one would imagine that top-notch players like Sheila and Pete have a pretty strict practice regime.

“Yeah, we never practice,” Pete says.

“We never practice, it’s true,” Sheila says.

“I’m probably the worst,” Pete explains. “And I hate to even say this to a lot of younger players, because they should really practice and actually really go to school and really learn the real fundamentals and the actual schooling of what music really is. That’s the only thing that I regret about my career and my ability in playing. I play only the way I’ve learned because I’m self-taught. And that’s my style, whether it be right or wrong, I don’t even know. I just go out there and I play.”

But before you give up your practice pad, remember that Sheila and Pete have been performing for quite some time — a lot longer than most. And with that experience comes a certain type of wisdom, an understanding of what works and what doesn’t. Don’t forget that in addition to being a percussionist, Sheila has written some pretty sharp pop songs.

With years of experience, then, she takes a pretty broad look at songwriting and how she integrates drumming into her songs. “It depends on, for me, what type of music I’m going to play,” says Sheila. “It’s always a different way of writing. If it’s a great melody, it’s a great song. People will remember it because they can sing it not because they remember the rhythm, really. It’s the melody that will create the great song. Songwriting for me is melody and every situation for me is different.”

Her flexibility certainly shows in her recent work on both her new album Writes Of Passage with her new band the E Train, and on Pete’s new album, EMusic, which she co-produced and played drums on with her father. It’s on EMusic that one actually hears the family name come together as both Sheila and Pete bring their talents to bear. How, then, did Pete feel about his daughter as a producer?

“Well, she knows me better than I know me, so it was real easy,” Pete explains. “She brought so much into the session. I think the magic was there, the magic that we share of playing together with all these different people. And the fact that, a lot of times male musicians don’t like to take advice from a woman, but they were all so very cool and Sheila just brought in a whole different side to it that was really inspirational. And I think that they all felt it — I’m definitely sure they did. And of course her knowledge of the music biz and her knowledge of the studio was very, very helpful.”

“I didn’t know I was going to produce the record, first of all,” says Sheila. “And then my dad called and I started helping him put the band together and was telling him it would be really nice for him to do the record here in Los Angeles. I can get a good studio and we can record live like we used to back in the day, which is my favorite way to record. For him, because he’s so used to performing, I think that’s the best way to feature him as an artist. [One day] my manager asked him something and he said, ‘No, Sheila’s producing the record.’ And I went, ‘Really?’ I was just helping. I said, ‘Pops, whatever you want help with, I’ll help you with it. I want to make this easy for you and have a lot of fun.’ This is what we do for a living and so we want to enjoy it and not be stressful.”

While important percussionists, the Escovedos are really more than just drummers. Their consistency in voice and commitment to their art transcends timbales and congas. They do it all — play, write, perform, record — and nothing slows them down. Furthermore, there doesn’t seem to be anything that they don’t take to with energy and commitment. It’s not a question of being bored on the road (they’re not) or liking touring better than recording (they love both equally), but how to make the best of every opportunity to play music.

“Each thing is an experience so it’s always fun to do something different and do it differently each time,” Pete says. “We can always use a different studio, different people each time, different musicians, different writers. And that becomes the challenge of it: How can we make this thing work?”

Here, finally, the lines between art and drumming start to blur. But even great artists can’t ignore business. And as we mentioned at the opening of this article, American pop consumers have finally embraced the sounds of Latin music. How does this affect the Escovedos?

“It’s definitely a plus for all of us, because I think now we’re finally getting a lot more recognition,” Pete said. “Radio stations are playing a lot of the music that’s not just Latin jazz, it’s the pop, it’s the traditional types of music like Texano, that comes out of Texas. When you think of Latin music, it covers a lot because each Latin country has their own specific style of music and playing. And so a lot of that is finally being brought out, the music of South America and Brazil. So much of it is out there and it’s great there’s finally an upsurge and Latin music is finally really taking hold.”

But, as Sheila explained, nothing is ever so simple. “I do think it’s wonderful that Latin music has come to the forefront now, but I hate to see that, now that Latin music has come out, Latin people are in,” she said. “For me, racially, it gets a little weird. I think it’s kind of sad sometimes that we couldn’t be recognized just as people instead of ‘Latin music is in so Latin people are in.’ Sometimes I feel very strange about it.”

What, then, would make the difference? Is it somehow possible to actually give credit where credit is due? Or will the whole fixation just turn into a fad? “I would really like to see more recognition of the musicians and/or entertainers who have been around for a long time,” Sheila says. “They stuck to their guns with the music that they have wanted to play all of their lives, and have not changed or swayed either way.”

So it becomes important to recognize those who have made a difference, and not just gravitate toward albums that sell the most or stars who look the best. “It would be really nice if they would let some of these great musicians, while they’re still alive, perform and give them some of that prime time recognition,” Pete says. “Because I think what happens is that you look back in the years at a lot of the great musicians who have been at it for so many years, and of course we understand it’s all about ratings, it’s all about selling, it’s all about …”

“Record sales,” Sheila finishes.

“But at the same time, if you’re going to deal with music, then let’s deal with the music and great musicians,” Pete continues.

“Let’s just be fair about it,” Sheila says.

“Sure,” says Pete. “They don’t have to sell 50 million records, I mean, what does that mean?”

“Politically, sometimes, it’s incorrect.”

“It’s not about how many records you sell, it’s about …”

“The musicianship, yeah.”

“That’s what counts, I think.”

“That’s the problem too — not to cut in,” Sheila says. “But back in the day, when these musicians were first starting out, we didn’t have television like we do now, we didn’t have award shows. There are probably another five or ten award shows that popped up again this year. There’s an award for everything, and that’s what I’m saying — politically it would be nice for them to show some respect for some of these people who have been around that didn’t have the chance to do that.”

Pete doesn’t want to be specific about who deserves credit or awards. If Latin jazz and Latin drumming are to survive, there needs to be some sense of recognition for all of the performers, especially the older ones. But this extends past just the Academy Awards. Now the young players must grab onto the history and bring it forward into the 21st century.

“I really like the idea that a lot of younger players are going back to the roots of the music and learning the history. A lot of them are not swayed by the fact that you have to really go commercial,” Pete explains. “I think if they can really go back and look at what a lot of the older guys have set forth for them, that would be nice. I think the future probably would mean that a lot of them are probably going to have to take chances and try and go further with the music. Experiment, take it somewhere else, build on it, take some chances and don’t get stuck in the background or going with the flow or what’s happening this year. Just try to take the music somewhere else.”

And so this family continues to prove to the world, by example, that music is important, and that harboring a sense of music and art in the family is, perhaps, the most important thing one can have in the household. Sheila now has a line of percussion for kids called the Sheila E. Player Kids Series, designed by her and Toca Percussion. By bringing real drums, not toys, into the home, Sheila hopes to educate kids and meld music and family, just like in her household.

“We’re just trying to help them, encourage parents to spend more time with their kids in the home, and establish a relationship,” she explains. “So our family, as a whole, is constantly working at trying to educate the kids and let them know it’s okay to learn and play drums.”

It’s evident that, for the Escovedos, their world isn’t so much about drumming as it is about family, entertainment, and, most importantly, commitment to their art. But it’s the drumming that holds them together and focuses their talents — keeps them in our minds. Without the drumming, there would be no Escovedo clan to make us wish we had more music in our own homes.

But they seem to know that too.

“[It’s important] when you listen back to it and the groove is there,” Pete says. “That’s the first thing: As drummers, it’s that pulse that really tells the story for us. That’s the important thing for us, because we’re drummers, we like to feel the song. And by feeling the song, that rhythm has to be really strong. We have to lay that down. We have to lock that in with the bass player, and whoever plays bass or whoever plays the rest of the instruments, we build those things on top of whatever we do so that the basic fundamental of the rhythm section is what really makes the thing happen. So that’s the strong point, that we feel that pulse together, like one heartbeat all on that one beat that makes it all work.”

Fausto Cuevas: Berklee, Bongos, Britney!

By Robert L. Doerschuk Originally published in DRUM! Magazine’s September 2006 Issue

Fausto Cuevas remembers precisely the moment he decided to throw in his sticks and become a percussionist.

It happened in June 1995. Since then, he’s made his name as a hand drummer to the stars, with credits that include senior heartthrob Julio Iglesias, Cuban legend Celia Cruz, R&B chanteuse Teena Marie and, most famously, Britney Spears.

But up to that day when Cuevas, then attending the Berklee College Of Music, passed by the dorm room of Renato Thoms and heard something interesting inside, he had spent most of his life behind a drum set and planned to pass the rest of it there too. “Growing up in Brownsville, Texas, the only percussion I heard was orchestral or in marching band,” he says. “I had barely been interested in Tito Puente. I’d never even heard of Celia Cruz. I was just totally into rock, jazz, and symphonic stuff.”

Of course, living just a five-minute walk from Mexico, Cuevas was familiar as well with the sounds of his heritage: norteño music, which his father enjoyed, the romantic trio style favored by his grandfather, and the dynamic tejano sound, a horn-driven variation on Colombian cumbia that Grupo Mazz had pioneered right there in Brownsville.

He heard other music too – pop tunes on a radio station from up in the Rio Grande Valley, country music elsewhere on the dial. But rock and roll first captured his imagination. “I was in sixth grade,” he remembers, “when my cousins in Matamoras exposed me to it. They were listening to Def Leppard, AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, KISS, and they got me tuned into that whole vibe.”

This was in the late ’70s or early ’80s, when Cuevas was old enough to get restless with the tempo of life on the southernmost tip of Texas. Except for the occasional catastrophe – he remembers boarding up the house with his family and huddling against the ravages of Hurricane Allen in 1983 – days were long and lazy. The weather was humid and hot enough to literally fry eggs on the sidewalk, as Cuevas and his friends would do for kicks. Winters passed quickly – a whisper of rain, a brief and tiny dip in the temperature, and then gone.

The Cuevas family ran a restaurant, one of the oldest in town. Like his brother and sister, Cuevas began working there at age six, bussing tables, bringing in groceries, running the cash register. The values that he learned on the job followed him home, where he cleaned the yard, cut the grass, and did whatever else had to be done. Everyone in that household shared a respect for hard work and loyalty. But even as a kid, Cuevas sensed that he had something that his parents and siblings lacked.

“I was the only musical one – the black sheep,” he says, laughing. “My mom and dad can’t sing or play a lick. My brother and sister tried, but forget it. But I was already into music when I was three years old.”

As soon as cable was installed at home, Cuevas tuned into HBO and began watching the concert specials: Elton John, Earth, Wind & Fire. Right away the drums caught his ear, and in the familiar ritual of budding drummers, he started pulling spoons from the kitchen drawer and bashing on his mother’s pots and pans. He annoyed his father by adding the phone book to his setup and hammering at it until he had pulverized the cover and several pages as well.

Then there was the wedding gig. “When I was about three years old,” Cuevas recalls, “my mom and dad took me to a wedding, and then they lost me. They were tripping out. All these people were looking for me. All of a sudden, some guy said, ‘Look, here’s your son.’ I was up on the stage, next to the drummer’s floor tom and under the snare, trying to hit the bass drum, which was taller than I was at the time. Man, even then, all I knew was that I loved the drums.”

His feelings for drums were so compelling that when he placed high for saxophone in a music test given in fifth grade, he refused to play it and dug in his heels until being allowed to play drums in the sixth-grade band. His father bought him a Slingerland snare drum, on which Cuevas practiced diligently at home, up to and beyond the point that, as he remembers, his parents were looking helplessly at each other and wondering, “What the hell have we done?”

The school band teacher at that time meant well but, being a French horn player, wasn’t an ideal first instructor. That changed when his replacement, Paul Brazauskas, took over. Brazauskas wasn’t only a drummer; he was a big-band veteran from Chicago and an author of several drum manuals, including Panhandle Paradiddle, a collection of solos for snare drum, Ram Rock, for percussion quintet, and works for solo timpani.

“He was no joke,” says Cuevas, who maintains a close friendship with Brazauskas. “He taught me the rudiments when I was eleven years old; I learned them all by heart. Double-stroke rolls, paradiddles, double paradiddles, ratamacues, double and triple ratamacues – I grew up with that stuff. And I enjoyed practicing them more than anything in the world.”

In 1988, at age 15, he got his first kit, a Pearl Export. This intensified his zeal: Soon he was listening to every record he could find by Poison, Mötley Crüe, Stryper, Journey, Van Halen, and other bands, memorizing each flam and playing it back on his kit. To this he added a new fascination, in his sophomore year, with fusion drummers, whom he discovered through a friend, Armando Medrano, and two guys with connections to Berklee, an alumnus named Danny Dale, who had come back home to Brownsville, and Marc Ramirez, whose brother had gone to the Boston school.

“They brought that vibe down here,” Cuevas says. “Dave Weckl, Steve Gadd, Vinnie Colaiuta: None of those guys ever came down to Brownsville. Nobody here knew about jazz except for people who had left the state and come back. But through them I started getting together with some other young guys, watching the videos and getting into Chick Corea and Weckl when I was a junior and thinking, ‘Man, these cats are sick.’”

Bear in mind that there weren’t many performance options for a kid in the Rio Grande Valley. During this time, Cuevas was mainly shedding at home, doing marching and jazz band at school, playing some dances, and dreaming about doing real gigs someday. His first taste of that world came when he was 16, when he was finally old enough to work the clubs of South Padre Island during spring break. It was, you might say, a baptism by fire – as well as one or another recreational substance.

“You saw the Girls Gone Wild video? That’s what it was like,” he says, smiling. “You have a little town of maybe 2,000 people year-round, and then from the end of February to the beginning of April there’s up to 80,000 on the island. I was there, playing Rush in these bars where customers would say, ‘You guys are incredible!’ And they’d buy each band member a bucket of beer. If we’d start at eight o’clock and play until one or two in the morning, I’d have six buckets of beer behind my drums by the time I was done.”

Somehow Cuevas made it through these gigs and graduated from high school. His father, whose belief in hard work and common sense remained in place, wasn’t thrilled with Cuevas’s plans to play music professionally, but the two did reach a compromise that each could live with for at least a while. “He was like, ‘You’ve got to be crazy, but if you have to get into music, you’d better be a band director or a teacher because that’s the only way you’ll find any security,’” Cuevas says. “So I auditioned for Sam Houston State College, which was known for having a great music education program, and I got in with a scholarship.”

Even so, he dodged music education classes until his sophomore year, when one day he was finally sat down and informed that he was about to learn how to play the flute. “To become a music educator,” he explains, “you learn enough about each instrument to go somewhere and start screwing kids up early by teaching them wrong. So they started me down that path by giving me this flute, and I’m like, ‘What are you doing, man? This ain’t no drumstick.’ And then when we had to take this big-ass, half-of-your-grade exam, I told the teacher I wasn’t going to play it. My teacher was like, ‘Not even one note? Okay, you’re cool to leave.’ I waited for him in his office to tell him what I was struggling with, and do you know what he said? He told me, ‘You’ve got to follow your heart.’ He was the first guy in that kind of position who told me that. If I’d listened to my high school counselor about being secure and getting a degree, I wouldn’t be doing what I do now.”

This advice, augmented by an unpleasant experience involving a band teacher who couldn’t understand why Cuevas, being of Mexican descent, couldn’t play with the right feel on a Brazilian chart, motivated him to cut his ties to Sam Houston and apply for admission to Berklee. This time there was no scholarship, and acceptance was provisional, depending on how he would do during a preliminary, 12-week summer session. Then there was the issue of how different Boston would be from anything the Cuevas family had experienced: Up to that point in his life, Cuevas had never been north of Houston, aside from short vacations he took as a kid to Disneyland and Disney World.

None of that deterred the young student, who drove to Houston to pick up some instructional materials, including Dave Weckl’s Contemporary Drummer + One and Funkifying The Clave: Afro-Cuban Grooves For Bass And Drums, by Lincoln Goines and Robbie Ameen. He ramped up his practice schedule until he felt ready, more or less, for the next step in his education.

He arrived in 1993, and right away he felt at home. “It wasn’t about cats just going to school to get a degree,” he says, “It was about cats who played, who were doing gigs, making something of themselves. And you had actual relationships with the teachers. There’s no false bullshit, like, ‘You gotta call me doctor, because I went to school for 800 years and you don’t know shit.’ You can actually sit with these people, have a beer or go to lunch or even do gigs with them. That’s the beautiful thing about Berklee: The teachers see your talent. They help you out. They put you in musical situations and recommend you for gigs.”

Cuevas started out with John Ramsay as his drum instructor. He took ear training with George Zonce, who had played first-chair trumpet for Buddy Rich. He got exposed to pre-fusion jazz and dug into recordings by Philly Joe Jones and Jimmy Cobb. He was on track for the career he’d always wanted, as a drummer perched on a throne behind his kit. But all of that went out the window of the fifth floor of that Massachusetts Avenue dorm on the day Renato Thoms, sensing that his friend was hovering outside, invited him in.

“I was walking past when I heard him hitting this cowbell,” Cuevas says. “The door was cracked open, so I looked in, and he said, ‘Diri’ – for some reason, he called me Diri; I don’t know why – ‘Come in here!’ He’s dancing around, playing this cowbell to a video of a salsa festival that was done at Madison Square Garden. He had these congas set up, so he said, ‘Diri, play these!’ It was a marcha, so I started doing this pattern. I was off by just one beat in my left hand, and he’s like, ‘Have you ever played congas before? Man, you’re good!’

“From that moment,” Cuevas insists, “I was hooked.”

Traps took a backseat to percussion, as he switched his focus. That fall he caught an in-store performance by Cuban saxophonist Paquito d’Rivera, celebrating the release of his 40 Years Of Cuban Jam Session CD. Horacio “El Negro” Hernández was on drums for that gig; his performance helped Cuevas map out his segue to percussion through Latin-groove patterns. A mutual friend, Berklee professor Victor Mendoza, introduced them, and after a while Cuevas began working informally as El Negro’s drum tech.

At about the same time, he got to know Giovanni Hidalgo, who became his first inspiration on congas; in a repeat of his epiphany with Thoms, Cuevas overheard him practicing on a quiet afternoon at Berklee and sat in on a nearby drum set; they wound up playing for nearly two hours together. Inspired by these contacts, and again by hearing Marc Quiñones and Bobby Allende at a clinic during Percussion Week at Berklee, Cuevas started practicing at least nine and sometimes even ten hours a day. Studies with Ernesto Diaz and Mikael Ringquist accelerated his development to the point that, in 1998, he left the school and accepted an invitation to go on the road with Julio Iglesias.

It took six months for Cuevas to burn out on that gig and head back to Brownsville. Discouraged by the shortage of work there, he left after two and a half years to tour with Cirque Ingénue, a Cirque de Soleil production in which he played a humongous acoustic and electronic setup that was arranged around him in a circle. After six months of that, he joined the pit band on a traveling company of Smoky Joe’s Café. That ate up another six months, by which time Cuevas, married now and with a young daughter, decided to settle into a more regular routine.

Fortuitously, he got a call around this time from Ramon Banda, longtime timbalero with Poncho Sanchez’s band on the West Coast. Banda invited his old Boston colleague to come out to the Winter NAMM Show in early 2001. Cuevas flew out, went down to the convention center in Anaheim, and there, just ten minutes before the doors closed on the final day of the event, he ran into someone who would soon after change his life.

Bobby Allende had advised him to look out for a friend, Ricardo ‘Tiki’ Pascillas, who had been playing percussion and timbales for several years in L.A. They did bump into each other, just as the show was shutting down, and exchange business cards. Later, when Cuevas called from Brownsville, Pascillas told him that he had a room to rent in his house and asked him to send out a demo tape. Once he had heard some examples of the young percussionist’s work, Pascillas invited him to move out west and offered to help him find work.

Cuevas arrived at Los Angeles International Airport on March 4, 2001. His new landlord was waiting for him and, within days, began shopping him to his studio connections. With help from Pascillas as well as Banda, Cuevas found a niche in this competitive scene and, within just a couple of years, was landing major dates, including his run with Britney Spears. Percussionist Kevin Ricard made that initial call, on behalf of music director Ricky Minor, inviting him to try out for the band. Cuevas, like almost everyone on earth, knew who Spears was and was happy to show up the next day at Center Staging Musical Productions in Burbank.

“Teddy Campbell ran the audition,” he remembers. “I hadn’t played with a drummer of Teddy’s caliber since 1998, when I’d left the East Coast, so when we started playing I was looking at him like, what? He had me play some electronics. Then I had to do a conga groove while playing stuff on 2 and 4 with my feet. The whole time I’m watching Teddy and thinking, ‘God, what a monster!’ Then we got into more of my stuff, trading fours on a Latin groove. And in the end, I got the call.”

Though certainly the highest-profile gig Cuevas had ever played, the Spears show wasn’t his most satisfying experience. For one thing, ten of the twelve hours of his first rehearsal were spent on electronic percussion, with tons of new Pearl congas, timbales, and bongos lying around untouched. It was also made clear that the point of the show was to reproduce the record, not to jam or stretch out. Paraphrasing Ricky Minor, Cuevas says, “Each part is on the record for a reason. Play it. We don’t need your two cents. That gives respect to the artist. If you elaborate on something, they might feel weird. It’s not about showing everybody that you can play. You just do your job. But,” he adds, “I did have a timbale solo, a djembe solo, and a little conga solo at the end, which was great.”

He also had, recently, a kind of closure experience when he was hired to play a drum kit for a demo date. Producer Bryant Siono called, frantic because a drummer he had booked for the session had cancelled at the last minute. Cuevas had played some drums at the Beny Moré Festival in Cienfuegos, Cuba, three years ago, but other than that he hadn’t touched a kit in ten years. Reluctantly, he agreed, as a favor, listened to a rough tape of the tune that was rushed to him, and then went to Whittier to lay the track down the next day.

The result? “I just did it, man,” Cuevas shrugs. “I guess it was cool, but I did play differently than I would have ten years ago, because playing percussion has opened my mind. I hear spaces that regular drummers wouldn’t hear. So what can I say?”

Apparently, Cuevas can say whatever he wants, with or without sticks, as long as rhythm is the message.

Candido, The Father Of Modern Conga Drumming

By Bobby Sanabria Originally Published in the Autumn 2007 issue of TRAPS

On July 4, 1946, the dance team of Carmen and Rolando arrived in New York City from their native Cuba. Stars on the island, they were the featured attraction at La Habana’s famous Tropicana nightclub, where they would thrill tourists with their rumba floor show. These spectacular presentations highlighted a tradition that was born in the solares (tenements that were former slave quarters), but by the 1940s had been adapted on a regular basis to a nightclub setting for tourists. Born of the fusion of southern Spanish song and dance with West African drumming, dance, and song, the rumba has deep roots in La Habana and Matanzas, two cities intertwined with the history of the genre. Its earliest form, the slow yambú, which was and still is played on cajónes (empty wooden crates that dock workers used as substitutes for drums when drumming was outlawed on the island in the late 19th century), accompanies a male and female figure dancing metaphorically; mimicking the movements of a rooster and a hen. The next step in the rumba’s evolution became known as guaguancó. With its characteristic brighter tempo and percussive melody, which accompanies the dialogue between a male and female dancer, its heartfelt vocals represents Cuba’s cultural fusion between Spain, Africa, and the Middle East. Finally, with the up-tempo colúmbia from Matanzas with its virtuosic display of solo male dance, the rumba became a rich tradition that has spawned generations of virtuosic hand drummers.

One of those drummers came with Carmen and Rolando as their accompanist. Not only would he signal the arrival of a successive wave of soon-to-become legendary conga drummers that would begin arriving from Cuba to the States, but he would also revolutionize the way the instrument was played by helping to develop the techniques used by everyone who has since played the instrument.

“My full name is Candido Camero Guerra,” Candido begins. “Guerra on my mother’s side; Camero on my father’s. I was named after my father. Without my parents, I would be nothing. The name means candid, simple, purity, white, innocence. I was born on April 22, 1921 at 6:30 P.M. on a Friday in the barrio of Havana known as El Cerro on the street known as Churaca 77. It is between Velarde and Washington.”

Danzón In The House, Rumba In The Yard. La Habana (as it is known by the city’s residents) was formerly made up of 43 districts, or barrios, which have since been restructured by the post-revolutionary Castro regime. Each one has its own characteristic neighborhood flavor and they each share friendly rivalries. Jesus Maria, Los Sitios, and El Cerro have long been hotbeds of the rumba tradition. “My barrio, El Cerro has its own saying, ‘El Cerro tiene la llave’” – El Cerro has the key. Cerro means hill, but in this case it’s also short for cerrojo, which means a latch. So people from there say we have the key to the latch.”

Musicians abounded in the Camero family, though Candido states, “Except for a few, most of them were really amateurs.” In the household, a tradition of music was celebrated during the year at birthday parties for the six uncles Candido had from his mother’s side of the family. “We had a huge house. It had a living room, a separate dining room, and about five bedrooms with a large open-air patio in the back. My uncles lived there and as each one would get married they began leaving. My grandmother always celebrated their birthdays by hiring a charanga orchestra [a Cuban style band that features strings, flute, timbales, guiro, piano, bass, and vocals] and they would play in the living room. I remember them well – it was called Orquesta Cartaya, named after the leader who was a violinist. During their breaks, everyone would move to the patio where the rumba would start. It was nonstop music all day into the evening. You have to imagine that we would have those parties six times a year, one for each uncle’s birthday. I couldn’t wait, and frankly no one else could either.”

Ageless at 86, Candido’s amazing memory recalls the names of these local legends of ‘la rumba’ as if it was yesterday. Candido smiles, “As you know Bobby, we have a tradition of nicknames in Cuba. Most of the time I never knew their real names. Guys like Comencubo, Quique, Chabalonga, El Niño, Alambre, Loretto, and a guy who was the most famous quinto player [drum soloist] in El Cerro, Teclo.”

Childhood Bongocero And The Son. At the age of four, Candido would embark on his journey as a musician. “My first inspiration was my Uncle Andrés. He was the bongocero of the Septeto Segundo Nacional. Alfredo León was the leader and tres player [the mandolin-like Cuban string instrument]. He was the son of another famous Cuban singer, Bienvenido León. The musicians came from the famous Septeto Nacional de Ignacio Piñeiro.°® When asked why this group was formed, Candido erupts in laughter. “Let°¶s just say that the musicians didn’t get along with Piñeiro.”

During this time, the son was becoming the rage in La Habana, slowly overtaking the sedate, elegant danzón in popularity. Born in the eastern part of the island (Oriente) and eventually coming to Havana in the late 1890s during the Spanish American war, the son with its fusion of Spanish-influenced harmonic and melodic content and West African-rooted, clave-driven rhythms, with its emphasis on the bongo, was taking Havana by storm in the 1920s and ’30s.

Candido witnessed it all and would soon be a major participant. “My uncle would take me to see all the great son groups at the time. I would go to the rehearsals of La Naciónal Juvenil. The bongocero there was a guy named Abuelito. He was tremendous!

“It was funny because in those days you literally had to go the local precinct to get a permit so you could rehearse during the day or throw a party at someone’s house. You see, it was technically considered an infringement on the neighborhood because you would be making noise. You had to let the neighbors know, then go to the police and get permission. It was even more hilarious when the then president of Cuba, Machado, outlawed the use of the bongo!

“He considered it a primitive instrument, but it was just an excuse. He was offended by some of the double-meaning soneos [improvisations] soneros [lead singers of son] would make up about him and his administration. That’s how the timbalitos were invented. People would still play bongo, but you had to be careful. You’d have a set of timbalitos handy just in case the cops would come. Sometimes you could get away with it by asking the police for permission and they would let you, if they were sympathetic. That’s what would happen on a lot of the recordings. They let you because it was more of a closed private thing. But in public it was another thing. A lot of times the police, if they caught you, would confiscate the instrument or just break it right there. Just imagine, outlawing a musical instrument! It was absurd.”

Candido’s precociousness would lead him to constantly drum on tables in the house and receive frequent scolding from his mother who feared he would hurt his hands, but luckily his maternal grandfather Juan would intercede. “‘Leave him alone!’ he would tell my mother. ‘You will see, one day he will be famous.’

“My uncle Andrés asked me if I wanted to learn how to play ‘el bongo,’ and of course I said yes. He took two cans of condensed milk, put skins on them, and put them together. That was my first instrument. He began teaching me by having me sit in front of him with my tin-can bongos while he played his set. He then would play a short phrase and would ask me to repeat it. That’s how I began learning how to play. The fun part would be when he would ask me, ‘Now you play something and I will imitate it.’ That’s how I learned, through repetition.”

Bassist And Tresero. But the bongo was not the only instrument the young Candido would learn. “My father gave me for my eighth birthday a miniature tres.” This humble instrument is closely associated with the history of the son as it provides the harmonic and rhythmic ‘impulso’ (propulsion) to the style. Made up of three pairs of double strings, its sound and rhythmic vocabulary is at the root of the figures a pianist would play in a salsa band today. “Just as with my uncle, my father would show me something and ask me to repeat it. Later, at the age of 14, my grandfather would begin to show me how to play the acoustic bass.

“I began playing tres and bass with various local groups around that time and have many great memories. The first group I played with was called La Gloria Habanera. I used to go to the Playa Marinao beach resort area all the time because they would have impromptu rumbas there. That’s how I met others who were my contemporaries, like Patato, Armando Peraza, Mongo Santamaria and characters like the famous Silvano Shueg, whom everyone knew as Choricera. He used to have this beat-up set of timbales that were held together with wires, but he would do an incredible show with this little group. He would screw in a red light bulb into a light receptacle that was above him when he was about to play. It was funny because he always carried that light bulb with him. Imagine if he would have lost it or it would have broken [laughs]. He also had a bottle of aguardiente [homemade Cuban rum] right next to him when the evening would start. By the end of the night, it was empty. I remember his conga player. He was very old and very ugly. His nickname was Cara Linda [beautiful face]. We used to laugh and say, ‘That guy is uglier than a bad night.’ But whooo, could he keep time! Like a metronome. He would hold it down for as long as Chori played, which was at times very long for the rumba dancers they would accompany, Clara and Jubart.

“Mongo was playing bongo with the well-known Septeto Bolonia and she saw me playing tres with Los Jovenes Del Cerro. We eventually played together in a group called Septeto Apollo, then we played in a group that Chano Pozo led called Conjunto Azul.

“Radio was very big in Cuba. We used to do live radio broadcasts to promote our weekend appearances,” Candido laughs. “We would get paid ten kilos [ten cents]. I used to help Mongo with his delivery of the mail because he worked for the post office. This way he could finish early so we could rehearse earlier in the day with whatever group we would be playing with. Everyone would work freelance with several groups at the same time, and everyone knew each other, so it was a communal atmosphere that led to a lot of friendships on and off the bandstand and the spirit of brotherhood. I was also working occasionally as a dock worker unloading ships, so I was getting a lot of exercise.”

Birth Of The Conjunto. Although Candido is most closely associated with the conga drum, it would be the last instrument he would learn how to play. In the 1930s, the legendary blind virtuoso of the tres, Matanzas-born Arsenio Rodríguez, would revolutionize the way son was played. The previous standard of performing the style was with a tres, a guitar, a bassist, one trumpet, a bongocero, a primera voz (lead singer) playing clave, and segunda voz (background singer) playing maracas. Collectively this style of ensemble was known as a septeto, and it would be radically changed by Arsenio whose sobriquet became, “El Ciego Maravilloso” (The Marvelous Blind One).

He would replace the guitar with the piano, add a second, then third trumpet, and sometimes fourth trumpet with written arrangements, in contrast to the septeto, where the trumpet would improvise parts. He then would add a conga drummer to the band on a regular basis. “Others had done it before,” states Candido. “I saw a group called Septeto La Llave use someone playing a conga in the early ’30s, but not on a permanent basis. Arsenio made it a permanent part of his group.”

With the added lower tonal center of gravity and percussive funkiness provided by the conga drum, the bongocero could in effect play with more intensity and make use of the hand-held bell (cencerro) in the montuno (vamp) section as a standard rhythmic device, thus strengthening this section of the tune. The increased harmonic palette provided by the piano added to the tres’ guajeos (chord arpeggios in clave) and bass tumbaos (repetitive lines) could become more complex. Arsenio’s use of written arrangements, giving specific parts to his trumpets and their layering of line against line to create tension and release in the montuno section, was the root of the mambo horn concept. By making the montuno the main part of the song to feature solos as well as the singers’ improvisational inventiveness, Arsenio inspired other bandleaders and sent dancers into a frenzy. But beyond this, Arsenio’s use of African-based themes in his compositions, as well as a West African-rooted drum – a drum that was previously found only in the annual street carnival celebrations, African-based religious ceremonies, and in the rumba tradition – was a unique social-political statement and a source of pride for Afro-Cubans.

It was here that Candido made a life-changing decision. “I saw Arsenio’s group and saw the writing on the wall. I didn’t read music and I knew that the groups would all start to convert from the septeto to the conjunto format. In the conjuntos they started to use arrangements, and I couldn’t read music. I figured I wouldn’t be able to keep up as a tresero or bassist. I had played congas ever since I was a kid when I would participate at the rumbas in my home. I was 25 years old and I decided that I would begin to concentrate on playing congas professionally.”

Tropicana Nights. Havana, Cuba’s nightlife was in full swing. Hotels and numerous cabarets were fueled by the mob-controlled money of American gangsters who profited from the lucrative gambling, prostitution, and liquor trade. The entertainment industry in Havana would flourish under these conditions. Musicians would also benefit, as each hotel employed a show band as well as a variety of smaller groups. Large radio stations like Radio Progresso and CMQ had staff big bands that performed live on the air and accompanied musical guests.

“The first cabaret I worked at was the Cabaret Kursal. I was 22 years old and my salary was $1 a night. I was playing bongo with the house band and quinto for the rumba floor show for whatever dance team would be featured. Mongo was playing bongo with Bienvenido León Y Sus Leónes at the Cabaret Eden Conser when he got offered a job with the dance team of Pablito and Lilón to go to Mexico. He gave me the job with Bienvenido and that’s how I got more involved in the cabaret and hotel scene.”

Candido’s fame would soon spread as he made a name for himself performing on conga and bongo at such famed venues as the Cabaret Montmantre, El Faraón, El Sans Souci, and all of Cuba’s major radio stations, including a six-year stint with the CMQ Radio Orchestra and a another six-year run with the famed Tropicana Orchestra, inaugurating the club in 1943 where Candido would still play bass on occasion as well as bongo and conga.

“At the Tropicana we did a big show which featured Chano Pozo called Conga Pantera. I knew Chano from playing in his group Conjunto Azul where I played tres and Mongo played bongo. At the Faraón I met and worked with Chucho Valdéz’s father, Bebo. We’ve been friends ever since, and later in 1955 he wrote a tune called ‘Batanga.’ That was important, because it was the first popular piece to use the batá drums [sacred hourglass-shaped double-headed drums of the Yoruba tradition] in a dance band context. Fello Bey [renowned vocalist who would later become famous for his jazz-influenced vocal style] even came up with a dance style for it, but it never got off the ground.” Candido would visit his homeland for the last time in 1955.

At Radio CMQ, Candido worked with a show drummer that would greatly influence him. “Salvador Admiral was tremendous. He was very creative and played a lot of things that people would think were just recently invented. At the Tropicana, Daniel Perez played drums. He was a complete percussionist. He could also play vibes, timpani, as well as the Cuban percussion. Later Guillermo Barretto would also play there but ‘Barretico’ would be the regular drummer at the Sans Souci. Guillermo was also tremendous, although he became even better known as a timbale player. He and the others were into jazz also and he once subbed for Buddy Rich in his own band when he came to Cuba in 1955. Buddy had gotten sick and couldn’t play. Barretico came in and read the music and played fantastically. People still talk about that. His brothers were also great musicians. Robert played tenor sax and Coco was a fine trumpeter, and both of them were into jazz and could play it. That was the thing with all of the musicians at that time. We all were affected by jazz. That’s what made Chico O’Farrell [famed arranger and former trumpeter who would work with Dizzy Gillespie, Machito and the Afro-Cubans, Mario Bauzá, Benny Goodman, and Quincy Jones] move to New York City. He wanted to play jazz.”

“There were many great musicians like drummer/percussionist Walfredo De Los Reyes’ father, who also had the same name. He played trumpet and boy could he sing, and Wally Jr. himself became a great show drummer playing with everyone in the cabarets and on radio. He says I inspired him to experiment with multiple percussion. Wally Jr.’s uncle, Rafael, was a fine trombonist. So many great musicians.°®

Candido’s tenures at the famed Tropicana and Radio CMQ provided him with a wealth of experience in a wide range of settings – from accompanying musical guests, to performing for dancers, to concert music, and big production numbers. The drum set players he worked with inspired in him something that would revolutionize conga drumming. As fate would have it, necessity indeed would be the mother of invention.

Doing The Work Of Two, Then Three. The dance team of Carmen and Rolando were famed performers whose rumba floor show was a highlight for any attendee at the Tropicana. Highly arranged big band dance numbers showcased the dance team’s virtuosity, as they were accompanied by two congueros. In the role of quinto player, Candido would have to follow their every move, marking their steps with solo riffs, while the other drummer provided the steady foundation. It was the soul of the rumba of the tenements, but in a nightclub setting for the high-rolling tourists and Cuba’s upper-class elite. It was inevitable that the dance team would be booked to perform in New York City – but there was a catch. The full percussion section of two conga drummers could not be taken. Candido alone was chosen for his skill as a quinto player.

“The promoter told me I would be going and I started to think. I had begun practicing playing the tumbao with my left hand while I soloed with my right and was making progress coordinating the two. When we were at the airport I brought with me a quinto and a conga, and the promoter began to ask me, ‘Why do you have two drums?’ I told him, ‘Don’t worry, you will see.’”

On July 7, 1946, three days after their arrival in New York, the Sunday edition of The New York Times announced that Carmen and Rolando, accompanied by Candido, would be the featured performers in a musical revue called Tidbits Of 1946 to open the next day at the Plymouth Theater. But first they would perform at the Cabaret Havana Madrid on 52nd and Broadway in front of the Capitol Theater on the evening of the 7th. In the house were the Cuban Anselmo Sacassas Orchestra, Puerto Rican Catalino Rolón’s Orchestra, and Mexican trumpeter Charlie Valera’s conjunto. What happened next would astound the audience and New York’s Latin music community. Carmen and Rolando exploded onto the stage dancing to the propulsion of an up-tempo guaguancó. It sounded like several drummers simultaneously, but one man – Candido, played it all. As the intensity grew, Candido would mark it with the quinto, soloing in his right hand while he accompanied himself playing tumbao in his left, all the while following the movements of the dancers.

“The crowd went crazy and Carmen and Rolando began hugging me. The promoter who had asked me what was I going to do with that extra drum came over to me. He smiled and said, ‘I see what you mean.’” The audience roared as the musicians surrounded Candido asking how he had done that? He simply smiled and said, “Out of necessity.”

Palladium Night And Birdland Flights. 52nd and Broadway was the home of progressive jazz. And there stood Birdland, named after alto sax virtuoso Charlie ‘Yardbird’ Parker, one of the founders, along with Dizzy Gillespie, of the virtuosic improvising style that became known as bebop. On the next block, at 53rd and Broadway, was the Alma Dance studios, whose name would soon be changed to the Palladium Ballroom – home of the mambo. Candido would soon learn that it was commonplace for musicians to sit in with whomever was playing at either club when they took a break. A fertile ground was in place for the interaction between Latino and jazz musicians. At its nexus was the Machito Afro-Cubans, a big band that, under the musical direction of trumpeter and later saxophonist, Mario Bauzá, had single-handedly fused Afro-Cuban rhythms and jazz when they were formed in 1939 in NYC’s Spanish Harlem (El Barrio) community on the east side of Manhattan.

Candido visited the Palladium and was asked by Machito to sit in. He was eventually invited to record on a version of “El Rey Del Mambo” with the bandleader. “This was my first recording date in New York City, but what impressed me was Machito’s band. There was really nothing like it in Cuba. They were so far ahead of everyone, very progressive.” Keeping pace with the forward thinking of the Machito Afro-Cubans, in 1950 at the famed Apollo Theater in Harlem, Candido would demonstrate an even more spectacular innovation in percussion. While performing with Puerto Rican pianist Joe Loco (Juan Estevez), he would be the first to perform on three congas each tuned to specific pitches. “I had seen the New York Philharmonic perform and paid attention to the timpanist. I thought to myself, ‘I can do the same thing with the congas.’ I began to tune the drums to specific pitches, mostly a dominant chord, so I could play melodies in my tumbaos and solos.”

Evidence of this innovative approach can be clearly heard on the Joe Loco rendition of “Tea For Two.” Candido plays the entire melody on three congas and a tuned set of bongos. “I eventually used up to six tuned congas, but today I use three because it’s easier to travel with.” Further exploring the possibilities of multiple percussion, Candido began to incorporate a foot pedal, which he used to play a cowbell with his right foot, as he played three congas with his left hand, while his right hand played a guiro attached to the right side of the congas. Now he could simulate three percussionists while also singing simultaneously.

Mañana. Trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie was one of the disciples of the Machito Afro-Cubans, who had been friends with Bauzá since their days in Cab Callaway’s band back in the late-’30s. Gillespie was a champion of the new music and embraced it fully, a rare thing for a jazz musician in those days. His love for the music eventually led to his fabulous collaborations between the Machito Afro-Cubans, Chico O’Farrill, and his own experiments with Chano Pozo, which yielded the Pozo/Gillespie/Walter Gil Fuller collaborative masterpiece, “Manteca.”

Gillespie had heard about Candido and asked him to sit in with timbale titan Tito Puente’s orchestra at the Palladium so he could check him out. He was impressed. Being the first jazz bandleader to utilize a conga drummer in jazz, Gillespie had suffered a tremendous loss with the untimely murder of Chano Pozo by Eusebio ‘Cabito’ Muñoz on December 2, 1948. Gillespie briefly replaced him with the Puerto Rican Sabú Martinez to fulfill some concert date obligations, but remembered that he was impressed with Candido. He asked him if he had ever played in a jazz context before. “I was honest with Dizzy. I told him no, but that I knew I could do it if he gave me a chance.

“At that time my English was very limited. He told me to come down to the Downbeat Club on West 52nd Street to sit in with pianist Billy Taylor’s house trio to play a set and see if I could swing the tumbao to fit in a jazz setting. I did and he told me to meet him ‘mañana,’ which means tomorrow in Spanish. So I came back the next night to the club and played another set thinking he would be there. What I didn’t know was that he meant for me to meet him ‘tomorrow’ at the train station – that they were going on tour with his big band. The club owner at the Downbeat offered me a one-year contract to play with Billy’s trio as a featured performer and I accepted. We accompanied everyone that was anyone, including Charlie Parker, who used to call me ‘Dido.’ That was my entrance into the jazz world, and I haven’t stopped since.

“When Dizzy got back, his piano player, who was Wynton Kelly, came looking for me. Wynton is Panamanian and so he began asking me in Spanish what had happened. I told him and he started to laugh out loud. He explained everything to me and then both of us started to laugh. I eventually did tour with Dizzy. I was disappointed that I didn’t do that first tour, but that association with Billy yielded my first appearance on a jazz recording and as I said, the experience of accompanying every star in the jazz world opened the door for me to get on many recordings.°®

Stage, Screen, And Studio. By 1952, Candido was being hailed by New York jazz critics as the greatest conga drummer to come from Cuba since Chano Pozo. But what many had failed to realize was that Candido had arrived six months before Chano arrived in New York. Candido would become the most visible ambassador of Afro-Cuban percussion of his generation, appearing on TV with Duke Ellington. I saw him when I was a youth, on the Ed Sullivan Show.

He’s appeared on literally hundreds of albums with such famed artists as Woody Herman, George Shearing, Lionel Hampton, Coleman Hawkins, Tito Puente, Chico O’Farrill, Errol Garner, Tony Bennett, Art Blakey, Stan Getz, Count Basie, Buddy Rich, Wes Montgomery, Elvin Jones, Ray Charles, Quincy Jones, Dexter Gordon, Stan Kenton, Lalo Schifrin, Charles Mingus, and countless others.

In 1957, ever the innovator, Candido was approached by Puerto Rican drum-maker Frank Mesa. “Frank made the first mass-produced fiberglass conga drums and he made me a set. I really liked them and am proud to say I was the first one Frank approached to play them. Today I am a proud LP endorser, but back then Frank was the only one making fiberglass drums. Those Eco-Tone fiberglass congas and bongos are now collector’s items.”

Candido’s contributions to the world of percussion were recognized in 1960 by the World Book Encyclopedia and again in 1972 by featuring a picture of him in the heading under “conga drum.” His spectacular solo work was featured on the Broadway production of Duke Ellington’s Sophisticated Ladies. Although he just turned 86, in recent years he has appeared on several Grammy-nominated recordings including his most recent, a collaboration with legendary vocalist and fellow Cuban, Graciela, which also garnered a Grammy nomination.

National Jazz Master. Candido has still maintained an amazingly active schedule of public performances well into the 21st century. He travels with the Conga Kings (Candido, Giovanni Hidalgo, and Carlos ‘Patato’ Valdéz) and continues to record. A new CD of a live concert appearance from 2006 will soon be released. He still humbly continues to be an example to the younger generation of living history and professionalism. In fact, there isn’t a conga player or multiple-percussionist today that doesn’t play something that Candido did first. His innovations in coordinated independence, using two and three drums, melodic playing, tuning drums to specific pitches, and multi-percussion technique were all harbingers of what players do today.

For his contributions to the world of jazz and his place in its history, Candido will receive the highest honor bestowed upon a jazz musician by the United States. In October he will be presented the title of National Endowment Of The Arts Jazz Master. It’s a fitting tribute to a man who fulfilled the promise of his grandfather Juan, and whose name means purity of soul.

Essential Candido

The Billy Taylor Trio With Candido. This 1954 Prestige Records recording by bebop piano master Billy Taylor, featuring Candido, was the recording that began to document the Candi man’s prowess in the jazz world. Of note are the up-tempo burners, “A Live One,” and “Love For Sale.” Here Candido plays the bongo and conga parts to the bolero rhythm simultaneously, showing off his coordinated independence skills.

Candido. Originally released on April 1, 1956 on ABC/Paramount, and recently re-released on Verve, this recording was Candido’s first date as a leader and it’s no April Fool’s joke. A stellar cast of jazzers including Dick Katz on piano, Joe Puma on guitar, and Al Cohen on tenor accompany the Thousand Finger Man through memorable renditions of “Broadway,” “Poinciana,” as well as originals like “Candido’s Camera” and “Candi Bar.” Candido gives a virtual clinic on how to adapt the conga tumbao to a jazz swing feel with unique variations, and his solo breaks are so musical that they can be considered miniature compositions unto themselves.

The Conga Kings. The brainchild of David Chesky, and facilitated by legendary arranger and conductor Ray Santos, The Conga Kings brings together two old schoolers, Candido and Carlos “Patato” Valdéz, with the young virtuoso Giovanni Hidalgo. Recorded with few microphones, the set features a rootsy band that has some stellar players, like the late Mauricio Smith on flute, Joe Gonzalez on bongo, Nelson Gonzalez on tres, and Guillermo Edgehill on bass. Between Candido, Patato, and Giovanni, more than ten congas are played, but you can hear each player clearly in his stylistic glory.

Hands Of Fire. Director Ivan Acosta’s beautiful documentary tribute to Candido features rare photos, footage, and the man himself talking about his incredible life, along with commentary by Tony Bennett, Randy Weston, Ray Santos, Dr. Billy Taylor, Andy Gonzalez, and many others. The duet between Candido and master bassist Andy Gonzalez on Candido’s composition, “Conga Jam,” is alone worth the price of this 68-minute DVD.

50 Years Of Mambo. Released on Mambomaniacs and nominated for a Latin Grammy in 2003, this two-CD set is a document of a concert at New York’s famed Town Hall paying tribute to the legendary pianist, composer, arranger, and Mambo King, Damaso Perez Prado. This all-star band (you’ll recognize the drummer) was made up of NYC’s elite, and faithfully re-created Prado’s music, giving it new life under the baton of maestro German Pifferer. The finale, featuring Candido on Prado’s never-before performed “Concierto Para Bongo,” brought the house down and is a good document of Candido°¶s showmanship in a live setting.

Candido Anthology: The Salsoul And Blue Note Years. During the ’60s and ’70s, Candido did literally thousands of sessions as a first-call studio percussionist for jingles, record dates, and movie soundtracks. During this time he was approached to do his own recordings in an unfortunately overtly commercial way. Despite the obvious money-making setting, his artistry always yielded creative, hard-driving tumbaos (repetitive patterns), impeccable time, and very melodic playing. That period of his life is represented on this compilation released by Toshiba, especially on the disco-era cover he was called upon to do on Olatunji’s classic, “Jingo,” which had been covered by Santana. Candido’s cover of this tune became a hit with dancers both here and in Europe, and the percussion tracks he recorded on it became a model for disco-era DJs who constantly sampled them. Check out this disc and you’ll be very surprised as Candido demonstrates his versatility and how he can make anything sound good.

Pionero Del Son. Originally released on the Caiman label, this recording features one of Cuba’s treasured vocal icons, Alfredo Valdés, and brings Candido full circle to his roots in the musical style that is at the root of what today we call salsa, el son. But Candido is not playing any percussion at all on this disc. He’s the tres player! After not playing the instrument for years, Candido was approached to do this session by Valdés, who found him a tres to practice on. “I practiced for about a month before the recording,” Candido says. “I’m happy because a lot of people didn’t know I played tres. It was like going back in time for me.” The result is a classic recording that swings like hell, and that most people don°¶t know about.

The Beat Of My Heart. Recorded for the Columbia label in 1957, this classic shows Tony Bennett’s love for the drum. Candido along with Sabú Martinez, Chico Hamilton, Art Blakey, Papa Joe Jones, and the long-underappreciated Billy Exiner, are all featured on this recording, which proves the saying: Sin ritmo no hay na (without rhythm there is nothing).

A Drum Is A Woman. This Columbia release is indeed a rarity. Copies of the original LP are hard to find, but well worth the effort. Ellington’s tone-poem tribute to the drum begins with Candido, and he is featured throughout this masterwork, which besides being documented on wax, was also broadcast on TV.

Inolvidable. Recorded in 2004 for Chesky, an 82-year-old Candido Camero collaborates with 88-year-old vocalist Graciela, a legend in Afro-Cuban music for more than half a century, having been the lead vocalist for both Machito’s Jazz Orchestra and Mario Bauza’s Afro-Cuban Jazz Orchestra. This disc was nominated for a Grammy.

Brujeria’s De Candido. The album that Giovanni Hidalgo says he practiced with as a youth by learning Candi’s solos note for note, and an essential disc for any drummer and percussionist, features arrangements by none other than maestro Tito Puente, who also plays timbales on the session. Bass icon, Israel “Cachao” Lôpez and the father of modern bongo bell playing, Francisco “Chino Pozo,” are also featured.

Afro-Cuban Dream – Live And In Clave. Nominated for a mainstream Grammy in 2001, this Arabesque release is my 19-piece big band giving a 21st century update to the tradition with adventurous, forward thinking arrangements and compositions. Candido was 78 years old at the time – but as I like to say, he was the youngest person on stage. He tears the roof off of the 13-minute version of “Manteca” as the Birdland crowd goes nuts.

The Art Of Romance. Tony Bennett won a Grammy in 2006 for this masterpiece embraced by Johnny Mandel’s lush arrangements and the help of his longtime friend, Candido.

Candido On Tuning

Candido was the first to tune conga drums to specific pitches in order to play melodies. He always plays while standing, and uses three congas/llamadoras (the middle-sized drum) of the same size. His lowest drum, to his left, is tuned to a D, his middle drum to a C, and the highest drum, on his right, to an A – so that his drums are positioned like notes on a piano, with the lowest to the left and the ascending ones to the right. He has experimented with up to six tuned drums in concert.

When asked why he uses the same size drum, Candido wryly answers, “It’s simple, because they fit in the trunk of my car! If I was to use a tumbadora [the largest drum], they wouldn’t fit.” How does the “Thousand Finger Man” (a sobriquet given to him by jazz writers in the 1950s) tune up? “I always carry a pitch pipe with me. It’s made by a company called Master Key, and I’ve had it for years. I always check the tuning of the drums before I play."

Candido also always tapes his fingers with white medical latex-free adhesive tape available in any pharmacy. “It protects your fingers, but also when the lights go down in a show, you get to see the movement of the hands, which is a crowd-pleaser.”

If you’re utilizing just the standard two drum setup in a contemporary salsa band, a standard tuning is G for the tumbadora and C for the conga. As far as the timbales and bongo? That’s another article.

See what Candido started?!

Poncho Sanchez, George Ortiz & Joey De Leon

Latin Jazz Roundtable

By Paul Gargano Originally Published in DRUM! Magazine’s August 2007 Issue

Photo by Robert Downs

Despite the fact that conguero Poncho Sanchez has won a Grammy award, two Billboard awards, and received more accolades and merits than he has walls to display them on, some things never change. Most notably, people just can’t seem to get his name right.

“It’s pronounced, ‘Pone-choh,’” the 55-year-old Sanchez says with a smile as wide as the conga drums a few feet away in his spacious home studio, a comfortable blend of personal memorabilia, a lifelong collection of compact discs and LPs (thousands, organized by genre, then artist, and separated by record store artist cards), and all the audio and video technology needed to put the room’s plush leather couches to good use. Make no mistake – he’s not bitter. In fact, if not for the insistence of jazz and classical composer and impresario Clare Fischer, Sanchez might be known as “Pancho” to this day.

“My name was actually spelled wrong on my first three Cal Tjader albums, and he even used to announce me as ‘Pancho Sanchez’ on stage. But I was so excited to even be playing with Cal, I didn’t want to correct him,” recalls Sanchez with a laugh. “Clare insisted I tell him that my name should be pronounced the proper way, and Cal got it right ever since. People spell it the right way now, but they still don’t always say it correctly: ‘Pancho’ is a guy’s name, it means ‘Frank.’ ‘Poncho’ is the raincoat, but it’s also the nickname my parents gave me as a child.”

Joined by timbalero George Ortiz and bongocero Joey De Leön, Sanchez launches into a boisterous round of stories about the colorful Clare Fischer. Any noticeable difference in age between the three bandmates quickly fades, revealing a mutual respect and musical bond, and a friendship that has clearly been nurtured by their seemingly nonstop touring schedule. Though De Leön’s only been in the fold for a year – Ortiz has been in the band for six, and even that is a mere blink of an eye alongside bassist Tony Banda, who’s been playing with Sanchez for nearly 30 years – his impact has been immediate, as DRUM! learned when we joined the trio at casa Sanchez to discuss the new release, Raise Your Hand. Sanchez’s 22nd album for the Concord Picante label is an ambitious amalgam of styles that features guest performances by the likes of R&B legends Eddie Floyd, Booker T. Jones, and Steve Cropper, funk and soul saxophonist Maceo Parker, and Salsa vocalists Andy Montañez and José “Perico” Hernández.

DRUM!: Before we get into the new album, how did you guys start playing with Poncho?

ORTIZ: I started with Poncho six years ago, but I grew up knowing about him. I come from a musical family and am the youngest of seven brothers, all musicians. Poncho knew my brothers, liked our family band, Son Mayor, and he would come around to see us. I didn’t even start playing with my brothers’ band until I was 16, but when I was 10 or 11, living in West Long Beach, my brothers already had the band and they would hang around at Poncho’s soundchecks to try and meet him and get autographs and stuff. One of my brothers had subbed for Poncho a little, and from checking out our band and seeing me play bongos, he asked me to sub for a show, then asked me if I wanted the gig.

DE LEÖN: I’d gotten to know Poncho little by little over the years, and he had a change in the band in the summer of 2006 and asked me to come and do a few dates in Alaska, which was funny because it was the only state I hadn’t been to. So we went up to Alaska and it was cold, but it was warm because I felt the warmth of everybody. The fact that I knew all these guys already and we had a relationship was a plus. It was just a matter of getting to know who I am, hanging out, and sharing experiences.

DRUM!: Poncho, what do you look for in musicians when you need to fill positions in your band?

SANCHEZ: This is one of the hardest working bands in the world. I’m not trying to pat myself on the back, but it’s known that this band works more than anybody in the world in Latin jazz. So if I’m going to get a guy in the band who’s going to travel all over the world, make records, and do all the stuff we do, he’s got to be one of the best guys there is in Los Angeles, which ends up being one of the best guys in the world. I’ve known George ever since he was a little boy. I’ve seen him grow as he’s played. He plays great bongos and he’s got a good concept of where everything’s at – the groove. I pay attention to where people are at on stage, how they play with other people, because some people are really great, but when you put them together they’re not really great because they want to show off. I’m not looking for that, I’m looking for a team player. I just knew Joey a couple of years before he got in the band, and we weren’t great friends, but I’d seen him all around town playing with different bands and he’d be really cordial and nice to me. All of that counts. If somebody has the big ego and tries to impress too much, or they act like the rest of us are nobody, that doesn’t work in a band. Joey was always very nice, really professional, then I’d see him on stage having a good time, smiling, talking to people, playing, and that counts too. Joey’s really taken it up a notch, he’s an asset to the band – as well as George; it’s the same for the two of them – but Joey sits there right next to me at the front of the stage, and he’s smiling, singing, doing his thing, and everyone reacts.

DE LEÖN: It’s great. We can communicate on stage without even saying a word, doing it through our hands, where every stroke is meaningful. We’re always looking out for each other.

SANCHEZ: Especially us three, we play off each other all the time.

ORTIZ: It’s like a party up there on stage.

DE LEÖN: It is. It’s a party. That’s our banner, I think. We have to take care of business, but we also have the business of making people laugh and making people have fun. That’s a two-way street, connecting with the audience and going back and forth.

DRUM!: Does adding new blood to the band help the chemistry by shaking things up?

SANCHEZ: Yeah, a little bit. The old cats have been in the band for a while, and it’s a good thing, like family, it gets real comfortable. But when a new guy comes in, like Joey, it’s cool because he has a new style, a new way to do things, and it keeps our blood young because we find new ways to mix and match our spots. Also, just to hang, it’s cool because I’m still learning about the new guys. So it’s a great thing musically, and hanging.

DE LEÖN: I would hope that these guys enjoy playing with me as much as I enjoy playing with them, because we need to compliment each other. It’s a team thing; he’s the boss, but he also gives us enough leeway and has enough trust in us to say, “You guys know what I like, so just give it to me.”

ORTIZ: Plus, if someone you’re playing with has a negative vibe, it’s infectious.

DE LEÖN: It’s poison.

ORTIZ: They’re on stage vibing, and you can’t get into what you want to get into – they’re in your head. At the opposite end, we have to calm down sometimes we have so much fun. What you see us like on stage? We’re the same off stage, and it definitely helps a lot.

SANCHEZ: Some people say that they just hire the best musicians that they can find and just play, but this band’s not just like that; this band hangs.

DE LEÖN: That’s a great feeling to want to see your guys again. It’s all family.

SANCHEZ: But nobody takes advantage of that relationship either. We have a tune on this [new] record with a trumpet and sax player, “Gestation.” It’s a 6/8 song, but then it goes into 3/4, and I don’t play a lot of 3/4. I was playing this one little part that lasted about six bars in the 6/8 part, and it just didn’t feel right.

DE LEÖN: It’s kind of like a waltz.

SANCHEZ: Yeah, and it just felt funny to me. We ran a dry run on it and it just didn’t feel right. George, really cool, asked the guys to give him a minute, so they started talking about the music or something and he walked across to me and said, “Poncho, you know that one part there, it’s in threes so it’s weird. I think if you slap it right before you start that pattern you do, it’ll line it up better.” I said, “Can you show me?” He showed me, I tried it, and that nailed it.

DE LEÖN: That’s class.

SANCHEZ: He didn’t go, “Hey Poncho, your part’s not cool!” He could have said something in front of everyone because we’re family, but that shows what kind of respect he has, you know what I’m saying?

DRUM!: Let’s talk about Raise Your Hand. What was your approach heading into this record?

SANCHEZ: This is record number 22 with Concord. For this record, I had some ideas for some stuff I wanted to do. I love salsa, which involves singing in Spanish. I love authentic, straight-up Latin jazz, which involves bebop jazz, Latin jazz, and salsa. And I love soul music from the ’60s – I grew up with all that. Those have all worked very well for me and I wanted to do more with all of that. John Burk told me that Concord had just bought Fantasy records, and I did records with Cal Tjader on Fantasy. John also told me that the Stax, Riverside, and Prestige catalogs came with Fantasy, and that we can do anything with the Stax Records stuff. I said, “Booker T And The MGs is cool, can you get me his number?” I’d shared a bus in Italy with Booker T, Steve Cropper, and Eddie Floyd like, 20 years ago, and when I called him and said I wanted to do “Raise Your Hand,” he thought it was cool. Then I asked him if he thought Steve Cropper would be into it, so I called him down in Alabama or something, and everyone was so cool. I sent them CDs of a few of our rehearsals – we changed the songs a little bit, it was more of a Latin groove – and then they came down and started to hang with us, which was great because they’ve all got their own look and style.

DRUM!: Is the recording process more structured than playing on stage? Is there more room for spontaneity live?

SANCHEZ: I don’t like to rehearse. I like to be right here, you know what I mean? [laughs] I like to be at home, chilling. Rehearsal? That means I’ve got to tell people what to do! If they need me …

DE LEÖN: … We just tell him that we’re having a barbecue!

SANCHEZ: [laughs]I Love my barbecue, man! We do rehearse as a band before we go into the studio, because we’re still one of the bands that records the old way. I have to record with the whole band in there, live. We have separate booths, rooms, and partitions from each other, but it’s important to me that everybody can see each other, so we have to be in one of the big rooms in town, and I’ve got to be in the middle so I can see everybody and everybody else can see me and each other. It’s also got to have a lot of wood in there, because I like the sound of natural wood. It’s just like a live gig. That’s how we record.

DRUM!: So there isn’t a lot of overdubbing?

SANCHEZ: No, we don’t do that much. We just overdub the vocals, and like maracas, small stuff. The main meat we’re doing live, then we overdub the vocals later.

ORTIZ: I think the big difference between the studio and live is that when you’re in the studio you’ve got mikes up your … everywhere! [laughs] and that’s when you’re going to hear it. That’s not the business part of the music, but you’ve got to get down to business because everyone in the world is going to be listening to the record. It’s a little more serious because live, at a gig, we can do a lot more.

SANCHEZ: There’s a lot more freedom.

DE LEÖN: You put in any album you want, and Poncho has a style of playing that you know is Poncho. Our job is to let him do his thing and we back him up. He’ll make a call, I’ll hit something out, and when it all comes together, it definitely works.

DRUM!: Is everything note-by-note and structured in the studio, or is there flexibility within the arrangements?

SANCHEZ: Oh no, there’s a lot. We rehearse the general tunes and run it down, but once we get in the studio, solos are open, that’s when you open up and do your thing. We learn the general tune, work on some stuff and hit it. It’s usually the first or second take that I keep. If I do a fourth take, that’s a lot for me – one or two, maybe a third for insurance, that’s it, and it’s usually the first or the second that we go with. That’s what this music’s about, you just hit it a few times and see what comes out.

DRUM!: Poncho, how involved in the recording process are you?

SANCHEZ: I’m there for everything, from recording to mixing and mastering. But I’ve used the same guys for my last five records, and I’m best friends with John Burk, the vice president of the record label, so everybody knows my style. They know if I think there will be too much echo or whatever. Sometimes there are spots that need to be cleaned up or added. Like on this last record Raise Your Hand there were maracas and bells and stuff, and I just called Joey and he came in and did it all. Before, I used to do all that; but Joey does such a good, quick job of it, it’s great.

DRUM!: Touring as much as you do, do you find that the reaction to your music changes depending where you are?

SANCHEZ: That’s an interesting question because we’re a band that travels all over the world all the time. You would think that would be the case but it’s not, and even promoters make that mistake. This band plays for every color and every shape and I get a kick out of that. For us, of course – New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Puerto Rico – all the places you would think are very big markets, are. The ones that are interesting and surprising are the ones you wouldn’t expect, places like Fayetteville, Arkansas. We just went to Taiwan for the first time and they told us we were the first Latin jazz band to ever play there. I was really nervous that they weren’t going to know who we are, but we did pretty good. The first night there weren’t that many people, but the second night was packed, and they even got up and danced. They’re very respectful there, they just clap really fast right after the song, then stop, and they’re very quiet when you’re playing because they don’t want to interrupt you. It’s different, but I like to play places like that because they’re never what you expect them to be. We’ve been blessed with this band; we’ve done pretty good in all the locations we’ve hit.

DRUM!: If you weren’t doing music professionally what do you think you’d be doing now?

DE LEÖN: I was pursuing the restaurant business. When I went to college I paid for school working at restaurants, starting as a busboy, then waiter, and I started to get really serious about getting into the managerial side. I took a break from music because I was burned out and felt like I needed to experience outside life for those four years. I went through that, then ended up taking a left turn and coming back. I come from a long history of musicians in my family, especially on my father’s side. My dad played for an important group in New York City in the ’70s, when the salsa craze was really big, Bobby Rodriquez …

SANCHEZ: Bobby Rodriguez y La Compañia, I have the records with Joey’s dad playing on them right there [pointing to his wall of CDs and LPs]. And when I first got George in the band, he was a paramedic.

ORTIZ: I was an EMT at an emergency room in Long Beach. I was there working trauma and ER. I was working and playing music, and that’s when Poncho called me. I was trying to juggle both for awhile, but it wasn’t working. Somebody who worked at the hospital went to a gig and saw me playing and the next time they saw me at the hospital, they were like, “Why are you even working here?” But I really did like it. It’s not for everyone, but I really liked the atmosphere. After a while I just made the decision to stick to the music.

SANCHEZ: Even when I was already, so to speak, Poncho Sanchez, I had day jobs. I had five records out and a Grammy nomination, and I still had to go drive a liquor truck. I had a family. I used to work in a foundry, hard work, even when I was doing this professionally. I’ve been married to my wife for 35 years this year, and she was with me when I didn’t have a pot to piss in, and we didn’t have anything and barely made rent. This didn’t all come easy, and it wasn’t always this nice.

PONCHO SANCHEZ PERCUSSION TEAM

PONCHO SANCHEZ’S SETUP
Drums: Remo
1) 11" x 30" Poncho Sanchez Conga
2) 11.75" x 30" Poncho Sanchez Conga
3) 12.5" x 30" Poncho Sanchez Conga

JOEY DE LEON’S SETUP
Drums: Remo
4) Tuff-E-Nuff Bongos
5) Tuff-E-Nuff Bongos

GEORGE ORTIZ’S SETUP
Drums: Remo
6) 22" x 16" Bass Drum
7) 14" Valencia Timbales
8) 15” Valencia Timbales

Cymbals: Sabian
A 22" Hand Hammered Ride
B 16" AAX Crash
C 18" HHX Crash

Poncho Sanchez also uses Regal Tip sticks, Remo heads, Audix microphones, and wears Kangol tropic hats.

PONCHO SANCHEZ DISCOGRAPHY

1982
Sonando
Poncho Sanchez

1983
Bien Sabroso!
Poncho Sanchez

1985
El Conguero
Poncho Sanchez

1986
Papa Gato
Poncho Sanchez

1987
Fuerte
Poncho Sanchez

1988
La Familia
Poncho Sanchez

1989
Chile con Soul
Poncho Sanchez

1990
Combios
Poncho Sanchez

1990
A Night At Kimball’s East
Poncho Sanchez

1991
Bailar
Poncho Sanchez

1992
El Mejor
Poncho Sanchez

1993
Para Todos
Poncho Sanchez

1995
Soul Sauce: Memories of Cal Tjader
Poncho Sanchez

1995
Conga Blue
Poncho Sanchez

1997
Freedom Sound
Poncho Sanchez

1998
Afro-Cuban Fantasy
Poncho Sanchez

1999
Latin Soul
Poncho Sanchez

2000
Soul Of The Conga
Poncho Sanchez

2001
Latin Spirits
Poncho Sanchez

2002
Baila Baila
Poncho Sanchez
2003
Out Of Sight
Poncho Sanchez

2004
Poncho At Montreux
Poncho Sanchez

2005
Do It!
Poncho Sanchez

2007
Raise Your Hand
Poncho Sanchez

Suphala

By Andrew Nusca Reprinted from the September 2007 issue of DRUM! Magazine

Ancient Sounds For The Next Generation

Things aren’t supposed to be low in New York. They just aren’t. Things are taller here. Skyscrapers like the Chrysler building and the Empire State building stretch toward the moon, winking as the sun begins to set. Corned beef sandwiches stacked half a foot high raise a rye eye toward the confident gourmand who’s about to dig in. There’s even a Tall Club of New York. Really. About the only thing that isn’t tall in this town is the mayor, Michael Bloomberg, standing at an unfortunate 5'8" (no shoes, of course).

It’s like the city is built to make you feel smaller.

But in Suphala’s New York City apartment, tucked away on a small, tree-lined side street in the heart of Brooklyn’s venerable Park Slope neighborhood, everything is low. The glassy countertops in the kitchen are low, the taut bookshelves in the corner are low, and sooner or later, you start thinking the ceiling’s low, too (it’s not). Lowering yourself into one of the blindingly white couches brings you a few more inches closer to the molasses-colored hardwood floor than you originally intended, and placing a glass on the squat matching coffee table in front of you is a leaning affair that tests your reach much like physical education did in grade school.

Then you realize you’re in the house of a tabla player. And it begins to make sense.

At 5'3", 32-year-old Suphala herself is no giant. Her charcoal tresses, chocolate eyes, and brilliant smile demand far more attention than her height. But as a player of the tabla, a popular Indian instrument that is itself a stout pair of drums made from rosewood and metal, Suphala often finds herself seated on the ground more than most, legs crossed and fingers flexed, ready to rip into a flurry of intricate taps that is the lifeblood of her chosen profession. Yet the arrangement of her pristine home, a color-coordinated arrangement seemingly taken from a page in Vogue Living, might be less a physical solution than a mental one. The room’s absence of height, it seems, may bring Suphala closer to the earth in a city where height commands a premium.

She’d have it no other way.

IF HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS, then Suphala’s dwelling is on her sleeve. You could say it’s just one indication of how she wants to be represented. And she certainly has had to represent herself well over the last few years. How else could you successfully reintroduce an instrument in America that last peaked during Nixon’s presidency?

With two albums already under her belt, Suphala has been on a mission to break barriers and educate the uneducated. She’s got her work cut out for her – a female tabla player tends to be the exception to the rule in countries where the instrument is popular and in some countries is simply unprecedented – such as when she performed in front of hundreds of people in Kabul, Afghanistan in 2005 as the first female musician to play in public since the fall of the Taliban. Add that to an already impressive résumé listing collaborations with alt-rock god Perry Farrell of Jane’s Addiction and actor-singer Antonio Banderas and you’ve got some serious barrier-breaking abilities. Talk about dispelling assumptions.

But first and foremost, Suphala wants you to understand her. Her new album, Blueprint, echoes the sentiment. The monochrome artwork of the CD is at once revealing and voyeuristic: close-up shots of her hands clutching a bayan, the smaller drum of the tabla, form the inside cover. Her fixed glance on the outside, directly into the camera, conveys a sense of startling intimacy – as if you yourself were seated on her floor, cross-legged and listening to the raps of a goatskin drumhead. Queuing the opening track of the album, the aptly titled, “Maybe There’s A Place Where Someday Just You And I Can Go,” and pressing play pulls you into the percussive goddess’ world even further.

We should all be so lucky.

SUPHALA PATANKAR GREW UP in the most unlikely of tabla-friendly cities: Minneapolis. Her father, a mechanical engineer who owns a software company, and her mother, a medical technician and computer programmer, emigrated from near Bombay, starting a young Suphala on piano at age four. At age 17, she was introduced to the tabla, and it was love at first sound: Suphala found herself mesmerized by the intricate rhythms of the goatskin-covered drums, played with brisk taps that seem to reproduce the patterns of human speech.

“It’s something pleasing to the ear,” she says. “It catches you. That’s how it caught me.”

Enraptured, Suphala attended classes by two local teachers to practice her craft, committing countless hours to mastering the instrument. “It takes a little while to actually enjoy it,” she says. “You have to get all of your individual fingers strong. It’s like you’re training your fingers.”

Before long, she impressed her peers. “I think they thought, ‘This kid’s onto something,’” she says. Since music for the tabla is passed down orally from player to player, Suphala jumped at an invitation to study with renowned tabla master Alla Rakha Qureshi and his son, Zakir Hussain in Bombay, India. Known to take offense to poor tabla playing, Suphala impressed Qureshi.

“Every time we had to play for him, everyone was always a little bit nervous because of his presence and what he represents,” she says. “He was teaching continuously the last 15 years of his life, that’s what he was dedicated to doing. It was, but it was exciting too, because I knew I was sitting in front of this great legend.”

She ended up staying in his family’s seaside apartment for three months. “Indian music is a classic art that’s learned at home,” she says. “It became like family.”

Over the next eight years, until his death in 2000, Suphala made annual trips to study with the guru during the winter music season. Suphala says the visits, some lasting as long as six months, were invaluable. “It allowed me to be around him when he was in the mood to teach,” she says. “He’d say, ‘Learn this now,’ and then the next day I’d have to come back and play it for him. That allowed me to catch something special.”

But it was in San Francisco in 1996 where Suphala first broke into the contemporary scene. Enrolled at the San Francisco Art Institute, Suphala had been playing cozy shows in the local club circuit – that is, until former Jane’s Addiction frontman Perry Farrell dropped by at one of her performances. He liked what he heard and extended an invitation for her to join his conceptual art-rock project Porno For Pyros on the road. You could say the adventure rocked Suphala’s world.

“It was a great way to see the rock and roll lifestyle,” she says. “It was so early on – I had just been playing a couple of years. To go on a big tour like that was pretty fascinating. It was like traveling with a carnival. It was a lot of behind-the-scenes madness.”

By 1999, Suphala found herself newly planted in Brooklyn. Once only a pit stop on her flights to Bombay, the Big Apple become her newly adopted home after she increasingly networked, and then collaborated, with musicians in the area during her layovers. “It was just a different pace,” she says. “I just felt like New York was happening.” The phenomenon continues to this day, supplying her latest album with guest appearances by Vikter Duplaix, Mazz Swift, Edie Brickell, Harper Simon, Furor Thin, and others.

“That’s how I met [Living Colour’s] Vernon Reid,” she says. “That keeps on happening, and that’s great.”

The downside?

“Getting the same musicians every time in New York City,” she says. “The good ones are always busy.”

In 2002, Suphala attended a show at New York’s Knitting Factory by a then lesser-known Norah Jones, daughter of sitarist Ravi Shankar. After the show, Suphala introduced herself and asked Jones to come over and sing on a few of her tracks, one of which would eventually end up kicking off Suphala’s 2005 album The Now. The timing for the collaboration was just right – the following year, Jones capped her breakout year by winning six Grammys.

“I like her, she’s a really nice person,” Suphala says. “It’s nice to see that happen to someone who’s really down to earth. She’s much busier now. In that way, I’m lucky that I had a chance to work with her.”

But time flies on. By 2004, Suphala counted Salman Rushdie, Sean Lennon, and Brickell – who is married to Paul Simon – as fans and friends, a testament to her ability to straddle two cultures and make each accessible to the other. Within a short amount of time, Suphala’s address book became more star-studded than she ever imagined. “It’s happened very organically,” Suphala says. “It’s cool to open up the phone and see all those people.”

In February 2005, Suphala struck a major career and personal milestone – unbelievably, without even knowing it – by becoming the first female musician to play in public in Afghanistan since the fall of the Taliban. The experience was life changing. “Our instruments and the music they play is the same, so I was very interested to meet them and play with them,” she says. “It was just something that happened. I had no idea I was the first person to play there since the fall of the Taliban. It was really fascinating to be there and have this common language and move beyond these barriers – okay, so they’ve never seen a girl play. [But] I was able to find out what life was like for them, to be in a place where music was banned. How can living musicians survive without being able to play? You’re not even alive [at that point].

“Music is your life when you’re a musician. They took me all around and showed me the old city where the old masters played. There were these blown up holes in the ground. All of the musicians gathered and played for us. It was touching.”

AT FIRST GLANCE, IT’S DIFFICULT TO RECONCILE the sharp contrast in Suphala’s home studio. A small space adjacent to her living room, the studio is lined floor-to-ceiling with plush velvet curtains and padded with muted woven rugs. To the right, her drums are arranged in a loose semicircle; set in such a comfortable, organic manner that they recall the way a leather baseball glove conforms to a ballplayer’s hand. Conversely and to the left, the sharp, metallic lines of her widescreen Apple computer monitor cast a greenish glow through the shadows. This scene is symbolic of the distinction in Suphala’s music and her life as an artist – a musician who plays a handmade, Eastern instrument with a 1,000-year pedigree and records it with an icon of Western modernity.

So it may surprise listeners that Suphala spends several weeks holed away in her private studio programming before she ever lays her fingers on the drums behind her. In some ways, she’s the Steve Vai of the Indian classical music world – part technical virtuoso, part goddess from another planet, and thoroughly sensual. “I get the meat of the track done before I put the tabla in,” she says. “I like it to have an organic feel, a human feel. I kind of zoned in on the parts that I needed.”

And meaty they are. Some of the compositions on her latest, Blueprint, stretch to more than 30 tracks. Recorded largely using Logic, some tracks ring as lush enterprises while others are sparse and poignant, evoking Björk or Aphex Twin if they took a quick overnight in Mumbai. Suphala says the natural feel – that is, the unabashed sincerity of her approach – is the very premise upon which the album is based. “The music is authentic,” Suphala says. “I want it to be myself, to look like myself, and to feel like myself. There were a lot more people involved in the last album. All those factors come into play, and this time around I didn’t have anyone interfering with my vision.”

As Suphala’s third album, Blueprint marks a minor milestone for the artist – it is the first album the composer has created with a theme in mind. “The last album was a collection of tracks I did over various periods of time,” Suphala says. “This time, I was making decisions based on the concept of thinking of it as a whole record.”

Inside the case of Blueprint, she defines the album’s title for her listeners: “A prototype; something intended as a guide for making something else.” For Suphala, the album is intended to be a starting point – a compositional foundation on which she can elaborate and embellish in a live setting. There’s no structure here – each performance is a unique set piece.

“When I go play a show, I leave it to whatever happens when I sit on stage,” she says. Case in point: In a recent gig, Suphala invited beatboxer Taylor McFerrin – the son of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” a cappella performer Bobby McFerrin – on stage to accompany her. The two had met previously by accident when they appeared on the same bill at a show, and content with positive chemistry, cooked up an impromptu jam to bridge their individual sets. The attempt was successful, much to the delight of the audience. This time, McFerrin was working their chemistry by triggering live sounds and beatboxing alongside Suphala’s acoustic tabla playing. The audience couldn’t get enough. Suphala sees the incorporation of the new sounds as an extension of her own music. “It’s really all the same thing,” she says. “We’re playing with rhythm.”

In fact, Suphala harbors a love for improvisation, and she and her band regularly depart from the material – spontaneously, of course – to explore new directions. Live, Suphala recreates the new album’s material in a multitude of ways, assembling a motley crew of accompanying musicians for each performance. Suphala says using the tabla this way is a unique challenge: “There are different levels of improv within a set structure. For the tabla, improvising within the traditional structure in Indian classical music is the most difficult thing.”

Add beatboxing, spoken word or some live strings, and you can see how things start to get complicated.

Suphala recounts her most memorable live performance to be only two years ago, when she played the 20th anniversary of New York City’s Central Park SummerStage, an annual showcase of performances by world-famous artists. Set to perform on a stage fit to handle a full dance company or improv comedy troupe and flanked by her accompanists – not to mention in front of a crowd that numbered in the tens of thousands – Suphala said she felt more connected with her audience on the oversize stage than she ever had before. The irony was startling to her. “It was very intimate,” she says. “I could actually see people’s expressions.”

Of course, Suphala revels in life’s contrasts.

IT’S SAFE TO SAY THAT SUPHALA IS IN A PERIOD OF TRANSITION, and it’s clear that her new album is a self-reflecting attempt to develop as a composer and as an artist. But transition knows no bounds, either – With Blueprint, Suphala also marks her foray into being a full-time independent artist, sans record label. It’s been an educational experience, she says, “I’m giving it a go. I learned a lot by being on a label. Some things make a lot of sense now that maybe before weren’t relevant.”

Suphala is also in the process of diversifying her musical portfolio, looking deeper for the niches that her distinct blend of music can fill. As a composer in the 21st century, Suphala has a wealth of options for her plugged-in music – ringtones, commercials, and so on – and she says movie soundtracks may be her next step. “I’ve been speaking to a couple of people about doing film scores,” she says. “I’d love to do that, and my music lends itself to doing that sort of thing. Most definitely.”

The immediate future, however, is filled with Suphala’s bread-and-butter callings: more live performances, as-yet-undetermined collaborations, sabbatical in India, and a fresh trip to the recording studio. “All of the same, but in new ways,” she says. “I haven’t been doing that in a while so I’m now itching to create some more.”

And, of course, practice. Lots of it.

“For me, it’s being able to continue learning and getting better,” she says. “I want to see how good I can play the instrument, how fast I can play this rhythm. I’m not there yet.”

Above all, Suphala says she’ll continue to shatter the creative and cultural barriers that restrict the music – and instrument – that she loves so dearly. A generational shift in acceptance is apparent, and Suphala is at the forefront, whether she knows it or not. It’s no matter – she’s clearly not afraid to be the lone girl on the front lines.

“It is changing,” she says. “There are more and more women playing. Each time I go to India, in a batch of boys, you see a girl now. I guess it’s something that’s a big deal to other people, but for me, it’s just something that I happen to love to do. My teacher never differentiated or gave me or anyone else the impression that there’s a difference. If you’re capable, you’re capable.”

Zakir Hussain on Suphala

Having studied under two of the greatest tabla masters that ever lived – the father and son team of Alla Rakha Qureshi and Zakir Hussain – Suphala stepped into the limelight armed with an ironclad resume and enough chops to dazzle the pants off of the contemporary music world. But that kind of training also carried the burden of great expectations, those of the overseers of Indian classical traditions in general, and of her teachers in particular. Alla Rakha passed away in 2000, but DRUM! caught up with Zakir Hussain during a pause in the tabla icon’s notoriously busy global touring schedule, and asked him to weigh in on Suphala’s commercial success.

“For me to give an interview for my tabla student would be for me to talk about tabla as an instrument coming from an Indian classical music field,” Hussain explains, choosing his words carefully. “In that sense, she is still a student. She’s not yet in a place where she could get on stage and do a classical Indian performance. [But] I think she has worked very hard and found a place for herself in this world where she’s able to utilize the knowledge that she’s received, and the technical ability that she has as a tabla player.

“I have told her, ‘Look Suphala, if you’re going to try and do these kinds of things, obviously you’ll want to be able to use the tabla in a different manner than trying to play traditional classical music. Because for you to go out and play traditional classical music you still need a little more time. So she’s done that, and that’s commendable.”

Of course, Hussain is speaking as one who’s achieved success on both sides of the divide. Much of his name recognition can be attributed to his work with a stable of genre-bending Western artists like Mickey Hart (on Planet Drum) and the fusion group Shakti (with John McLaughlin), as well as George Harrison, David Garibaldi, and Van Morrison, to name a few. Although those collaborations were the second act in a life already steeped in strict, classical training. “I’m basically an Indian classical tabla player who’s played with some jazz musicians, and done some electronica stuff,” Hussain insists. But his own experience living in America for so many years has given him an appreciation for what it takes for a tabla player to make it outside of India.

“When you’re living in India, you need to be accepted by the fraternity there,” he explains. “So you need to do what is expected of you as a tabla player there to be accepted. Here you have a choice. You can break away and do other types of things. [Suphala] has consciously tried to find her niche here, in this world, as opposed to living in India and working there and playing classical music and being accepted in that world. And I think that her records are quite nice for what she’s doing.”

Suphala continues to study with Hussain at least once a year; and for him, she will always be his student. But as a modern teacher of a 1,000-year-old art form traditionally passed from father to son, Hussain can’t help but speak of Suphala’s future with a tone of paternal hopefulness. “The kind of stuff she’s doing now, having studied however many years she has studied, I feel that she’s a little over-qualified for,” he admits. “But I think she’s doing this to keep her creative juices flowing while she still focuses on her classical training. Even though she is always doing all this other stuff, every day her practice of classical tabla is going on. She’s always been a diligent student.”

Suphala’s Suggested Listening

Each of the following CDs contains top-notch Indian classical tabla solo playing from some of the world’s greatest maestros. All are packed full of information to decode and enjoy. I’ve picked recordings by players of varying styles, although any CD by the following artists is bound to be good.

Selects by Zakir Hussain
This is Zakir Hussain’s 2002 release, which features his own picks from his live solo concerts. I recognize some of the compositions and marvel at the way he plays them.

Together by Ustad Alla Rakha and Zakir Hussain
This CD was recorded around the time of Ustad Alla Rakha’s 75th birthday. I knew him then, and it was amazing to hear him play at that age. Hearing the two maestros play together sounds like a loving conversation between father and son.

The Best Of Shakti by Shakti
Shakti is one of the first and greatest bands to bring north and south Indian classical music together with jazz. Guitarist John Mclaughlin and Zakir Hussain, the leaders of Shakti, still get together to tour with what is now called Remember Shakti.

Tribute by Swapan Chaudhuri
Swapan Chaudhuri is from a different school of tabla playing than my gurus. Each maestro has something special that they do, so I love listening to them all.

Anindo And His Tabla by Anindo Chatterjee
Here’s another solo tabla CD from another maestro of a different style. I heard this album years ago and still go back and listen on occasion.

Glen Velez: Colors & Scents

By Iris Brooks Originally published in the February/March 1997 issue of DRUM! Magazine

The Los Angeles Reader calls Glen Velez one of the planet’s most versatile percussionists as well as a captivating composer. Yet his vast instrument collection doesn’t include a drum set. For the last 20 years, Velez has been performing on tambourines — large, small, circular, triangular, square, plastic, lizard, snake and fish-skinned, some with jingles and some without. This family of frame drums has become a powerful percussion arsenal in Velez’s virtuosic and sensitive hands. He’s introduced audiences to tambourines through his performances on five continents in clubs, caves, and concert halls.

“In this culture the tambourine is stigmatized,” says Velez. “Westerners haven’t done a lot of hand drumming. But within this family of instruments, the drums have great melodic potential and traditional sources create a wide vocabulary to draw from.” He has worked with these traditional sources, studying tambourine styles from Brazil, South India, the Middle East, and Central Asia. And after years of working with masters, Velez has created his own pan-global drumming style in which he incorporates techniques from his world music studies, his days at the music conservatory, and his own vivid imagination and creativity.

He rubs, taps, snaps, scratches, and strokes his instruments, coaxing a surprising variety of timbral possibilities from his portable drums. How he strikes the tambourines was shaped by his early studies with Fred Hinger at Manhattan School Of Music. Velez was profoundly influenced by Hinger’s “touch tone” system, which explores the relationship of pulsations. “Hinger had unusual and brilliant ideas about sound and about percussion,” Velez says. “He focused on the word 'touch' rather than 'strike.' Touching is very different than striking. That vocabulary creates a new approach and the sound relates to the touch.”

While studying with Hinger, Velez began an active freelance career as a multi-percussionist, working mostly with sticks. He performed and recorded with Steve Reich And Musicians, played symphonic music with the Israeli Philharmonic and contemporary chamber music with Parnassus, and did session work with Suzanne Vega, Eddie Daniels, and Richard Stolzman. Eventually he realized that the emotive part of his being wasn’t satisfied. In the late ’70s he started playing hand drums and studied the South Indian mrdangam (a two-headed barrel drum) with Ramnad Rhagavan, who accidentally introduced Velez to his new career when he took a tambourine off the wall at a lesson and played it kanjira style. Velez liked it immediately. “That was the first time I had ever seen anyone play the tambourine outside an orchestra or a rock group. I was very excited by it.” South Indian tambourine technique is quite evolved and the syllabic notation, known as solkattu, is something Velez still incorporates in some of his compositions and teaching.

An Ever-Expanding Collection. This new interest developed and expanded into his other frame drum studies. After three or four years he began interchanging the instruments and their techniques. While experimenting with the sounds, he began accumulating a varied instrument collection. It has taken over his small Manhattan apartment and now fills a large storage space as well.

The depths of the frames are shallow and the diameters of the heads range from 6" to 30". Although some frame drums are played with a stick -- such as in the shamanic traditions of Native Americans and Central Asians -- Velez usually plays with his hands. He’s been likened to a shaman by both Paul Winter (with whom he has worked for over a decade) and Jamey Haddad, who produced the Velez recording, Rhythmcolor Exotica.

The album, with its accompanying hard-cover 20-page booklet, is a good introduction to both the instruments -- including history and symbolism -- as well as his band, Handance. The ensemble includes percussionists Eva Atsalis, Glen Fittin, Jan Hagiwara, and Yousif Sheronick. The new recording also features guest artist Art Baron on trombone, conch shell, didgeridoo, and tin whistle. It showcases Velez’s preference for odd meters, with pieces in 5, 7, and even a 41-beat cycle. In addition to highlighting the newest Velez compositions, it also links the ancient traditions of frame drumming to the modern world.

Giving Energy, Getting Energy. Over the years Velez has created his own frame drum style that, in the same sense as an Indian gharana (literally “extended family”) or school, he is passing on to his students. His teaching activities range from a series of masterclasses at schools such as Juilliard, Manhattan School Of Music, and Hart School Of Music to private and group lessons for professionals and enthusiastic students with no drumming background. His international touring schedule allows for drum workshops throughout North America and Europe, and this year he did residencies at Simon Frazier University in Vancouver, Canada, and at the Marktoberdorf Academy in Germany.

Unlike many seasoned professionals, Velez enjoys working with non-musicians. “A lot of the teaching I do is with people who haven’t played drums,” he says. “This led me to use walking and talking with drumming. It gives awareness to pulse flow from the beginning. To have it all meshed together from the beginning is very powerful.

“With students who are professional players, I ask a lot of questions about what they want from me. Sometimes people hear one of my recordings and want to know how a specific sound was made. I get into it specifically with them.

“At this stage I seem to learn a lot from students who don’t know how to play. It forces me to simplify and to find the vocabulary to communicate. There is so much unspoken between percussionists. With other percussionists you only have to say one sentence instead of ten. But teaching non-percussionists requires a simplified communication. It spurs creativity because there are so many challenges.”

It was this work that led to two new instructional videos. Velez’s Handance Method is a participatory video in which the audience is asked to combine stepping and singing drum patterns as they play. The coordination of the whole body requires new challenges, even for drum set players. The intention is to develop both inner rhythms and hand drumming skills. “The videos rely heavily on the experience of stepping and vocalization,” Velez says. “Voice activates memory and focuses attention on breath. The body movements activate large body movements. It’s easy to lose sight of the whole body. It’s not just about the fingers. The walking helps awareness of steadiness in pulse. Steadiness of pulse is the number one issue for all drummers.”

Over the years a number of musicians/students have tried to pattern themselves after Velez. Sometimes it is difficult for them to know when to imitate and when to explore a new path. Velez offers this advice: “The most important thing is paying attention to your personal version of what sounds good. Trust yourself within the discipline. Creativity always needs to be encouraged and nurtured. You never suspend that. The main issue is a personal voice and key sound -- a sound that is reflective of that personal taste. Our personal reservoir is constantly changing.”

Drummer, Heal Thyself. Velez believes his particular strength comes from speed and clarity being allied and experiencing several different time flows and synchronization. “I like that feeling internally. It’s about density.” But no matter how virtuosic Velez sounds, he is always working on new techniques. “All of drumming is about pulse awareness. When I experience plateaus, I switch to other techniques. It’s very energizing to go back and refine something else.” At the moment his “something else” is a snapping technique found in Azerbajani, Arabic, and Persian music. Velez is also inspired by non-musical interests including yoga, meditation, color therapy, and bird watching. “Color therapy is about using the properties of color to heal body, mind, and spirit,” he says.

Velez credits his work with color as part of his personal expansion, creating a closer connection between his emotions and sounds. He is inspired by the Aura-Soma system, which uses 95 bottles of colors created from plant and mineral sources. Each bottle has two colors and is chosen intuitively for self-healing.

In the past he has mentioned Frank Zappa and James Brown as important musical influences, but recently he has been enjoying listening to the music of pygmies and experimental homemade instruments on the impressive new Ellipsis Arts CD and book, Gravikords, Whirlies and Pyrophones by Bart Hopkin. But his long-standing musical love is bird song. Ten years ago Velez went on a rafting trip in the Grand Canyon with Paul Winter, and the accompanying naturalist, Peter Warshall, pointed out nests and different habitats along the way. This sparked a growing interest. “Just the act of bird watching is meditative and humbling,” he says. “The experience of listening to the variables of their songs encourages humility. The beauty, grace and knowledge of their environment is awe-inspiring.”

Arturo Stable: Outer Limits Of Latin Jazz

By Andrew Lentz Originally published in DRUM! Magazine’s April 2010 Issue

There are a number of great hand drummers out there, but Arturo Stable is different — he’s a great musician who plays hand drums. And while the signature rhythms of his native Cuba provide a starting point for the 33-year-old conguero, the depth of his talent has long ago played over those bar lines.

Don’t get us wrong: Stable loves the beats of son, guajira, and rumba — the music he grew up on — but when you’ve been away from your native country for 12 years, the pull of other cultures can begin to reroute your course. After studying in Boston, doing session work in New York, and relentlessly touring the world, Stable and the younger generation of hand drummers are more global in their musical outlook than the veteranos of the scene. “There’s already been so much music recorded with the timbal and the tumbao and whatever, that for me it’s not there any more,” he says while navigating his SUV through the Philadelphia suburb of Wynnewood. “I try to explore different ways to incorporate those folkloric elements, which I grew up with, and played for many years, and put them into my personal vision somehow.”

A Moment In Time. Stable’s congas are central on his brand-new release, Call. But more importantly, the album bears witness to the man’s gifts as a composer. “Some great percussionists, they only have the percussion training, not necessarily writing, composing, or arranging. Sometimes they get so locked into only the rhythmic ideas they forget where the music is going melodically, dynamically — the tension. As a consequence they don’t interact the same way with the band as everyone else. In my case, that’s something I’m very, very aware of.”

Whereas 2004 debut 3rd Step was an angst-y bit of modern Latin jazz, Stable recalls his first bandleader record as “somewhat standard.” He went all high-concept with 2007’s Notes On Canvas, a collection of dense, probing excursions, each track the aural equivalent of Stable’s favorite paintings by Picasso, Frida Kahlo, Kandinsky, and even his father. Call might be the golden mean between the first two albums, if not the most accessible underground hand-drum record of the year. Having written, arranged, and produced all the music, Stable relies on saxophonist Javier Vercher and pianist Aruan Ortiz as the conduits of his primary musical ideas. Both men are buffered by bassist Edward Perez’s liquid low end and the bronze drizzlings of trap drummer Francisco Mela, the latter a perfect foil for Stable’s mercurial handwork.

Except for an overdub in the final track, Call is a completely live recording. Given the album’s tonal subtleties and layered intricacy, he had to have been supremely confident about getting it right. “Lately with the whole technology thing, people take too long to record and they do a lot of overdubbing,” he says. “I’m not against it, but when you listen to those old Miles recordings from the ’50s and ’60s, those guys just went to the studio for a few hours and did it. I have played with these guys for years,” he says, contrasting the Call process with Notes On Canvas’ 17 carefully vetted musicians, “and we went into the studio and, boom!” Whatever got lost in recording perfection is more than made up for in spontaneity. “You gain a lot from that.”

Despite Stable’s worries of being just a Latin artist, half of Call’s tracks are written in clave. “Goodbye To Eternity” is the percussive money shot, a clave in 17/8 that’s tweaked in such a way that he ended up with a new cascara pattern. From that rhythmic foundation he was able to write the bass line, harmony, and so on. “I love the work of Ornette Coleman, and so I tried to use some of the conceptual work that he did, like having a driving rhythm section with a large melody that smoothes out the complexity of the rhythm, rather than having a melody that’s really strong as well, [which is when] everything becomes too strong.”

Whether holding back or charging full bore, hand techniques abound on Call. On “Old Memories” the resounding thud on the 1 almost makes it seems like he’s playing a standard drum set kick. The inspiration came from some vintage vinyl he was checking out two or three years ago. “I was like, ‘Wow, my conga playing sounds so neat [in comparison],’” he says. “How did these guys sound like that? Maybe for lack of technique or lack of practice they sounded a little dirty, but I liked it. So I started experimenting with that and realized it was how much of your hand you put into the instrument.”

Then there are the drum roll–level speeds he achieves on “Danz Sol,” a series of staccato flurries remarkable for their delicacy, a neat trick considering most guys get louder the faster they play. “Eventually you get to a slap that is tough to give a soft dynamic. It’s more for playing fortissimo, but the movement between that open tone and that slap is a slight change in your fingers. So that allows you to play [mouths a machine gun–like brrrrrrrrrrrrr]. That’s almost impossible to do with the traditional slap.”

For all the percussive pyrotechnics, Call’s melodies are the biggest selling point. The title track — bringing to mind afternoon coffee in bed as rain drums against the windows — has one of those hooks that will have to be surgically removed from your brain. Final track “Anthem” is the most bugged-out in terms of tension, layers, and overall busyness. Its Middle Eastern vibe directly channels flamenco’s gypsy influence, a subject on which Stable discourses like a PhD in ethnomusicology. “The instrument actually changed: Flamenco cajon sounds different from Peruvian cajon today. It wasn’t like that 20 or 30 years ago.”

When asked to name the track that most challenged him, Stable is baffled. Other people’s visions require interpretation, reading, and so on, he reasons, but all the musical ideas on Call are his, and thus poured out of him as naturally as exhaling. Suddenly worried he sounded arrogant, he admits “Goodbye To Eternity” kept him on his toes. “That track was pretty physical because the pattern is really long, it’s really fast, and I have a solo, so I’ll say that is the toughest, rhythmically speaking.”

Drumming In The Streets. Stable grew up in Santiago de Cuba, and then Havana, where the embargo of inexpensive Western electronics did not prevent a rich and vibrant local music from echoing in the streets. “Not many people had radios,” he says. “Everything is really hands on. Every weekend there will be something going on in the streets, in the neighborhood. People playing congas, ritual stuff. You meet people, hang out. Everything is more … direct in Cuba. Or it was back then.”

As cultured and highly educated people, Stable’s parents encouraged his development early on. He originally attended school for piano around age seven but was considered too young at the strict “Soviet-style” conservatory in Havana. To bide his time, he opted for percussion until he was old enough to take piano. But he fell in love with the congas, and that changed everything.

From then on he soaked up all things hand drums, jamming at friends’ places and at informal gatherings around Havana through his teenage years. When he was 20, he made his way to Mexico where he taught at the Benemérita Universidad Autónmo de Puebla near Mexico City. He then pursued an advanced degree at Puebla State Development University, before heading to Berklee on a full scholarship. After graduating with a degree in composition, he moved to New York where he found like-minded musicians, big-city excitement, and best of all, session work with big names such as Paquito D’ Rivera, Giovanni Hidaldo, and Victor Mendoza. “I love New York, but it’s absolutely crazy.”

Can’t Stand It. For Stable, technique begins before the first slap. To sit or to stand? It’s not even a question for Stable, who plays seated just like the guys he idolized growing up, such as Mongo Santamaría, Ray Barretto, and Giovanni Hidalgo. “I don’t like playing standing up,” he says. “You cannot hit the congas the same way. If you go to see pop stars, yeah, the percussionist will be standing because you want them to dance and move and interact in a graphic way for the viewer. But when playing jazz you want your ground solid.”

Taste For Academia. Call isn’t the kind of album one easily tours behind, but Stable has already done a brief U.S. jaunt with a slimmed-down version of the band, hit the road with vibraphonist Dave Samuels in the newly formed Triastic Project, and most recently, a European tour with Vercher, the horn player on Call. “He loves percussion, he’s a very rhythmic player. Sometimes he puts together projects that involve two percussionists and a drummer, which is a lot of fun if that doesn’t become the OK Corral.” [laughs]

For a guy who makes most of his money touring, it’s surprising how much passion Stable has for drum instruction. What for most musicians is a way to pay bills has become a crusade for him. At the University Of The Arts in Philadelphia, where he is a full-time music professor, Stable is creating a hand-percussion major from scratch, covering everything from charting out beats to real-world networking. He hopes to have it launched a year from now. “I’ve been doing research on it. There’s great hand percussion teachers in several universities teaching what they know, but not a program to teach you all that you need to know to go out and make a living at it afterwards. There’s no such thing. So that’s the kind of thing I want to get involved in.”

Some of his experiences in academia shaped this objective. Back at Berklee, Stable saw students with tons of talent but no focus. “The most important thing at a school is what you’re going for and what you’re trying to get out of it, because if not you can get lost in paperwork,” he says. “Berklee has people like Danilo Perez and Joe Lovano. There’s so many great musicians teaching there, but you don’t see them there every day, and unless you really know who they are and what you want to learn from them, you don’t see them.”

Setting up a hand-drum-only curriculum is novel for Stable, but the bad habits of beginning students are something he’s very familiar with. “Going for the fancy stuff over the traditional will be the first mistake. People will see a player that they admire play something really fast, really cool, and try to imitate that instead of learning everything that that player has learned for years before they got to create whatever fancy move they did the first time.”

Forget about getting kids to practice — today’s players risk being instilled with poor instruction before they even get near a drum. Stable has experienced this situation firsthand. “Yesterday I was watching a video — and I won’t name names because I want everyone to have a happy career — but it was from a very successful percussionist and it was so [pointless]. This guy’s name appears in hundreds of recordings, his work as part of those bands came out very nice and you appreciate what he’s doing, but when you see him by himself, teaching, giving a clinic, you’re like, ‘Give me a break. How can you dare to do that?’”

It’s About Music. With the heady, avant material he records, you would think Stable would no longer deign to be a mere sideman. “No, not at all,” he protests. “Even when I play jazz I’m an accompanist. It’s a very enjoyable part of the craft. And it’s not easy to be a good accompanist, especially if you have skill. Actually, that’s one of the best compliments I have ever gotten from my playing. Not, ‘Oh, you played this’ or ‘You played that’ but ‘Man, it’s great to play with you because you support what I’m doing.’”

Essential Conga Recordings For Every Percussionist

By Glen Caruba Reprinted from the August, 2006 issue of DRUM!

Catch A Fire!

It sounded like fun, at least at first. My assignment was to compile a list of the best conga albums ever recorded. No problem. Two seconds later, I was asking myself how the heck I was going to pull this off? Sure, I have hundreds of recordings by legendary percussionists both from the past and present. But there are also literally thousands that I don’t have. Help?

Before the letters to the editor start flowing about the CDs that didn’t make the cut, let me first explain my criteria on how I arrived at my final list. First, I wrote down some players and groups that are household names in the conga community – originators like Aguabella, Barretto, Güines, Patato, and Santamaria, as well as newer generation icons such as Allende, Conte, Flores, and of course the current king of the crop, Giovanni Hidalgo.

Since the conga drum has evolved from solely an Afro-Cuban instrument, I wanted to assemble an array of styles, not just Latin. So I added examples from the rock, jazz, and fusion world, and came up with Alias, Badrena, Figueroa, and Rekow.

Then I looked for recordings that best exemplified conga playing, and identified the ones that are still available in the United States. I also considered a mix of “old-school” recordings and more recent albums to get a real sense of the evolution of sound and techniques from our forefathers to today’s players.

And that was it. By all means, enjoy your current album collection, and please don’t be offended if I left out your favorite one, but consider fortifying your collection with these titles if you are an aficionado of the conga drum. The albums are listed chronologically according to their release date.

Tito Puente: Top Percussion (1957)
(Congas: Francisco Aguabella, Mongo Santamaria, Willie Bobo, Julito Collazo, Enrique Marti’)

Michito Sanchez called Top Percussion “the Afro-Cuban percussion bible.” Who can argue with him? Tito Puente assembled the top Afro-Cuban percussionists of that era for this classic, and the recording superbly captures that great “room sound.” Francisco Aguabella, Mongo Santamaria, and Willie Bobo are legends, and their conga playing represents the true traditional sound of the conga drums. More than half the album is authentic percussion, vocals, and chants, but in addition, the ensemble pieces are so groovin’! Listen to “Ti Mon Bo” and just try to sit still. A little side note – I know this article is about conga records, but listen to “Four By Two,” and you’ll get a great introductory dose of the greatest timbalero of all time, Tito Puente.

Cachao: Cuban Jam Sessions In Miniature: Descargas (1957)
(Congas: Tata Güines) Released in 1957, this is a superior recording by one of the originators of mambo, Cachao. All of these short “jams” of rumba and son styles are classically awesome. Tata Güines is a pioneer of this style, and his influence has touched any conga player of serious merit today. Eddie Palmeri’s percussionist Jose Claussell put it this way: “Tata’s participation on this landmark recording, along with two other greats, Guillermo Barreto (pailas/timbales) and Rogelio ‘Yeyito’ Iglesias (bongos), mark the beginning of a dramatic change in the ideas and practices concerning Afro-Caribbean percussion, especially the conga drum.”

Ray Barretto: Carnaval (original recordings 1962)
(Congas: Ray Barretto)

We’re kind of finessing it here, since Carnaval is actual two classic records on one reissue. Barretto was a pioneer of injecting the conga into American jazz. You get his early ’60s Pachanga dance style music (that he made popular with “El Watusi”) from the record Pachanga With Barretto and his more descarga/jam oriented album Latino! Both albums feature his band Charanga Moderna and showcase America’s founding father of Latin jazz.

Weather Report: Heavy Weather (1977)
(Congas: Manolo Badrena, Alex Acuña)

This was a landmark fusion record released in early 1977. Alex Acuña mainly played drum set on Heavy Weather, but lent his hands for a fast guaguanco rhythm on the famous live track “Rumba Mama.” Manolo Badrena’s pattern-less conga accompaniment on “Palladium” is flawlessly executed, and should be required study for any conga player wishing to perform in this genre of music.

Batacumbele: In Concert Live At The University Of Puerto Rico (1988)
(Congas: Giovanni Hidalgo, Richie Flores) Giovanni shines within this legendary Afro-Cuban big band on this live album. A young Richie Flores played on some tracks that did not make the record, for the band had to make room for the extended jams on the limited 12 tracks, but they are all great and well recorded. Gio’s solo on the fourth track is another gut-check on your conga chops.

Luis Conte

Luis Conte: Black Forest (1989)
(Congas: Luis Conte) One of the premier studio aces for percussion, Conte released this record in 1989 and put together a “who’s who” of the recording industry at that time to back him up including a few gems on drum set: Jeff Porcaro, Carlos Vega, and Alex Acuña. The grooves are deep and pre-Pro Tools, which shows how solid of a percussionist Conte is. More or less a fusion record, all the tracks are tinged with Latin-flavoring capped with the last track, “El Solar,” which is straight up guaganco.

Los Muñequitos de Matanzas: Cantar Maravilloso (1990)
(Congas: Various - Los Muñequitos de Matanzas)

Los Muñequitos de Matanzas is arguably the most recognized Cuban rumba group. Do you want to hear a real guaganco? Listen to “Llora Como Lloré” and you’ll hear the Mantanzas version, which is unique unto itself. The abakua, “Que Dice el Abakua,” shows how the vocal chants work with the congas polyrhythmic 3 on 4. All the tracks are superb and authentic. Jesus Diaz says, “That CD has lots of info on how to improvise in clave.”

Mambo Kings: Original Soundtrack (1992)
(Congas: Juan Pepin, Milton Cardona, John Rodriguez, Luis Conte)

A modern recording capturing the classic mambo era — the soundtrack to The Mambo Kings movie features four outstanding ensembles: Mambo All-Stars, Celia Cruz Band, Tito Puente Band, and Linda Ronstadt’s band (actually Alex Acuña plays percussion with Los Lobos who has a couple cuts as well). A must have for the mambo big-band reference. All the conga performances are well recorded and very genuine in tradition.

Santana: Sacred Fire — Live In South America (1993)
(Congas: Raul Rekow, Karl Perazzo)

It’s hard to go wrong with any Santana recording, but this live 1993 release is a good mix and captures Raul Rekow’s congas extremely well. The interplay with Karl Perazzo on timbales, as well as the rest of the rhythm section, illustrates how well percussion can gel to form a tidal wave of sound. Rekow’s solo break on “Black Magic Woman” is brief but very well stated, crisp and clearly audible. Rekow and Perazzo have played together for many years, and it shows on the extended solo on “Soul Sacrifice.” Santana’s sound should be classified in its own category, but this record is a great case in point of how congas can drive a “rock” band.

Carlos “Patato” Valdes

Carlos “Patato” Valdes: Masterpiece (1993)
(Congas: Carlos “Patato” Valdes) Patato is another legend with his own sound and style. Masterpiece may not be his absolute best album, but it showcases several different styles from this conga master. The straight ahead Latin-jazz track “Cute,” slow bolero “Reflexionando” or the cha-cha laced “Montuno de Patato” all have tasty solos as well as some traditional chants and bata on “Tonan Che Cabildo a Ochún.”

David Sanborn: Hearsay (1994)
(Congas: Don Alias)

Hearsay is one of David Sanborn’s funky contemporary jazz records and Alias grooves his butt off. This record has several tracks with great conga grooves. The opener, “Savanna,” is a shuffling syncopated conga pattern that mimics the bass and organ, and because his congas are tuned to the key, it percolates perfectly with the rhythm section. The triplet groove on “Little Face” is a cool laid-back in-the-pocket 6/8 feel. A great example of the use of congas in this non-Latin context.

Mongo Santamaria

Mongo Santamaria: Mongo Returns (1995)
(Congas: Mongo Santamaria) There are many recordings featuring the late Mongo Santamaria, not only as a solo artist, but also as an in-demand sideman. Mongo Returns is one of his later recordings that has a few contemporary jazz tunes, but also contains some traditional Afro-Cuban Mongo magic. I like this record for the fact it showcases Mongo in a couple different styles with more modern electronic instruments, yet with a large ensemble. The opener, “Kiss In Her Glance” is a rumba-tinged Latin-jazz number, while the funk-shuffle “Slyck ’N’ Slyde” is a complete departure from tradition. All in all it is a great example of a conga legend grooving in different genres on one record.

Left to right: Sikiru, Gavid Garibaldi, Mickey Hart, Zakir Hussein, Giovanni Hidalgo

Mickey Hart’s Planet Drum: Supralingua (1998)
(Congas: Giovanni Hidalgo) This recording features Mickey Hart’s all-star ensemble with some serious drum and percussion jams. Anytime you can pair up Giovanni on congas with David Garibaldi on drum set you are in for a groovin’ musical journey. There are a host of awesome players lending credit to this recording, but Gio has some simply stellar conga tracks in this non-typical world music format. Check out the melodic congas on “Umayeyo,” then take a shower afterwards because you will be covered in stinky groove sauce!

Caribbean Jazz Project: The Gathering (2002)
(Congas: Richie Flores, Roberto Quintero)

Richie Flores is definitely one of the new-school freaks on congas. He showcases his blistering doubles that are seamless and effortless. “Masacoteando (In The Groove)” is the last track and one of Flores’ compositions that is quite ridiculous. Don’t try to figure it out, just make sure you have your diapers on! Not to be understated, Quintero, is also part of the newer conga generation and lays down an awesome feel on “The Path.” Needless to say this is a CD that will either inspire you to practice your congas a bit more, or just flat out sell them!

Spanish Harlem Orchestra: Across 110th Street (2004)
(Congas: Bobby Allende)

They call themselves “the world’s hottest salsa band,” and no doubt their albums prove it. Spanish Harlem Orchestra (SHO) is “dedicated to preserving the vital history of classic Latin dance orchestras while at the same time writing and arranging new music for the audience of today.” Allende lends his conga talents on “Across 110th Street” (which features Ruben Blades on vocals). The conga playing is rock solid, and precise with very creative unison rhythm section breaks that are essential for salsa. His solo on “Maestro De Rumberos” (dedicated to Ray Barretto) is classy and musical. If you are new to the world of salsa, SHO is a perfect introduction.

Sammy Figueroa: …And Sammy Walked In (2005)
(Congas: Sammy Figueroa)

Figueroa’s discography reads like the Grammy Awards’ guest list, but his own Latin Jazz Explosion is all about Sammy’s conga chops. ...And Sammy Walked In is his 2005 Grammy nominated release, and is an excellent example on how congas can swing. His solo fills on the opener, “Syncopa O No” are very tasty and his congas are extremely prevalent and well recorded and mixed. The funk/Latin track “Bolivia” is a perfect illustration on how to play and equally important, when not to play congas in certain sections of a song.

Valerie Naranjo Conjures West Africa In Colorado

By Radim McCue Published March 16, 2010

Vic Firth and Pikes Peak Community College offer Colorado drummers a chance to experience one of the best percussionists on the planet this weekend when Valerie Naranjo, of the Saturday Night Live Band and Broadway's The Lion King present hand drums from West Africa. In addition, the PPCC Percussion Ensemble will perform as well as the Bruce Anderson Drum Circuit Community Groups. This event is sponsored by Vic Firth, Zildjian, the Green Room Music Complex, PPCC Music Department, and the Bruce Andersons Drum Circuit.

Details

• Pikes Peak Community College Centennial Campus Theater
• 5675 South Academy Blvd.
• Colorado Springs, Colorado 80906.
• Saturday March 20, 2010 - (2:00PM - 5:00PM).

About Valerie Naranjo

Valerie Dee Naranjo is a legendary percussionist, vocalist, composer and clinician, known for her pioneering efforts in West African keyboard percussion music, is originally from Southern Colorado. She moved to New York City after completing studies in vocal and instrumental music education (U. of Oklahoma) and Percussion Performance (Ithaca College). In 1988 her playing of the gyil's traditional repertoire in Ghana's Kobine Festival of Traditional Music led to the declaration of a chiefly decree in the Dagara nation that women be allowed to play the instrument for the first time.

She plays percussion for NBC's Saturday Night Live Band, and has recorded and performed with Broadway's The Lion King, The Philip Glass Ensemble, David Byrne, The Paul Winter Consort, Tori Amos, Airto Moreira, and the international percussion ensemble, Megadrums, which includes Milton Cardona, Zakir Hussein, and Glen Velez.

Drums Of Illumination

A Frame Drum Roundtable With
Alessandra Belloni, Judy Piazza, And Miranda Rondeau

By Diane Gershuny Originally published in DRUM! Magazine’s March 2010 Issue

Shrouded in mystery, the frame drum can be traced back to the Paleolithic era, and has been historically used as an ancient technology to alter consciousness in spiritual ritual. Images of women playing the frame drum are pervasive in artifacts of goddess traditions from ancient civilizations in the Near East, India, Greece, Rome, and other parts of the world.

Last November, internationally renowned tambourine virtuoso, singer, dancer, actress, and author Alessandra Belloni brought together a group of kindred women frame drummers in a weekend workshop and evening concert at Remo’s Recreational Music Center in North Hollywood to honor the feminine and the healing power of the frame drum.

The group included devotional singer/frame drum artist and teacher Miranda Rondeau and Judy Piazza, a multi-instrumentalist, workshop facilitator, recording artist, and educator who teaches the Egyptian riq and has performed on many frame drums from various cultures.

We gathered together Belloni, Piazza, and Rondeau to talk about the history of the frame drum, and how they learned from — and broke with — tradition in their own work.

DRUM! What inspired you to bring together these specific women artists?
BELLONI I had been conceiving of this event for a long time and chose a unique ensemble of women artists who I believed were very different and all had the power to summon feminine power with frame drums, voice, and ritual dance from ancient healing and musical traditions around the world, including southern Italy, Brazil, Asia, and the Middle East. They were all my best students and they each took their own path musically and artistically. I think we created a fiery global percussive journey in honor of the feminine principle, for women and men alike. The workshop participants were taken by the different skills and knowledge each woman had to offer, and the audience really loved the concert as they all danced with us at the end.

DRUM! How did each of you take what you learned from Alessandra and apply that to your playing?
PIAZZA I met Alessandra early on in my drumming. I took her workshop in Vermont at a camp fair. I was in a transitional point in my life. I had been a musician of many other instruments, and still am, but the drums really shifted things in me. My first teacher and inspiration was Glen Velez, and then to see a woman who had taken this path and was so proficient and passionate about living her gift in the world, really inspired me.
BELLONI And that was great to see, too, because Glen Velez was my first student and he inspired me to continue this path.
RONDEAU I started playing the frame drum 15 years ago, after I first saw Layne Redmond perform. She gave a slide presentation of women playing the frame drum throughout history, and when I saw that my heart cried out. It was like a homecoming. There was something familiar in seeing women playing the drums. She was my first teacher, and then someone gave me an article that Alessandra had written. When I read it I was crying because I was resonating with what she was speaking about and I knew that I had to take her workshop. When she plays I feel the room fill up with the energy of women drummers from ancient times.

DRUM! What is the connection between women and frame drums?
BELLONI The instrument goes back to prehistoric times. They were used mainly by women to honor the goddesses and to heal the community, because they are highly spiritual, very feminine, and are connected to the Moon and the Earth. We believe it was mainly a matriarchal society. The Earth goddess, Cybele, was a very potent goddess from Anatolia [Turkey] who is also worshipped in ancient Greece and Rome. The legend is that she was made from a black meteorite that fell from the stars and is now worshipped as the “Black Madonna.” I was born in Rome where you can see still frescos of Cybele with a frame drum or women holding a round instrument, not necessarily like a tambourine, but with the skin and the frame. The tambourines were very popular in ancient Greece and the women would use them to induce trance in their rites. They are now still used in southern Italy ceremonies honoring the Black Madonna in the tammurriata. I’m really proud of the fact that I was born in southern Italy and the tradition has never died there.

DRUM! Each of you plays multiple instruments, but what drew you to the drum specifically?
PIAZZA I had a total insatiable curiosity about women and frame drums and how they were connected. The frame drum, in a broader sense, was so totally integral to healing, for men and for women, because of it bringing alive the feminine aspect of our human nature. It’s much more subtle — there’s a fluidity and motion with the drum unlike some of the larger drums. To use the healing aspect of rhythm to connect to the mother, to the Earth, to all the elementals, became very important to me, especially in my work as a music therapist.
RONDEAU I got into drum circle drumming at a [Grateful] Dead show, and I was magnetized. But I dance — I didn’t think to drum. It wasn’t until I read Mickey Hart’s book, Drumming At The Edge Of Magic. There’s a section where he talks about the technical side and the spiritual side, and in a way, that gave me permission to play the drum. Inside my head, there was conditioning that said drumming is for men. Later I saw Layne Redmond play, and I knew I was supposed to be playing this instrument. I realized, too, that I had a lot of other conditioned, collective thoughts about women — that they are inferior — and I carried that around. Healing began as I learned about the connection between the drum and the divine feminine. The sound echoes the mother’s heartbeat. Its archetypal shape represents wholeness, unity, and oneness. Like Judy was saying, the drum connects me to the Mother and the Earth and elements that sustain us. This gave me new thought patterns about women. Wendy Griffin, a women studies professor at Cal State Long Beach, created a group called Lipushiau, [who was] the first written, named drummer in history, a high priestess. And our first gig was a women’s conference at the university. All changed my life.

DRUM! How are you breaking boundaries in technique and approach?
BELLONI I’ve taken the Italian style into other rhythms. Traveling to Brazil was a big part of it. I realized that the technique that is very loud and strong was perfect for Brazilian rhythms, and could be heard over other instruments. I designed a Tam Brush for Pro-Mark that I use together with the tambourine, so it keeps the sound of the drum. In my case, working with Glen [Velez] and other great drummers, like Rick Allen from Def Leppard, I feel like I’m absorbing everything and using it in my music. But mainly my playing style is a Latin American art with Brazilian rhythms.
PIAZZA I’ve been a part of the Arab community in Michigan, after moving there 25 years ago before I came to California. I met a master Lebanese oud player and he asked me to play with him. I thought, What are you thinking to ask a white woman to play in a traditional Lebanese situation? He got flustered and said to me, “Music is not of the country, it’s of the heart.” This changed my life and took me another huge step in becoming at peace as a white woman who is insatiably obsessed with the drums. He gave me permission in a way, and had a lot to do with my own shifting and confidence in playing out, and in feeling that I could. I was making beautiful music and people were responding. I remember saying to Glen that I’d only been playing two years, and I had no business teaching. He told me to just share what you know. I play in various settings and styles now, including Andalusian/hip-hop fusion, yoga classes, kirtan or devotional music gatherings, women’s music festivals, solo concerts, retreats, and festivals in and out of the country.
RONDEAU I think what I add the most is the vocals. There are not many people that are drumming and singing. My vocal style transcends language, bypasses the intellect, and is devotional and invoking in nature. I like the melodic part of the drum, and because I sing, I like to experiment with where the different tones are in the drum. I’ve explored different ways to hit in two different places to get the tone that I want and from there is where the music is inspired. As far as playing situations, I open up for many consciousness-raising events as well as play for baby and bridal showers to birthday rituals to funerals and memorials. I also work a lot with different goddess communities, playing for their rituals to create a peaceful, meditative space as well as playing for dance and kundalini yoga classes, and working with kids. I like sharing the frame drum and getting people related to what it is. When I perform I try to make it participatory to initiate people to the possibility of playing.

BELLONI Sometimes it can be two things. Unfortunately, because of my style, which is so powerful, it can be inspiring to some and intimidating to others. I really want to turn that around and make it accessible.
PIAZZA Like Miranda, I work with children as well. I think all of us have this in common, as far as using the drum to connect and synergize, and with that synergy, we go deeper down the path of rhythm at every level in our being. Children often have never seen drums played in this way. It’s amazing what happens from that: Young people become inspired in their own modes of expression — a seed is planted. Recently I heard from a student that was into head-banging music when I knew him. He reached out to tell me how deeply he had been influenced by our time together in high school.

DRUM! Is there a definitive technique involved with playing the frame drum or is it very much individualistic?
BELLONI You have to start with the basics, whether it’s southern Italian, Brazilian, Irish, or South Indian, and then take that technique and make it your own.
PIAZZA And there has absolutely been a lot of fusing of cultural styles.
DRUM! How has the technique evolved through that fusing?
BELLONI Glen Velez was the one to make everyone look at that. He took technique from many other countries and made it his own. I think he deserves to be recognized because there’s a credible, feminine energy coming from him that is not macho at all. Even though he was my first student and we played together in a duo for many years, I learned a lot from him as far as technique. If it weren’t for Glen, a lot of people wouldn’t be doing this right now.

DRUM! Are there other players carrying on the tradition and breaking new ground?
PIAZZA There are more and more people frame drumming, whether they’re carrying on the tradition or making it their own.
BELLONI Like Layne Redmond — she was also inspired by Glen and is making it her own.
PIAZZA Rowan Storm.
BELLONI In Brazil, I know lots of them.
PIAZZA And that’s just it, for every one of us who have earned some recognition, there’s hundreds back in the culture that are fantastic and that we’ve been inspired by, that have not received any acknowledgment.

Meinl Artist Series Luis Conte Signature Congas And Bongos

El sonido caliente de cuba!

By Gary Gardner Originally published in DRUM! Magazine’s June 2009 Issue

Grammy-winning percussionist Luis Conte has put his years of experience and insight into the design of these MIPA-award-winning signature congas and bongos. Conte and Meinl have gathered the best components of old-school Cuban drums and coupled them with some hip modern innovations. These instruments offer top-notch craftsmanship and an incredible sound. And besides being great drums, they’re also cost-effective. So you get value, great sound quality, and attractiveness — what more do you need?

Solid Congas
All Luis Conte congas are constructed from two-ply rubber wood and are fitted with Meinl TTR (Traditional Tuning Rims). These rims are specifically designed to sit in tight and close to the shell to help with more consistent tuning. The patented Conga Saver rubber lug covers protect the drum shells when you’re playing. The hard rubber lug protectors are fresh, fitting directly over the tuning rod bracket to protect the drums when they bump into each other. A nice advantage is that tuning is still accessible even with the lug covers on. The Luis Conte drums come with Meinl True Skin buffalo heads. The set I reviewed had nicely matched skins allowing for balanced tuning and pleasant melodies. Meinl puts a hip spin on traditional style. The dark powder-coated black rims nicely contrast with the light natural matte-blonde shells and chrome tuning rods. The congas shine beautifully under the lights. A rubber foot around the bottom of each shell helps prevent possible damage when cranking out the beats on a hard playing surface. I liked the fact that it kept the drums in their respective playing positions. They didn’t move around even when I struck them with full intensity. Don’t try to remove the foot though. The bottom of the shell is tapered and unfinished beneath it, so it’s there to stay.

Three’s Company
The 11" quinto performs with real confidence. Slaps are sharp and full of tonality as they cut through any ensemble with ease. Open tones are warm and carry a good sustain. With the fat body–style shell and rubber foot it’s a lot easier to keep the drum in place as you play. As a solo drum, the quinto projects well and puts out a lot of power. I did, however, find it a bit difficult to crank the drum up into the higher register. Strong and full of fight, the 11.75" conga really drives the bus in this group. Fat tonality supports staccato slaps that ring beautifully and produces open tones that hum for days. I like the strong bottom-end tone that really drew out my inner tribal soul. At 11.75" in diameter, this conga will make even those players with larger hands feel comfortable laying down the groove. Playing with traditional-style hoops has always been my preference, and the TTR rims on this conga allowed me to feel in my element while pulling out some tight beats. The 12.5" tumba sits confidently in the bass chair. We’re talking big sustain and powerful tonality here. I really enjoyed playing this tumba as a solo drum. It projects wonderfully and has a tremendous lower range timbre. As part of a trio, the tumba nicely rounds out the conga trio.

Powerful Bongos
The new Luis Conte series bongos are an equally sweet deal. Outfitted with the black powder-coated TTR rims and True Skin heads, these firecrackers seriously rock. The bongos use a traditional solid woodblock to connect both shells, which prevents interruption to the sound flow. The drums have great projection and cut effortlessly in any ensemble. The smaller (macho) drum really pops with sharp high tones, while the bigger (hembra) drum complements with wonderful ringing open tones. Slaps are powerful and sound awesome on both drums. The signature bongos are a welcome accompaniment to the congas.

The Gig Test
Taking the drums for a test drive was a blast. Performing in an amazingly acoustic-friendly synagogue allowed the drums to really shine. The room fed back tons of natural reverb and the drums rang out with great sustain on their own — no amplification necessary. Within a small ensemble, the congas blended well and their voice was never lost. For this gig I used a generic bongo mount so I could play the Luis Conte bongos alongside the congas. Since I was sitting down, the bongo stand worked great.

During a rhythm section jam, the bongos really rounded out the percussion flavor. At one point I was playing a cool ostinato pattern between the tumba and the bongos, adding to the syncopation of the drummer’s beat. The tumba rang out strongly and the bongos popped with sharp tones that accentuated the groove.

Details
SIZES
Quinto: 11" x 30"
Conga: 11.75" x 30"
Tumba: 12.5" x 30"
Bongos: 6.75"-diameter macho and 8"-diameter hembra
SHELLS Two-ply rubber wood
FINISH Clear natural matte lacquer
FEATURES True Skin Buffalo Heads; 8mm strong tuning lugs; 4mm TTR (Traditional Tuning Rims); black powder-coated hardware
EXTRAS Meinl Conga Saver (lug covers); Meinl Soundpads; Accessory pouch; L-shaped tuning key; Tune-Up Oil
PRICE
Quinto $420
Conga $440
Tumba $460
Bongos $250
CONTACT
Meinl Percussion
meinlpercussion.com

Verdict
The lowdown on the Luis Conte Artist series congas is simply this: they look and sound great. Their old-school design with contemporary innovations creates a unique impression. The rubber foot is cool and has no negative effect on the drums’ sound. Being able to tune the congas with the Conga Saver lug covers is a big plus. I found that the congas sing best when tuned to the upper-middle range of the drum, where the big fat tones hang out. Value-wise there is no set of signature drums out there that give you the same superior quality craftsmanship and sound for the money. Well done, Meinl.

PAS Announces Percussion Ensemble Contest

By Radim McCue Published December 25, 2009

Non-Western percussion-based performing ensembles from around the world are invited to enter the Percussive Arts Society's World Music Percussion Ensemble Competition. The winning ensemble will be invited to perform at PASIC 2010 in Indianapolis, Indiana.

The Percussive Arts Society's goal with this contest is to encourage and reward the highest level of percussion education and musical excellence among high school and collegiate non- Western percussion-based performing ensembles from around the world. The competition is open to non-western percussion performing groups in both high school and college categories. One High school and college/university non-Western percussion-based performing ensembles. One high school or college/university ensemble will be invited to perform at PASIC 2010 (November 10–13th) in Indianapolis, IN. The winning ensemble will be featured in a 50-minute Showcase Concert at the event. For complete eligibility requriements and information download the following document.

Read the most recent PAS newsletter.

Pearl Jingle Cajon

Jingles Are The Way

By Gary Gardner

Pearl has long been a driving force in the world of drum sets, hardware, and drum-set accessories. But over the course of the last several years the company has been steadily branching out, expanding its percussion catalog with products that seamlessly meld hard-won traditional wisdom and forward-thinking design innovations. Enter the Pearl Jingle Cajon. Designed alongside Los Angeles percussionist Pete Korpela, the Jingle Cajon takes what is fast becoming the percussion-instrument innovator’s preferred palette to a whole new level.

When I asked Pete what inspired him to come up with the idea for the Jingle Cajon, he explained that after playing countless gigs that required a cajon, a nagging problem had left him wanting more out of his instrument. Many of the frequencies produced by the acoustic guitars in the ensembles in which he was playing were evenly matched with those of the cajon, thus masking the cajon’s sound. Pete wanted to develop a means by which the cajon would not lose its inherent sound and at the same time have something unique that would help it stand out in an ensemble during a live performance. So with that in mind, and after many trial configurations, Pete and Pearl finally agreed on the setup that became the Jingle Cajon, which offers not one, not two, but four different sound configurations. Nice.

HIGH FREQUENCY
When I first sat down on the Jingle Cajon, I was immediately impressed with how noticeably solid it felt. The plastic feet provide great support for a balanced and comfortable playing position. And the fundamental tone was wonderful. The combination of a fiberglass shell with a wood playing surface creates a beautiful overall timbre, with the strong projection and resonance of the fiberglass shell blending nicely with the inherent warmth of the wood.

But despite the integration of high- and low-tech materials, what really makes this cajon stand out from its peers is its sheer simplicity. Pearl has fastened the jingles and their controls on the outside of the playing face. That means no awkward reaching in through the sound hole, no strings, no screws, no nonsense. With the use of a common wing nut, the jingles are either loose or tight, on or off. There are also two sets of jingles attached just below the sweet spot for those fat bass tones, out of the way of your hands. If there is any sound compromise from the attachments, I didn’t notice any worth mentioning.

Sound good? Wait, there’s more. The cajon utilizes two different types of jingles. On one side are Brazilian pandeiro-style Platinella jingles for a dry and crisp sound. And on the other side are stainless-steel tambourine jingles for that bright, jiggly, classic tambourine-style sound.

So what about those four different configurations I mentioned earlier? That’s where the permanently positioned set of internal snares that fan out against the back of the playing surface come into play. That gives us: 1) snares with no jingles; 2) snares plus Platinella jingles only; 3) snares plus tambourine jingles only; and finally, 4) snares plus both sets of jingles.

Whew. Oh yeah, and all this can be rearranged on the fly, in real time. The one bummer is that the snares cannot be turned off. That simple alteration would open up the Jingle Cajon to an unprecedented five different configurations.

OUT AND ABOUT
I took the Jingle Cajon out for a gig with an eclectic quartet, and it performed beautifully, providing a whole host of unexpected timbres and dynamics. With one microphone positioned in front of the cajon to capture the jingles, there was no way its voice was getting lost in the shuffle. Thinking about what Pete Korpela had said about the sound being canceled by other acoustic frequencies, I really felt the jingles were the deciding factor that gave the cajon its distinct personality and authoritative voice.

This ensemble had no drummer, so it was my job to lay down the groove. With warm, deep bass tones and cutting higher pitched slaps, the Jingle Cajon made it easy to be both melodic and driving. The snares alone, with no jingles, sounded rich and really filled out the sound of the rhythm section. For an up-tempo tune with a Middle-Eastern flavor, having both sets of jingles loose was just what the music ordered. The added jingle sound cut through the ensemble while adding just the right tone of traditional authenticity. I also found that striking the sides of the cajon provided yet another sonic option — a slightly higher pitch with no activation of the snares or jingles. Guess that fifth sound is possible with the Jingle Cajon after all. Hey, the more sounds the better.

Details

CONFIGURATION Internal snares (non-adjustable), exterior-mounted jingles and jingle adjustment.
HELLS Fiberglass body with a wood playing surface
FINISH Carubinga exotic wood lacquer FEATURES Brazilian (pandeiro) Platinella-style jingles, stainless-steel tambourine jingles, super responsive internal snare system.
EXTRAS cajon bag ($75)
LIST PRICE $199

CONTACT
Pearl Corporation
pearldrum.com
615-833-4477

Verdict
All in all, the Pearl Jingle Cajon is a worthy piece of percussion. Combining synthetic and natural materials into the construction allows for an economically priced instrument without real sonic compromise. The ability to change the jingle setup on the fly is a great feature. The drum has a beautiful tone and, with four (or five) configurations possible, virtually any style of music can be tackled with ease. The cajon has good presence and a strong voice thanks to the jingles. And while it would be a nice to have fully adjustable snares, playing the sides of the cajon at least gives you the option of getting a tone without activating the snares and jingles. Finally, the $199 price tag is a great deal next to the many other cajon models out there costing upwards of $300-plus.

All In The Mars Volta Familia

Progressive percussion comes alive

By Andrew Lentz // Photos By Hadas Originally published in DRUM! Magazine’s September 2009 Issue

You would be unlikely to point to Marcel Rodriguez-Lopez as the little brother of Omar, the notoriously ironhanded leader of The Mars Volta. Seven years younger with a mellow drawl punctuated by hip-hop-style damns and surfer-dude fer sures, Marcel is the Texas-bred prog-rock group’s wild card — the guy who does a little of everything in a way that couldn’t be done by just anyone.

“I’m super excited,” says the 26-year-old hand drummer, chillaxin’ in a Hollywood hotel before heading to Bonnaroo in the morning. “I’ve done a lot of multi-day shows like this but this is one of the best festivals you can play.”

But are the flip-flop–wearing hordes of central Tennessee ready for the Chicano-fros, Che Guevara consciousness, and Latin American magical realism of The Mars Volta? When a band possesses singular talents such as singer Cedric Bixler-Zavala’s falsetto-fueled absurdist lyrics; drummer Thomas Pridgen’s complex open-ended beats; and Omar’s pedal-board pyrotechnics, it’s a wonder there is any room left to squeeze in a hand drummer.

But things change.

Now that guitarist Paul Hinojos and Adrian Terrazas-González, saxophonist, flutist, and sometime timbale player, have left the band, it’s up to Marcel to fill the sonic void. Whereas before the hand drummer could jump into the fray with a jam block or triangle, now he is more circumspect, since any percussive input will have more impact. “It’s like we got a whole new band. It’s two less members — we got to play differently.”

Skool’s Out. Marcel has vivid memories of messing around on the kit that Omar, himself once a drummer, left behind after hitting the road with his critically adored first band, At The Drive-In. Many of those early years Marcel spent trying to impress Omar with how much his playing had improved whenever the older brother returned from touring.

Though drum set was his “first true love,” there was never a tipping point when Marcel decided to take up hand drumming. He gravitated slowly toward percussion while growing up in El Paso, where his dad’s salsa records, a pair of maracas lying around the house, and family vacations to Puerto Rico turned him on to Latin rhythms. Tito Puente, Ray Barretto, and Nicky Marrero — best known as the timbale player in The Fania Allstars — number among Marcel’s earliest hand-drumming influences. Lately he’s been digging on San Francisco Bay Area–based legend Mingo Lewis. “There’s this one record specifically — this Al DiMeola record — It’s like they sped up the tapes or something. He’s just killing it the whole time, oh my God! Yeah, he’s the man.” Percussion might be in Marcel’s blood, yet he does not think of himself strictly as a hand drummer. “I’d rather just be a well-rounded musician as opposed to being just the most amazing technical drummer or percussionist.” Like many autodidacts, his instruction came from watching and listening, in this case, to the various drummers in At The Drive-In. In addition, he is a natural lefty who learned to play open-handed on a right-handed kit, a situation he feels “messed him up.” Though a lack of formal training has not stymied his career, it is a fact that continues to rankle him. “I wish I’d done it back then just to learn how to read music and be able to pick up a book and understand what they’re saying and to be able to notate a beat and be, ‘I’m not going to forget this.’” At University Of Texas, Marcel eventually took music classes but failed them miserably. If he was looked down upon by the other students, he made up for it by tinkering with a Yamaha keyboard, MIDI, Roland MC-303 (better known as the GrooveBox), and the realization he could connect them together to make his own beats. “Maybe I wasn’t doing my homework, but I was at home figuring out how to actually record and all the other stuff that those types of players don’t think about.”

Besides, who cares about an undergrad degree when you have a doctorate from the University Of Mars Volta? “I’m really good at observing,” he explains. “Like when Jon Theodore was in the band, I would just watch him to the point where I would mess up on my parts because I’m trying to figure out what he’s doing.” After Theodore got the boot, the osmosis continued with drummer Deantoni Parks, and the first-ever Mars drummer from the band’s early 2001 demos, Blake Flemming, both of whom filled in until Pridgen joined full time in late 2007. “Even just watching those guys warm up and watching how they hold the sticks, how they exercise, how they warm down — all those little things — that’s the best teachers I could have had.” Marcel is compensating in other ways too. Recent DVD purchases include Jojo Mayer’s hella popular Secret Weapons For The Modern Drummer, Jim Chapin’s Speed, Power, Control, Endurance, and, at the urging of Pridgen, Gospel Chops’ Shed Sessionz, Vol. 2. “I was like, ‘Damn, that stuff just escapes me, like, I can’t figure out anything.’ Now, watching it over and over, it’s starting to make sense. So that feels good being able to break it down, ‘Damn, I suddenly get this today.’

Eight Ways To Slay. Octahedron is not as difficult a release as, say, Amputechture, nor as frenzied as the previous The Bedlam In Goliath. Instead, it balances complex structures with pop immediacy. Perhaps the most striking thing about the new album from a hand-drum point of view is how stealthy the percussion parts are. “Yeah, there’s definitely not as much of it,” Marcel says. “There’s a lot more mellower stuff so we focused more on the synthesizers and ambient stuff.”

The composition method within the band trickles down from Omar, but not exclusively. “Sometimes it’ll be just like, ‘Feel it out’ or ‘What are you thinking?’” After repeated listens, the percussion table makes its presence felt, like the rattle of shekere on “Desperate Graves.” “Normally when I do shakers I’ll do maracas in one hand and a shekere in the other hand for a downbeat and do like a triplet feel. I like doing that type of stuff where maracas will be doing one thing in one hand and I’ll have the other hand doing a rhythm against it.” On “With Twilight As My Guide” the shimmer of jingles leavens the turgid arrangements with Tolkienesque whimsy. “Omar loves chimes in everything,” he continues. And we’re not talking some ergonomic state-of-the-art model but a homemade instrument scored in Eastern Europe. “It’s really heavy and it seems like just about every song I’ve always got to be there holding it up and [Omar]’ll tell me, ‘Okay, now play it delicately. Now play it hard. Now play it hard as you can.’ And it’ll be a 30-minute track, but we don’t have a stand for them, so I’ve got to sit there and hold them up and then move them with my fingers and then hit them.”

In tracks such as “Teflon” and “Copernicus,” Marcel’s heart lies more with sci-fi-sounding plug-ins than hand-held noisemakers. He conjures many a groovy atmosphere with vintage keyboards, including five separate Fender Rhodes organs and a rare Mellotron (#863 out of roughly 1,400 that were built).

Nevertheless, these days he approaches music making more than ever like he’s playing a drum set. For example, when he works the wah pedal with his Clavinet, he is simply thinking of it as a kick drum. “That’s something that I have to do as far as playing my congas is incorporating my feet now and having like a cowbell or a clave and break it up between my limbs, whereas before I might play the congas with the left hand then do the clave with my right hand on a woodblock or cowbell.”

Learning On The Job. A new set of rhythmic challenges is stressful enough for anyone. Compounding matters is reproducing Octahedron — a product of the studio in every way — on stage in a band that never sounds the same from night to night. With Octahedron’s maiden outing taking place in less that 36 hours in one of the summer’s premier musical happenings, any other drummer would be sweating bullets. “A big part of it is just trying it,” Marcel says, cool as a cucumber. “When I first joined the band I used to be, ‘I’ll practice it at sound check. I’ll practice it in my room.’ It seems to me when I sit there and I do it onstage I advance faster.”

This is where a metronome comes in handy, or at least The Mars Volta version of one, which could be sequences, drum machine, or backing tracks. “Not backing tracks in the sense of Britney Spears or a pop thing where they got the actual guitars in there or the drums that you’re hearing,” he clarifies. “It’s more like supplementary stuff like a backing loop — something that the song is based on.”

Marcel also avails himself of in-ears since a man needs all the help he can get in a beast as unwieldy as The Volta. “Suddenly out of nowhere the bpm jumps by like ten, or it might be more subtle. But if we’re all playing together and it’s something that has a lot of notes in it, there’s a click so we don’t get off on that transition.” Historically, miking the percussion has been problematic for the band because of all the personnel and gear. Specifically, ex-guitarist Hinojos’ instrument would bleed into the percussion mikes and vice versa. Now with a better targeted condenser mike — and the absence of Hinojos — the bleed is minimized. “Even then it’s always a battle of getting the congas loud enough in my mix without getting the guitars going in there real crazy.”

The Mars Volta’s sole hand drummer has come a long way from the days when he had eight or nine cowbells to choose from. In these downsized times, mean and lean is the way to go. “It feels like I have more to work with in the sense that before there was so much stuff it was like, ‘Should I grab this? Should I grab that?’ Now I know what I’m grabbing. I can make more with it.”

True Bromance. There are obvious perks to having an older brother as head honcho of your band — like the fact that Marcel never really had to audition for his spot. Then again, you are never quite sure what your status is within The Mars Volta, and a long list of former members will attest to that. While his recorded hand-drum and keyboard parts go back to 2005’s Frances The Mute, there is a nagging sense of being only as good as the last gig. “It’s always been this trial period,” he says. “And who knows if we’re still on this trial period.”

Is Marcel being a tad dramatic? He still has his job after six years, so chances are he’s doing at least some things right. “Whenever we’re together, we’re watching TV, YouTubing stuff all day,” he laughs. “When you can be in the company of someone else and not have to say anything, that’s a good sign.”

Lenny Castro: The Art Of Accompaniment

By Joe Bosso Originally published in the April 2008 issue of DRUM! Magazine

In 1990, when he was 40 years old, Lenny Castro finally realized he was a musician. It didn’t matter that he began playing drums and percussion at the age of three, was trained at New York’s prestigious High School Of Music & Art, and by the time of his epiphany, had played on thousands of recordings and dozens of tours with icons as disparate as Stevie Wonder, The Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, Boz Scaggs, Toto, Quincy Jones, Barbra Streisand, Ringo Starr, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Fleetwood Mac. Even more ironic is that this definitive moment of validation came from the one artist Castro always dreamed of playing with, but never did.

“Miles,” he says matter-of-factly, with the understanding that the last name, Davis, is a given. “That was one of my biggest dreams, and I got so close.” Davis’ nephew, Vince Wilbur, informed Castro that the venerable horn legend was considering him for an upcoming tour. “I couldn’t believe it,” Castro recalls. “To play with Miles Davis, the legend – unbelievable! So I put a reel together of all the stuff I’d done. I’ve never had to put an audition reel together, but Miles insisted on it, so I couldn’t say no.” Castro sent the tape and proceeded to wait. And wait. And wait.

“A few months later, I was doing a showcase with Joe Sample, and [producer and record executive] Tommy LiPuma came and he brought Miles with him,” Castro says. “I had no idea Miles was coming. After the performance, I went up to them, and I was more than a little nervous. Trembling a little, I went to shake hands with Miles, and he did the strangest thing: he grabbed my hand rather quickly and turned it palm-up. Then he started touching my palm, just feeling it, running his fingertips over my calluses. After a few moments, he released my hand. He gave me this intense look and said, “Whoa!” And in that one second, I felt an acceptance I’d never known before. To get respect from Miles Davis …” His voice trails off as he replays the incident in his mind. Then he lets out a laugh and says, “The funny this is, I didn’t get the gig. Miles decided to hire one of his sons. Hey, I can’t compete with family, you know?”

The Specialist. Over the course of a nearly 40-year career Castro has had very little in the way of competition. Since his first big break playing in Melissa Manchester’s band in the early ’70s he has deftly navigated multiple identities as an always-in-demand recording and touring percussionist. With his big teddy bear countenance and infectious laugh, Castro is the sort of person folks want to be around. “I disarm people by making them laugh,” he says. “If things are getting heated, I know how to cool everything down real quick.”

But it is his uncanny ability to blend seamlessly into the most unorthodox of settings (one week it’s Dwight Yoakam, the next it’s The Mars Volta) that earned Castro the nickname, “The Specialist.” Castro chuckles self-deprecatingly at the moniker. “What I do isn’t so special,” he says. “The people I play with are special. Drumming is really about being an accompanist, and as a percussionist I’m an accompanist to the accompanist.”

To explain his appeal, he uses a culinary analogy: “Think of it as if you were making a stew. Now, in your band you’ve got your singer, your guitarist, your bass player, your keyboard player, your horn players, your main drummer, whatever – they’re the meat and vegetables and the broth in the stew. What am I? I’m the spice. Take me away and you’ve still got a stew, but it would be bland and tasteless. But if you want a great meal, a stew that’s going to knock you out, you need spice – that’s where I come in.”

Though Castro laughs at his own words, the secret to his lasting success lies in his Zelig-like ability to be something of a musical allspice. “I love straddling different worlds,” he says. “I’m a fan of all kinds of music. A lot of people like to say that, but the truth is they don’t expose themselves to a lot of music, either as a listener or a player. What artists like about me, and why I think they hire me, is that I’m a chameleon: I can change the way I play to fit whatever kind of music I’m playing. Sometimes my wife even tells me I look different from band to band. To me, that’s a compliment. Why put a limit on what I can do, or who I can play with?”

Percussion Prodigy. Born and raised in New York City, Castro grew up comfortably on the Upper East Side. A self-described “special kid,” he had little interest in the games and usual activities of childhood. “Since I can remember, music was all I ever wanted to be involved with,” he says. By the time he reached the first grade, he was proficient on drums and the phalanx of instruments that comprise Latin percussion. “My parents bought me drums and really nurtured my development. I think they could tell that music was just cruising through my bloodstream. My favorite instruments to play were congas, bongos, and timbales – anything that was in the Latin circuit, that’s what I wanted to master.”

He was already well on his way to percussion mastery when, on a bracingly cold February night in 1964, he sat up with his parents to watch The Beatles annihilate America on The Ed Sullivan Show. “I couldn’t believe what I was seeing – and hearing!” Castro laughs. “Ringo Starr became my idol that night. To see him up on the drum riser, shaking his hair and pounding out that big, steady beat, he was phenomenal. And all the girls screaming like crazy – who didn’t want to be Ringo Starr? I know I did.”

Although Castro continued playing percussion instruments, the impact of The Beatles left an indelible impression. “I went back and got comfortable with a proper drum kit again,” he says. “I studied those Beatles’ records back and forth, over and over. I knew Ringo’s every move. Even back then I knew he was a huge talent. There was so much artistry and humanity to his playing. He’s one of the most clever drummers of all time.”

Castro credits the High School Of Music & Art’s curriculum with helping him to learn how to read music (“very important when you get into the studio and they hand you a chart”). He cites another source as being equally important: the radio. “As a teenager, I was constantly listening to the radio,” he says. “You have to remember, it was an exciting time back then in the ’60s. Jazz, blues, Latin jazz, pop, rock, R&B, girl groups, country & western – you could hear it all on AM radio. It wasn’t like now, with these rigid playlists. Back then disc jockeys could play what they wanted. You turned on the radio and great music just jumped out at you. If you weren’t inspired by that, my God, you must’ve been dead!”

After high school, Castro floundered around New York City, struggling to jump through the fiery hoops of the session scene. “It was like this secret club,” he recalls, “If you weren’t hooked up with the right people, you wouldn’t get your foot in the door.” It seemed as if a secret password was necessary to score auditions, and for one reason or another, nobody would give Castro the code. “I was starting to get discouraged. I had ambition, I had ability, but something was lacking, and I didn’t know what it was. Luck, I guess. But how do you get lucky? That, I didn’t know.”

By the mid-’70s he was working at Frank Ippolito’s Drum Shop, where he was able to play all of the latest products. “I was a good worker,” he says, “but it was hard. I didn’t want to be a retailer, selling drums to players who were doing what I wanted to be doing.” One day, Castro received a call to audition for singer Melissa Manchester’s band – somebody from Melissa’s camp called Ippolito to ask him if he knew any percussionists. Ippolito recommended Castro without hesitation. Before leaving for the audition, Castro received a constructive piece of advice from his boss: “If you don’t get the gig, don’t come back here!” Castro lets out a laugh. “Frank meant it, too. All in all, it was a good boot in the ass.”

Castro landed the Manchester gig and toured with her for a year. “It was my first time seeing the world, getting real money, and playing in front of big crowds. I knew immediately that this was the life for me.” But when the New York-based Manchester decided to move to Los Angeles, Castro had to choose: relocate with the singer, or lose his first high-profile job. “It took me all of one minute to weigh my options and pack my bags for L.A. I had no idea how advantageous the move would be.”

Go West, Young Man. In Los Angeles, the invitations that seemed so elusive in New York came Castro’s way with an ease that stunned the young percussionist. Within weeks he was working with Diana Ross on a session produced by Richard Perry, where he met the hottest drummer in town, the late Jeff Porcaro, who would soon form, with other L.A. session monsters, the venerated rock group, Toto.

“Jeff and I clicked immediately,” says Castro. “We were two peas in a pod. He and a bunch of the guys who would eventually be Toto had just played on Boz Scaggs’ album, Silk Degrees, and the buzz on the record and the players was strong.” One day, Castro’s phone rang. It was Porcaro. “He said, ‘Hey, do you want a touring gig? Boz is getting ready to hit the road and I think he could use a guy like you.’ So he told me to come down to this soundstage where they were rehearsing. I ended up going with [Toto guitarist] Steve Lukather, who was also being considered for the band. I set up my stuff, and we played a few songs with Boz and the band. Things sounded good to me, but after it was all over nobody said a word; Boz was up and out the door. So I went to Jeff and said, ‘Well, what do you think? Did I get the gig?’ Jeff looked at me and said, ‘Man, you had the gig before you even walked in!’

Touring with the Boz Scaggs band proved to be an even bigger adventure, musically and otherwise, than playing in Melissa Manchester’s band. “We had a lot of fun in those days,” says Castro. “Lots of practical jokes, lots of good times – some of which I probably shouldn’t speak of.” Castro remembers Scaggs as being “an incredible bandleader, very generous as far as giving us room to stretch the music. I learned a lot from him. He knows how to write great pop songs, but he appreciates virtuoso players who can take his music somewhere else. A lot of times, you’ll play something that a singer isn’t expecting and you’ll get a dirty look. Not with Boz. He welcomed surprises – as long as they sounded good.”

While on tour with Scaggs, Castro met a singer named Paulette Brown. After a “quick but very romantic” courtship, the two married. They have two children: a son, Tyler, who currently plays drums in a heavy metal band, and a daughter, Christina, who sings and is pursuing a career in culinary arts.

Succession Of Stars. After touring with Scaggs and playing on his follow-up to Silk Degrees, the album Down Two, Then Left, Castro next worked with another maverick singer-songwriter, Randy Newman. “Randy was a flat-out gas,” Castro says. “We did the song ‘I Love L.A.,’ and I knew right away it was going to be a hit for him.” While cutting the track, an engineer was fiddling with a Linn Drum machine – it was the first time both Castro and Newman had seen the device.

“Randy went ballistic,” says Castro, laughing. “For one thing, it was taking hours for this engineer to try to get the damn thing to work, and that didn’t please Randy at all. Plus, he had a total aversion to the idea of a machine replacing a real live drummer. I remember Randy jumped up – this was after four or five hours of nothing getting done – and started yelling, ‘Enough! That’s the devil’s machine! That’s the devil’s work! I want real drums. Throw that thing away right now!’” Without further ado, the drum machine was toast.

During the next few years, when Castro wasn’t on tour, he would play with Toto both live and in the studio. “They were always very gracious and accommodating to me,” says Castro. “Whenever they were making some of their big hits, you know, like ‘Africa’ and ‘Rosanna,’ they wanted me right there with them. I used to watch them come up with their parts; a lot of the time they would bounce ideas off of me. It was a great collaboration, which is why so many musicians respect Toto. You can hear the difference when real players are communicating with one another.”

For a time it looked as though Castro was destined to become a permanent bandmember, but “political issues” stood in the way. If Castro was disappointed, his hurt feelings were soothed when Porcaro took him aside and told him it was a blessing in disguise. “I remember Jeff saying, ‘Listen, man, you should be glad you’re not in the band, because once you’re a member, you have to get permission to do anything.’ And it turned out to be true. In fact, the Toto guys started to envy me. I could go off and play with people like Stevie Wonder and do all this other stuff. Meanwhile, they weren’t working; they were always waiting for tours to get booked or albums to come out. They were tied down by the machinery of the band, whereas I was free as a bird.”

Performing with Stevie Wonder would prove to be one of the bigger challenges Castro had yet to face. The percussionist played with Wonder on the Woman In Red soundtrack, as well as two world tours. “He’s a pretty intimidating guy at first,” Castro remarks. “He doesn’t suffer fools gladly – or at all. And if you’re going to keep up with Stevie, you have to know his whole book, every song he’s ever done and then some, because he’s likely to call a tune out at the drop of a hat. You have to be right on it, and he knows if you’re not.

“He would constantly surprise the band, too, calling out covers that we hadn’t even talked about, let alone rehearsed. I remember one time we were playing, and out of nowhere he yells, ‘Alfie!’ You know that song – ‘What’s it all about?/Alfieeeeee ……’ I had never played it before in my life. I turned to the guitar section and they had this deer-in-the-headlights look: ‘We don’t know this song. What do we do?’ And we’re talking about a concert in front of 250,000 people. You can’t bonk in a situation like that; you just go with it.”

Castro’s 14-year association with Bette Midler proved to be just as much of a struggle. On four separate tours with her, Castro became, in his words, “a comedic actor posing as a musician.” During the course of any given show, Castro and the rest of Midler’s band would be called upon to perform songs that spanned and sometimes mixed genres. “Burlesque, vaudeville, blues, R&B, swing, rock, disco – you gotta know it all,” Castro says. “To play with Bette, you had to have Broadway chops. You had to read charts. And to top it all off, you had to have a good sense of humor, because she had these comedy bits in the show and she liked to include the band.”

A more relaxed collaboration with Stevie Nicks – “a girl who’s 100-percent rhythm; a total joy to be around” – led to Castro joining Fleetwood Mac on their massively successful reunion tour, The Dance. “Stevie suggested me to Mick Fleetwood, who welcomed me with open arms. A few weeks before the tour, Mick and I got together in a room, and we just locked. You know, you have your technicians, your Vinnie Colaiutas and people like that, but when it comes down to just laying down a big fat 2 and 4, Mick finds that pocket like nobody else. And the things he does on the hi-hat … the guy has nuances for days.”

Fountain Of Youth. Of all the acts Castro has performed with over the years, perhaps none seems more anachronistic than the youthful prog-rock outfit, The Mars Volta. But the veteran percussionist feels perfectly at home with the frenzied concept kings. “Oh, man, Cedric [Bixler-Zavala] and Omar [Rodriquez-Lopez] are my boys! Talk about high energy. I have to work out for a whole week before I play with them. But I love running with the young guys; it keeps me on my toes. What’s funny is, as intense as their music is, they hear the room for different kinds of percussion. They like nuances and different shades. Without generalizing, I think it’s because of their Latin heritage: Percussion is in their blood.”

Castro credits his metalhead son with keeping him up to speed with some of the more current acts on the scene. Bonding together at Slipknot concerts might not be every father’s dream, but to Castro, “It’s the coolest thing ever. My son has turned me on to so many cool groups. Mastodon – my God, those guys are off the hook with their riffs and their crazy lyrics. I might have to work out for a month, but I’ll tell you, I’m putting the word out right now to those guys: Give me a call. I can add some cool stuff to what you do!”

And what if he was asked to join Mastodon? “That’d be okay,” says Castro, laughing. “They’re definitely nuts!”

Castro’s Setup

DRUMS LP
1. 12.5" x 25" Djembe (Original African)
2. 11" x 30" Classic Quinto
3. 11" x 30" Classic Quinto
4. 11.75" x 30" Classic Conga
5. 11.75" x 30" Classic Conga
6. 12.5" x 30" Classic Tumba
7. 12.5" x 30" Classic Tumba
8. 7.25" Classic Bongo
9. 8.625" Classic Bongo
10. 14" Tito Puente Timbale (chrome)
11. 15" Tito Puente Timbale (chrome)
12. Hi-Lo Cowbell

PERCUSSION
A. SpectraSound Mark Tree
B. Caroll Music Bell Tree
C. Ludwig Vintage Tambourine
D. Vaughncraft Woodblock
E. Homemade Shaker

CYMBALS Paiste
F. 15" Crash
G. 14" China

Lenny Castro also uses Remo drumheads, and Rhythm Tech shakers.

The Ray Barretto Story

By Robert Doerschuk Originally published in the June 2006 issue of DRUM! Magazine

It’s a little too easy to paint Ray Barretto in shadows. He was, by some reports, not the easiest guy to get along with. Especially in his later years, he could be prickly with associates or even with members of his audience. He may have at times felt cut off from at least some of his colleagues, who perhaps didn’t appreciate what they saw as his deviations from the Latin music canon. Worse than that, there were family problems – and worse still, even with his devotion to jazz, his favorite music above all, and his vast catalog of performances and recordings with respected jazz artists, he never felt like that community had accepted him fully as one of their own.

At least that’s how it seemed until the very end, literally the last hours of his life, on January 13, 2006, when Barretto stood on a stage in New York City and accepted the National Endowment For The Arts’ honors as a Jazz Master – the highest distinction a practitioner of jazz can attain from America’s cultural establishment.

With his fellow recipients Tony Bennett and Chick Corea standing nearby, Barretto took in the applause from the dignitaries and musicians gathered for the event. And then he responded with a statement he had prepared in advance: “To receive this honor is the gift of a lifetime. Jazz has been my spiritual babysitter since my youth in Harlem and the Bronx, and I’ve spent my career trying to give something back. With gratitude and respect to everyone at the National Endowment For The Arts, please allow me to consider myself, still, a jazz student.”

Maybe he had written this out a few days earlier, but in truth Barretto had spent a lifetime anticipating this moment. Latin musical culture, particularly in New York, has long ties to jazz, going back to before Barretto’s arrival. The salsa explosion of the ’80s rode on a chorus of trumpets echoing Dizzy Gillespie and pianists voicing harmonies as advanced as anything Bill Evans ever laid down. But it wasn’t always easy to notice these connections behind the firestorms of rhythm ignited by the front line: the timbales, the congas, and the bongos.

Barretto benefited from his identity as a Latin musician, yet his heart was always in jazz. As a result, there was enormous diversity in his work, which stretched from Puerto Rican dance band genres through R&B and, briefly, psychedelic rock all the way to bebop. Most often there were elements of each in the explorations he led with his various ensembles, in particular his last one, New World Spirit. But as the NEA confirmed early this year, Barretto was first and foremost a jazz artist who played Latin percussion, which made him unique and, until his last days, maybe a little lonely as well.

Sadly, this moment of redemption preceded a rapid denouement. Just one day after being anointed by the NEA, Barretto suffered a heart attack. Rushed to Hackensack University’s Medical Center in New Jersey, he received treatment for pneumonia and, shortly, quadruple bypass heart surgery. Complications set in, aggravated by his asthma, and on February 17, at 5:00 in the morning, the great conguero’s story came to its end.

It had begun 76 years before, on April 29, 1929, with Barretto’s birth in Brooklyn. His mother played recordings of Puerto Rican music at home, but Ray, like his brother and sister, felt a stronger pull to the big band jazz that dominated local radio at the time. At age 17, he enlisted in the Army and shipped out to Munich, Germany. There he found a club, the Orlando, and began sitting in on jam sessions. He had to build his own drum, essentially a banjo with the strings removed, which only emphasized how anomalous the idea of playing percussion in a jazz setting was at the time.

But then Dizzy Gillespie came to town. At that time, the great trumpeter was drawing heavily from Afro-Cuban music and blowing over a rhythm section that he’d built around Cuban percussionist Chano Ponzo. Gillespie’s appearance was all it took to convince Barretto that the idea of transplanting Latin percussion into a jazz context was viable after all. By the time his tour was up, he was eager to lead the way.

His first gigs back in New York were with Latin bands led by Eddie Bonnemere and José Curbelo. But then, one night in the early ’50s, after Barretto had wrapped up a gig at the Apollo Theater, Charlie Parker suddenly appeared and invited the young percussionist to sit in on his set. They played together at the Apollo that night and for several days after that; given Parker’s already iconic status, this was the greatest possible confirmation of Barretto’s arrival.

In 1957, when Mongo Santamaría left Tito Puente’s band, Barretto took his place. While gigging and recording with the great timbalero, he worked exhaustively to establish a beachhead in the jazz world. Some of the earliest of these dates were with the pianist Red Garland, whose trio Barretto first supplemented on two sessions in 1958, for the albums Manteca and Rojo. These performances forecast the challenges that Barretto would face on his jazz odyssey: His ability to complement the drummer, without getting in his way, is evident, and his swing feel can’t be denied. Yet Garland uses the congas only on the up tunes; in fact, he speeds up ballads like “Darling Je Vous Aime Beaucoup” and “Mr. Wonderful,” no doubt reasoning that percussion has no place at slower tempos. And, truth be told, if the congas were erased from these tracks, the drums, with their idiomatic post-bop approach of active ride cymbal and occasional left-hand accents, would certainly have gotten the job done on their own.

This, then, was Barretto’s dilemma: The congas, coupled with traps, would inevitably sweeten rather than drive the engine of the groove in a jazz context. To stay out of the drummer’s way, he tended to simplify, often playing little more than a high slap on the second beat and two lower hits answering as eighth-notes on the fourth beat of each bar. It did swing, but on his sessions with Gene Ammons, Kenny Burrell, Wes Montgomery, and other jazz headliners, the irony was that he usually did so by laying down a pattern that allowed the other musicians, including the drummer, more room to stretch.

It was, in other words, the antithesis of what drew Barretto to jazz in the first place: freedom, interactivity, spontaneity.

The irony continues in the fact that, from his first album as a leader – Pachanga With Barretto, a charanga project in 1961 – through his final recordings, he found these qualities more in Latin than jazz settings. Partly this owed to his experiments at enhancing the genre with jazz as well as R&B influences. These efforts earned him commercial success, beginning with “El Watusi,” which became the first Latin single to break into the Billboard Top 20 and eventually earn gold status. But his creative breakthrough was probably Acid, released in 1967. Despite the title’s trippy implications, these performances evoke street intensity more than spaced-out grooviness. On the Stax-oriented numbers, such as “A Deeper Shade Of Soul,” he even restructures the feel created by Al Jackson Jr. without a trap set in sight; it works, too, though with enough air between the congas, timbales, and tambourine to allow room for a drummer to join the fun.

Acid was the first of a series of LPs involving Barretto on the Fania label. Most of them were credited to the Fania All-Stars, which was exactly what the name says: an assembly of legends in Latin music, including Willie Colón, Rubén Blades, Celia Cruz, and Johnny Pacheco, recognized now as the band that launched the salsa music craze. Fans and musicians still remember their concerts; one, at Yankee Stadium, peaked with Barretto and Mongo Santamaría locked in a percussion battle on “Congo Bongo” that whipped the crowd into a frenzy that hastened an early end to the show. But even though he would cross paths with most of the group’s members in years to come – most memorably with Cruz, with whom he would share a Grammy for their performance on “Ritmo En El Corazón” in 1989 – Barretto would sometimes seem to resent their impact on reinforcing the perception that he was fundamentally a Latin, rather than a jazz, artist after all. To one interviewer he would grumble, “Playing with the Fania All-Stars was as much about showbiz as it was about playing music.”

Writer Carol Amoruso captures this ambivalence in her description of a Barretto performance, posted at imdiversity.com: “The boys from the barrio … were out to boogie, but Ray was out to uplift them with new sounds. They were not about to hear it and called up to the bandstand, letting him know they wouldn’t be happy until he brought back the Fania days … Ray was not about to comply. The sultry air got thicker … until Ray got up and called to his band to quit the stage. Something or someone moved him back behind his drums again and, perfunctorily, he gave us another 20 minutes. When he’d been done, he didn’t go away mad, he just stood up and went away.”

Salsa diehards weren’t any happier as Barretto moved back toward jazz through the ’80s and ’90s. Typical was an exchange at Mr. E’s, a venue owned by the great West Coast timbalero Pete Escovedo in Berkeley, California, one night in the ’90s. Midway through the evening, a member of the audience, impatient with the genre-hopping of Barretto’s New World Spirit band, started shouting his objections and demanding that they dust off some salsa standards instead. Barretto gave no ground: He and the customer exchanged heated words for a while, until the set resumed in the same progressive vein in which it had begun.

Through stubbornness, determination, refusal to compromise, and above all his supreme gifts as a player and bandleader, Barretto was able to achieve his dreams over these past several years. His 2004 album Time Was – Time Is stands as his most complete synthesis of aesthetics; the horns play over a wide emotional range beyond the razzle-dazzle of salsa solos, the piano comps on chords with only an occasional montuno moment, and the rhythm balances perfectly between modern, Elvin-oriented drive and Latin simmer. For all that he had accomplished up to this point, this was the CD that Barretto had imagined and pursued and finally captured throughout most of his journey.

With that journey’s end earlier this year, the factions that had debated his merits came together at last. Family, friends, politicians, Randy Weston, Bobby Sanabria, and other musicians, many carrying their instruments, sent him off in New York at the Riverside Memorial Chapel; two conga drums, and two floral sculptures of congas, stood near his casket. In the old district of San Juan, a group of Puerto Rican congueros regaled thousands of dancers at a memorial service. On the West Coast, the respected percussionist and educator John Santos cited the “great strength” and “giant love” in writing a personal farewell to the master.

And amid the festivities and eulogies and stories shared by those who knew and respected Barretto, that gap he had tried through his life to close, between his heritage and his true music, narrowed a little more, almost without anyone noticing.

Joe Lovano Remembers A Friend

Joe Lovano stands in the front line of great modern jazz tenor saxophonists. His credits include a three-year run with Woody Herman, followed by gigs and/or sessions with Elvin Jones, Charlie Haden, Paul Motian, and for the past 15 years as leader of his own groups. He has won a Grammy Award and been honored as “Musician Of The Year” by Downbeat magazine.

“I first heard Ray on record, especially with Gene Ammons, when I was a kid. We met at the Heineken Jazz Festival in Puerto Rico. I was there with my quartet and he was there with his band, and I ended up sitting in on some of his set. It was a thrill when he called me to participate in a recording session with his group, the World Spirit Band, on Portraits In Jazz And Clavé. Some friends of mine were in that band, like Mike Mossman, Adam Colker, and John Di Martino. Bobby Sanabria played percussion along with Ray, and Vince Cherico played drums.

“I played live with his band on most of his stuff, but on a few tracks I dubbed my part over music they’d already laid down. Kenny Burrell played live with the band on those, and they left some spaces for me to play within those charts. But Ray played along with me along with the tracks, so it wasn’t like I was overdubbing by myself. Instead, we had a great interplay, and you can hear it in what both of us were laying down.

“Ray always thought of himself as a jazz musician. He used to say that he didn’t play Latin jazz, he played jazz Latin. That was his approach especially when he worked with jazz players. He was in a lot of groups led by jazz musicians, before he emerged as a leader himself, and he embraced that whole Art Blakey tradition of leading a band from the drum chair. Playing with bands whose leaders are in different positions taught me a lot about how to compose and put music together based on the attitudes of different places in a band. They get other kinds of insights, which can make magic happen in their group – and Ray had that. He knew a lot about how to put things together as a leader. He was especially good at playing with other drummers without getting in their way. He could make himself part of the drummer’s concept without standing out by himself. A lot of the music he cut with Gene Ammons or Lou Donaldson, some people might think he was doing a simple, minimal part, but it added so much to the groove. He had a special way of turning trio and quartet performances into a quintet sound.

“Ray was an improviser. He didn’t want to play just for dances or parties. Most of the famous Latin bands, like Tito Puente, played for dancers. Ray came up in a different environment through playing in jazz clubs – real listening rooms. So he led concert-type bands. I’m sure he played for hundreds or thousands of dances too – we all did – but as the leader he focused on playing with a concert attitude, whether it was in a club or not. He played to play, like the Jazz Messengers. That also shaped his career. Maybe he didn’t get into the limelight like a lot of people did, but everybody knew the beauty in his music. He was powerful, too. He had an incredible sound onstage; it was the focus of everything that went on in his band. But he wasn’t a showboat. A lot of cats are showboats when they hit the spotlight. They might be playing great things, but they’d be jumping all over the place and playing by themselves. He had his moments, but especially in those early sessions he was the consummate rhythm-section player.

“I never went on the road or hung that much with Ray, but being around him was a joy. He had a beautiful spirit.”

Mr. Hard Hands’ Grooves

Ray Barretto was tagged “Mr. Hard Hands” because of the rich, cutting tone he gained by spanking his congas like no other conguero of his time. The inimitable sonic pioneer of the tumbadoras had many songs of commercial success in both American popular music and salsa, even though his heart and soul was that of a jazz man.

Barretto’s crossover mega-hit was El Watusi (1962), which was recorded as a pachanga dance style that was trendy in the early ’60s. He never thought much of the record musically but enjoyed the recognition and fame. Nevertheless, Barretto’s fundamental conga rhythm drives the tune in a way that only Mr. Hard Hands could (Ex. 1).

A pioneer of salsa music, Barretto was a member of the famous Fania All-Stars for three decades. Toward the end of his salsa career, he recorded the album Ritmo En El Corazon with the late “Queen of Salsa,” Celia Cruz, earning a Grammy award in 1990. On the title track’s conga rhythm, Ray drops the last conga tone on the final bar of each musical phrase to very musically set up the next section (Ex. 2).

His last solo studio record, Time Was – Time Is, is all about Barretto’s jazz side featuring his sextet. The African-based 6/8 groove on “Motherless Child” (Ex. 3) complements the haunting trumpet lead by displacing the conga open tone on beat 6.

Barretto’s recordings as a sideman and solo artist number in the hundreds, and these three examples simply represent moments in time of his rich musical history. If you are a conga player, or an aficionado of Latin and jazz music, you owe it to yourself to seek out the recordings of Ray Barretto.

Guiro Grooving

By Richie “Gajate” Garcia Published in the February 2006 issue of DRUM!

This month we are going to look at some widely used guiro patterns that should become part of your percussion vocabulary. Ex. 1 is a medium-tempo cha-cha-chá. Ex. 2 is a fast-tempo charanga. Ex. 3 is a slow-tempo dannón. Practice the faster patterns slowly at first, gradually bringing up the tempo when you feel comfortable.

Guiro Grooving Exercises

DRUM! Notation Guide

Richie “Gajate” Garcia has played with Phil Collins, Diana Ross, Hiroshima, and John Denver, recorded movie soundtracks, taught at Musician’s Institute for more than ten years, and performs clinics worldwide.

Irizarry Takes The Show On The Road

By Andy Doerschuk Published July 20, 2009

It's a summer of reunions, and one of the most hotly anticipated will be when timbalero Ralph Irizarry takes the stage with his former bandmates from the '80s outfit, the Seis Del Solar band, including Latin music star Ruben Blades. The reunited band will also include Robby Ameen on traps; Oscar Hernandez on keys; Richie Marrero on keys, vibraphone, and percussion; Eddy Montalvo on trombone, tumbadora and percussion; bonguero Louis Rivera; and Mike Vinas on acoustic and electric guitar and banjo.

In a preview from the upcoming interview slated for the October 2009 issue of DRUM! Magazine, Irizarry told writer J. Poet, "Seis de Solar was the most innovative project I¹ve ever been involved with. When the band was formed in 1983, we had a series of meetings before we played one note of music. We discussed what we wanted to wear, what we wanted to get paid, what we wanted to play, and how we were going to play it." You don't want to miss this exclusive hand-drumming feature. Subscribe to DRUM! today.

Hailed as one of the brightest stars in Latin music, Irizarry has performed and recorded with many of the most renowned and respected musicians in the world, including Ray Barretto, Harry Belafonte, Celia Cruz, Paquito D’Rivera, Wynton Marsalis and Paul Simon. Irizarry. Irizarry’s own group, Son Café, is based in New York City.

On the road, Irizarry will play Ralph Irizarry Signature Series timbales (pictured above), which were designed in conjunction with the master drum crafters at Tycoon Percussion. The 14" and 15" Signature timbales provide the sound and power of high-quality, stainless steel shells and heavy-gauge, die-cast counterhoops finished in a durable, black gloss.

Gon Bops California Series Bongo Trio

By Gary Gardner
Originally Published in DRUM! Magazine's July 2009 Issue

Since 1954, Gon Bops Latin percussion instruments have served as a conduit for all manner of Latin rhythms, often at the hands of some of the world’s leading percussionists, such as Mongo Santamaria, Francisco Aguabella, Armando Peraza, and Poncho Sanchez. With such an impressive artist roster reaching back more than a half a century, it should come as no surprise that the company’s ability to build on tradition with top-quality craftsmanship and innovation remains its strongest selling point for beginners and pros alike. New bongos are one thing, but keeping up with the ever-demanding and ever-changing needs of today’s players, Gon Bops has just unveiled a little extra spice to give your bongo setup a whole new flavor: a bass bongo, fitted with snares. It’s a fresh idea that sits easily in the company of tradition — the exact opposite of gimmick. This is the kind of thing that’s kept the Gon Bops brand viable for so many years and in the hands of true players of every age and experience level.

Cali Construction

The California series bongos are made from Appalachian red oak. The drums have a special bearing edge for added clarity and attack. The Cali shells have tuning rods that are spaced wider apart than normal for a more comfortable experience when playing seated. The set I was playing came outfitted with synthetic Remo NuSkyn heads that sounded great. The drums crank up nicely and put out some awesome tones. The 7"-diameter macho drum really pops, and slaps crackle with intensity. The 8.5"-diameter Embra bongo has nice sustain and a rich, warm tonality that complements the Macho. The Contour Crown hoops make slaps and open tones a cinch to play — and utterly painless. No more hand fatigue, and no more compromising sound to avoid it. The contoured hoops also aid in tuning by making it easier to balance the heads. Synthetic heads don’t react to changes in the weather, so once you set ’em they’re good to go for a while.

An Odd Companion

The California series Bass bongo is a unique and exclusive partner to the bongos from the same series. At 9.75" in diameter, it is considerably larger than the other drums. Also fitted with the Contour Crown hoops and synthetic head, this bongo has a surprise inside. Gon Bops has taken the old-school, knob-operated internal snare drum dampening felt (popular on pre-1970s snare drums) and replaced it with a short snare attachment with which you can tighten or loosen the snares simply by changing the pressure of this attachment against the bottom of the head.

With the snares off you just have a plain Bass bongo. Snares on and the Bass bongo shines, or buzzes, with articulate slaps and humming open tones. Dynamics are easy and the larger playing surface lets you really dig in, similar to a conga.

The bass bongo attaches to the DW 9401 bongo stand via the included DW TB12 tom mount. The problem with mounting the bongo this way is that it doesn’t allow for a lot of maneuvering, and when you play hard the drum tends to slip on the tom mount. A couple of times I had to stop playing to prevent the bass bongo from tilting too far on its side. I’m sure with a bit more refinement this problem can be resolved.

A Stand-Up Stand

The 9401 bongo stand, which is sold separately, is a hefty piece of hardware designed to hold a set of bongos stable and allow no interruption in sound. Without having to be bolted or clamped, the drums sit securely on rubber “feet.” Putting your California bongos on the stand is as simple as sliding them onto and up against the 90 degree “L” shaped rubber feet. The bass bongo slides onto the tom mount post and, voila! You’re done. Because the drums sit free and unchoked you get the best sound from the shells.

Out And About

I’ll tell you up front that hauling the California series bongo trio setup around town is, to say the least, a workout. There is relief, though, in knowing once you’re at your gig it’s just a few minutes to set up before you’re on your way to some serious grooves. As far as bongos go, the California series sound great — wonderful projection with awesome tonality. Add the bass bongo and a whole new world of possibility has opened up.

With the addition of the bass bongo I was able to stretch the timbres offered by only a traditional set of bongos into some surprising new territory. The bass bongo really cracks through the ensemble with a voice of its own. I especially liked having the snare sound. It confidently separates the bass bongo from the other drums and allows for greater utilization of dynamics. Really, it just sounds cool. I do wish the trio setup was a little more accommodating for players like me, who want to stand up and play. I did put the top portion of the bongo stand in a regular cymbal stand base, but gravity was not so kind with all that weight of the bass bongo out front — tenuous at best.

DETAILS

Shells California series shells have solid-stave construction made from air-dried quarter-sawn Appalachian red oak.
Configuration Macho (7") and Embra (8.5"), with Bass Bongo (9.75") and attached DW TB12 tom mount.
Features Natural or Mahogany satin oil finishes, Remo NuSkyn heads, Gon Bops Contour Crown hoops.
Model & Price
California Bongos - $880
Bass Bongo - $466.99
Dog Biscuit - $49.99
9401 Bongo Stand - $228.99
Contact Drum Workshop, Inc. gonbops.com

VERDICT

Gon Bops California series bongos are top notch. At just under $1,000 these bongos sing a sweet song at a pretty sweet price considering what you get. If you can afford the bling, let it sing. Anyway, the bass bongo is a cool idea that I believe still needs a tad more refinement in its setup. And while the trio was a lot of fun to play, the attachment setup is a little awkward and the stand is really heavy. The bass bongo’s tendency to slip out of position during heavy play could be a problem during a performance. All in all, though, the bass bongo is a great idea that pairs beautifully with the traditional excellence of the California series bongos.

Video Lesson: Clave & Cascara

By Richie “Gajate” Garcia Originally published in the April 2009 issue of DRUM!

Here are two patterns that go great together. The patterns will change hands in the second measure of each example.

First, set up any three or four instruments, such as three congas or a set of timbales with a Jam Block and cowbell. In this case, play the right hand on the mambo bell and the left hand on the large drum. Switch the left hand to the jam block and the right hand to the small or high-pitched drum on the second bar. Repeat back and forth.

Remo Ergo-Drum System Dumbek

By Gary Gardner Originally published in the February 2007 issue of DRUM!

Believe it or not, the dumbek was once thought of as the bottom of the food chain in Middle Eastern music. But that, fortunately, is in the past, and the dumbek has ascended to its rightful status as a hipster piece of percussion. Even better news, Remo has now given this wonderful instrument a face-lift and an upgrade. Visually stunning, each Ergo-Drum System dumbek is a powerhouse of intelligent design and rhythmic flavors.

OUT OF THE BOX

Modeled after traditional Middle Eastern designs, the contoured Ergo-Drum System features light-weight Acousticon shells, which are a pleasure to carry around, particularly on the bigger drums during extended jams. The dumbeks’ ergonomic counterhoop and bearing edge, along with the recessed key-tuned system, are also huge performance boons – no more hurt and broken hands. The drums’ flared end helps you maintain a comfortable playing position at all times, and if you want to play one of the dumbeks in your lap, you don’t have to worry about the drum slipping off.

The drums are available in three visually striking coverings – Sapphire Ruby, Amethyst Citrine, and Emerald Garnet. The finishes have a cool sparkle and colorful tile-like design that is both unique and fitting for the contemporary percussion player. Real beauties. So if you’re a gigging du’er, you’ll definitely want to invest in some protection.

HEADS UP

Traditionally, many dumbeks have used fish-skin heads. Directly affected by weather, however, these heads were difficult and unpredictable to tune. (If any of you stick swingers remember playing calfskin heads, you know what I’m talking about.) The Ergo-Drum system, though, features Remo’s wonderful, brand-spanking-new Skyndeep graphic drumhead, which is synthetic and uses a proprietary ink-embedding process for the graphic. Rising or falling temperatures? Outdoor gigs? No problem for the Skyndeep. Cranking up the head was fairly simple and produced some outstanding slaps. The bass tone didn’t change all that much and never sounded choked off or distorted.

DUING IT

The name dumbek is derived from the instrument’s two pitches – doum (or dum) for the open tone and bek for the slap. And let me tell you that the drums whip out a whole lot of both. With the 8" drum you can achieve a big sound without compromising the high-pitch slaps and pops most commonly associated with Middle Eastern percussion. Bass tones from the 9" dumbek were also deep and full, while slaps and pops were crisp and tight. I tested the sustainability of the bass tones by cranking up the tuning a good bit. At a certain point, the bottom end was a little thin but not terribly so. Finger snaps and slaps cut through at both ends of the tuning spectrum.

The largest drum, 10" in diameter, really projects and has a terrific bass tone with great sustain. Just like on the smaller drums, slaps just pop out effortlessly. This is in part, I believe, because of the comfortable Ergo design and posture of the drum. I took advantage of the accompanying 5/32" nylon chord, which is used to extend the tuning range, as I put the dumbek through its paces. The nylon chord adds a pretty hip way to adjust the drum’s pitch range higher without having the drumhead protrude past the counterhoop. All you have to do is remove the counterhoop, lay the chord directly on and around the drumhead, replace the counterhoop, and then tighten normally. The drumhead stays flush with the counterhoop and therefore maintains a flat playing surface. After a certain point, though, the drum did not get any higher in pitch and began to choke the bottom end.

ON THE JOB

I took a couple of the drums for a real-world test drive. The gig was in a venue with lots of high ceilings, and the small ensemble included piano, flute, clarinet, and cello. During the concert, the dumbeks provided solid and full rhythmic support. I could hear every little nuance – from the softest pops to the long sustain of the open bass tones. With no amplification at all, the dumbeks cut through perfectly, and the balance between the instruments was wonderful. Tuning on the fly, however, was difficult because the ratchet end of the two-piece tuning key kept coming off the handle, leaving the end piece stuck in the drum. But that’s a small complaint when you consider that the drums added such a beautiful color and flare to the music.

How to wrap up my experience playing Remo’s Ergo-Drum System dumbeks? I simply have to give praise. The drums live up to traditional values but also seamlessly incorporate modern technology without sacrificing sound or feel. All three sizes perform excellently and look fantastic. So I’ll leave it up to you to decide which one to fall in love with.

Model
Remo Ergo-Drum System Dumbek

Features
Acousticon shell, ergonomic counterhoop, Skyndeep drumhead (with “Fish Skin” graphic), two-piece tuning key

Available Finishes
Sapphire Ruby, Amethyst Citrine, and Emerald Garnet

Price
8" x 18" $195
9" x 18" $205
10" x 18" $215

Contact
Remo, 28101 Industry Dr.
Valencia, CA 91355.
800-525-5134.
remo.com

LP Signature Percussion

Raul Rekow And Giovanni Hidalgo

BY Brad Ranola

It’s no secret that LP works with some of the best players in the industry, so whenever the company releases new signature products, I’m always intrigued (and, to be honest with you, I’m also hoping my UPS guy will show up with a box or two … or three). The latest bunch of signature bangables from the LP folks includes a set of Raul Rekow drums, Giovanni Hidalgo’s Compact bongos with stand, and a new mounting system for their larger siblings, the Compact congas.

Rekow’s Congas and Bongos

If you’re at all familiar with Raul Rekow, you know that he’s not only an incredible player but also an incredible showman. And the perfect match for his energetic performance style is the not-so-subtle finish on his new set of drums. The three congas and set of bongos come wrapped in a Tiger Print finish with gold glitter accents; even the lugs and rims are outfitted in gold. Sound bold to you? Well, as I pulled the drums out, each individual piece drew some vastly mixed reactions and comments from my bandmates. It wasn’t until I got the complete set of drums next to each other and I stood back that it sunk in: These instruments definitely look good onstage. Up close, the finish can be a bit much for those used to seeing plain-Jane, natural-wood congas. But from a distance, the finish really becomes fetching. And dare I say that the tiger stripes even manage to enhance the sexy shape of a conga shell? (Yeah, you know congas are sexy.)

The shape and construction of the congas appear to be the same as what we all know as the LP Classic series drum. The 30" tall, 3-ply wood shells come with Comfort Curve II rims, hand-selected rawhide heads, heavy-duty 5/16" lugs, and the familiar LP triangular lug plates. A carrying handle and a special badge sporting Raul Rekow’s name top off the drums. The conga sizes in this series are standard – 11" quinto, 11.75" conga, and 12.5" tumba. The bongo diameters measure in at 7-1/4" and 8-5/8" with a depth of about 6.5". These drums also had the same high-quality lugs, heads, and Comfort Curve II hoops as the congas, and I give bonus points for the nearly invisible shell protectors that keep these tigers’ coats scratch-free.

The sound of the drums is very identifiable and totally LP – the perfect blend of crisp highs and deep bass tones. The congas had plenty of volume and sustain to keep up with any live performance situation, and the bongos were all poppin’ as expected.

Giovanni’s Compact Bongos

I know what you’re thinking, “Compact bongos? Do we really need to make bongos any more compact?” That’s what I thought too at first, but playing these great little guys made me a believer.

First off, these drums are just about impossible to play seated without a stand, so they come with the top half of a mounting system that can be clamped to almost any existing piece of drum hardware (a complete stand is optional and sold separately). As a regular-old set of bongos, they are still valid instruments, producing all the sounds of a traditional set, except with a little less body on the hembra [the large head] when played with your hands. But that doesn’t matter when you’re playing them with sticks! They have synthetic heads that you won’t mind whacking with wood, and because the bongos are only about 2" deep and stand mounted, even a prog player can find room for a pair in a cramped 15-piece kit.

I brought the bongos to a gig, and I found that the shallow depth allowed me to mount them just below my main crash and overlapping my first rack tom. The music on the gig was timba fused with Latin funk, and as a drum set is an integral part of this style of music, I planned on playing the bongos just a little to fill in parts behind piano solos and in percussion breaks. I actually surprised myself, though, with the musical mileage I got out of the lil’ guys. In the second tune, there was a drum-set solo that nearly ended up becoming a Compact bongo solo. Just one stick smack on the Compacts, and I was hooked. They sounded great, and they were frickin’ loud! I was poppin’ slaps (otherwise known as “rimshots” for you stick people) that I thought must have done some damage to the drums, but after the gig, aside from some stick marks on the heads, there was no evidence of them having been beaten with a set of 5As.

So are the Compact bongos any more compact than regular bongos? Well, not in a literal sense, but being able to throw the mount in with your hardware and throw the bongos in your cymbal bag is pretty dang cool. Plus, these bongos are tuned with a standard drum key. That means no extra tools to bring to a gig.

the solution

If you’ve read my past review of the Giovanni Compact congas (see the April/May 2004 issue), you already know how much I love them. But when LP asked players just to mount both drums on snare stands, I wondered if lugging that setup to gigs was really any more convenient than carrying full-sized congas. But now LP has developed a mount to cradle both the 11" and the 11.75" drums, and all I can say is, “Thank you!” The whole assembly consists of a very sturdy clamp mount that attaches to an existing stand and two three-armed baskets with rubber tips to cradle your drums. The piece bolts together and has two mounting options – one for tilted and one for flat playing positions. It takes a few minutes to put together, but hey, you only have to do it once. The unit doesn’t fold for storage or transport, but that’s okay because it’s just as flat as the drums.

DETAILS

LP Raul Rekow SignatureSeries Congas & Bongos

Sizes/Prices

11" Quinto $529

11.75" Conga $539

12.5" Tumba $558

7-1/4" & 8-5/8" Bongos $299

Features

• Tiger Print finish, 5/16" lugs
• 3-ply wooden shells
• Comfort Curve II rims
• Hand-selected rawhide heads

LP Giovanni Compact Bongos and Compact Conga Mounting System

Type/Prices

Giovanni Compact Bongos

(w/ Top Post) $349

Compact Bongo Stand $99

Compact Conga Mounting System $149

LP 160 Belmont Ave., Garfield, NJ 07026. 973-478-6903. http://www.lpmusic.com

VERDICT

A lot of new percussion products are introduced every year, but with eye-grabbing finishes like Tiger Print and innovative offerings like the Giovanni Compact congas and bongos, LP still stands out from the crowd.

Pete Lockett : Crossing The Great Divide

by Ian Croft

The view from Pete Lockett’s North London top-floor flat is as cinematic and epic as his musical biography. Climbing up the curving flight of stairs to his residence bears testimony to his hectic schedule. Like ancient wall paintings, the many scuffmarks along the walls tally his numerous trips up and down carting a vast array of percussion instruments, and demonstrate the constant demand for his musical expertise.

At the age of 45, Lockett boasts a résumé that stretches to many, many pages, and involves a cross section of artists that reads like a who’s who of popular music. Whether he is at Ronnie Scott’s with Steve Smith’s Vital Information, performing with Shakti’s U Shrinivas, or producing and recording with Zawinul’s Amit Chatterjee, Lockett is a musical chameleon of enormous proportions. Peter Gabriel, Robert Plant, and Jeff Beck have all called upon Lockett’s unique percussive ways, as has The Verve, Amy Winehouse, and even the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra — and we’re just scratching the surface of the broad array of artists expressing a desire to have Lockett’s percussive imprint grace their work.

Drums and percussion came quite late in life for the former Portsmouth dockworker, who at the age of 19 took a walk along the streets of Fratton on his lunch break only to notice an ad in the window of the local drum store — “Drum Lessons” is all it said. Lockett ventured inside, had a chat with drum teacher John Hammond, and the following week his life changed — dramatically. “It turned out to be the first thing that made sense to me,” says the philosophical Lockett in his quiet, friendly tone. “Everything that he showed to me, I could do instantly. It was the first time that anything like that had happened to me.”

Immersed In Study

Lockett had never shown any interest in music before that moment, and his family household was virtually devoid of music. “We did have a radio, but there were no records or musical instruments in the house,” he says. “But as soon as I discovered drum lessons, that was it — big time! Two weeks later I joined a punk band. I went from a couple of £5 drum lessons to playing local pubs and clubs overnight.”

Lockett’s first gig was a suitably unusual start for what would prove to be a uniformly unusual musical career. “I replaced a drummer who would get tired halfway through a song and just stop playing. He’d never learned to use the bass drum pedal and only ever played with his hands, so it was an easy gig to step into.” Lockett smiles at the memory. “I used to smash my drums up at the end of every gig. I even ended up in hospital once to get stitches. I was inspired by Keith Moon, and I loved the drums, the excitement, and the energy. It also taught me a lot about drum building as I couldn’t afford to repair mine and had to rebuild them myself.” Lockett’s diverse instrument collection contains a broad assortment of percussive items, some homemade, with many resembling nothing you would have seen before.

As his facility improved, Lockett immersed himself in studying. “At that time everything stopped for me and I practiced constantly.” After two years of continual practice, Lockett made the decision to move to London, despite not knowing a soul there. Times were bleak. “I rented an old concrete store in Finsbury Park in North London that doubled as a bed-sit,” he says. “The place was just full of dust and was very cold. It was very depressing.”

In Search Of The Music

In 1985, a friend invited Lockett to his apartment near Alexander Palace, which was hosting the Festival Of India, where the venue took on the look and sounds of that country. “I could hear this incredible music and wondered, ‘What is that?’” The two took off in search of the music that filtered through the window. “It was a free concert that featured Zakir Hussain, and I’d never seen or heard anything like it!

“I was deeply analytical about drummers and would sit and watch their every move and watch what they’d do. Even though I couldn’t see what they were doing, I could conceptualize what was going on. One might not be able to do it, but you could imagine a practice regime that would take you towards developing that kind of playing. Whereas with tablas there is this massive sound coming out of these tiny little drums and I had no idea how they were played. Listening to a conga or djembe player, you get an idea as to what they are doing. With tabla you can’t even see what is happening, yet they have this massive sound, this whole tonal spectrum coming from these small drums. Again, it was this and the lyricism that attracted me to them.”

Lockett then noticed an advertisement for tabla lessons, and once again, that was it. “Yousuf Ali Khan was teaching the course, and he gave me free lessons. That was the start of my interest in Indian music. Originally, I thought that it would complement my drum set playing, but I got totally obsessed by it. I stopped playing in bands and just studied solidly for six years, firstly with Yousuf and then South Indian music with Karakudi Krishnamurthy.”

University Of Life

Lockett was determined to make a career in music and wasn’t going to work a daytime gig. “I didn’t go to university, so studying with these great Indian players was my university.”

He took the most logical step and began to teach drums. “The first thing that teaching taught me was that if someone showed me something, it was embedded for life, but I noticed with some of my students, they’d either forget what I’d shown them, or they weren’t interested. I found this strange, as I was always so hungry to learn. I realized that not everybody wants to learn and there are very few people that have the commitment to get it down. I was shocked.”

Lockett remembers showing one student a straight-eighth groove, then the same groove as a shuffle. “He’d come back and would have learned the shuffle, but had forgotten the straight-eighth version. In the end I told him that he might have to think that this wasn’t going to work out,” Lockett chuckles. “I’d save him from quintuplets!”

A Taste For Diversity

By now, Lockett was listening to all styles of music and took an interest in drummers like Stewart Copeland, Mark Brzezicki, and Steve Gadd. “Chick Corea’s Leprechaun’s Dream was a big influence for me and I’d go and buy a Leo Sayer album just because it had Gadd on it! I also liked Joni Mitchell and her drummers. I’d listen to The Who, or Ravi Shankar, and to some extent that has reflected in the player that I am now, as I don’t put barriers between things. My iPod is highly eclectic.”

Since educational resources for hand drums were practically nonexistent, Lockett relied on his ears and instincts to develop drumming technique. “Now you can get five-camera angle DVDs,” he says. “But back then, starting out playing bongos, I’d never seen anyone play bongos, nor could you find a video that showed you how to do it, so I sat at home and listened to tracks that featured bongos to try and work out what they were doing. I knew a basic martillo pattern and I was lucky in a way, as now I have this weird hybrid bongo style due to trying to discover how it was done.”

Lockett threw himself into studying, and developed unorthodox regimens that depended on patience as much as coordination. “Even when I first started, I always — and still do — have this practice routine where I’ll have a 30-minute or one-hour session of just playing one thing continually on whatever instrument I’m working on, and every five minutes I move it up by 5 bpm. I found that concentrating upon one thing for that space of time to begin a longer practice session really brings results.

“One problem is that I’ll tour playing tablas for a month and then when I get back I have a session that requires I play another instrument, and I have to quickly re-establish those techniques on that instrument. But playing something really slowly without putting any strain upon yourself for 30 minutes will bring results.”

As much a form of meditation as woodshedding, Lockett’s personal practice time led him into a pursuit of cross-fertilization. “Everything has become hybrid and influenced by everything else, so a lot of the techniques have become interspersed onto different drums. So I might use some of the Indian techniques on the cajon, or darabuka.”

A Musical Flow

Lockett grew consumed by his study of eclectic percussion, burning through hours of practice and piles of money to buy new instruments. “I was fascinated with the technique of how it was done and how the drums produced such an amazing array of sounds,” he says. “I got deeply into the South Indian musical culture and learned the mridangam. I was about to learn the thavil and thought, ‘Actually, I can either learn that drum or get a career.’”

And with that epiphany, he began casting around for work, and finally got a nibble from a rock band called Thunder, who asked him to record on their 1995 release, Behind Closed Doors. “I played tabla, bongos, and lots of various percussion,” he says. “I went into the studio and it was all rigged out with skull and crossbones and all other manner of rock trappings — but as I had long hair, I think I fitted in all right.” Considering that this was the late ’80s, it was fairly adventurous for a rock band to consider adding such unusual instruments as tablas. “I was shocked, as I got paid decent money to do the things that I really wanted to do!”

This early recording experience taught Lockett a valuable lesson. “I always try to approach everything with an open mind and make everything musical rather than trying to impress with a dazzling solo. I make music so that it has some flow to it, rather than a barrage of noise or sounds that are inappropriate.”

Organic Beats

The Thunder sessions brought further visibility to Lockett’s adventurous talents, and led to the opportunity to play on Björk’s 1995 album, Post. “I always say that if you send out a hundred things, expect one phone call back, or two at most,” he says. “Even with a big CV it can be two years before you hear anything. Although I mostly get calls to play percussion, my first instrument was the drum set, so I do have to remind people that I can cover that area too.”

And these days producers also call on Lockett to punch buttons. “I’m currently programming all the percussion for the new Bond movie and I do what I call organic beat programming. It’s not total hardcore electronics, but there’s a lot of electronics and sound design going on. Craig Armstrong asked me to do the programming for the Incredible Hulk movie, and he’s known for a couple of years that I can program.

“You have to be patient. I never hassle people for work because people don’t like being hassled. You make your case, say, ‘This is what I can do. You can listen to it on my site or on the disc that I sent to you,’ and that’s it. Leave it to lie and see what comes back.”

Cowbell Anyone? Success has happened for Lockett organically, and he has worked hard to get where he is. But he believes that his ability to be flexible is equally as important as his finesse as a drummer and programmer. “Sometimes I get asked for something that I think might not suit the tabla, but you have to get to their ideas,” he explains. “I always remain open to what the producer might be asking for, as they obviously want something a little different that can’t be found on a drum sample CD.

“I got a call from Roxy Music’s Phil Manzarena and most of the session was standard stuff and it was going well. And then he wanted me to build another percussion track on junk sounds. We took the light down from the ceiling, the bin from the street came in, the grill from the fire got used, and it was great. Originally, I was thinking that I wasn’t so sure, but it turned out brilliantly. It certainly makes you think how you can use different sounds. Think about instruments such as congas and bongos, they are commonplace in popular music now, whereas 30 years ago they were considered exotic — and it’s the same with tabla. Though that is a harder instrument to learn, you do hear it incorporated more into popular music.”

Going Solo

It seemed as if Lockett had achieved every possible goal that a percussionist could dream of until a promoter asked if he was interested in performing at the Rhythm Sticks Festival of percussion in London. The normally garrulous Lockett found himself at a loss.

“I genuinely did not know what to say and said I’d think about it,” he remembers. “I had not performed solo before so it was a big deal at the time. Right before that call I had been working with Joji Hirota and I thought that we could do a project together that incorporated tabla and taiko drums. I called Joji, we got together, and that was my first sold-out show. The promoter loved it and suddenly we were doing 30-, 40-date tours around Europe. Bill Bruford had come to one of our gigs and I got talking to him and it began the Network Of Sparks project with him.”

During these duo tours Lockett suddenly had to please someone other than a record producer (even worse — his peers!), which once again found him plumbing his inner musicality. “I know that sitting respectfully through a drum clinic can become a little boring if people aren’t playing musically. Whether the audience is all drummers, or simply Bob from up the road, you have to give them something musical to latch onto.”

Tours and sessions continue to introduce the uninitiated to Lockett’s various projects. “I’ve been working with beatboxer Shlomo and we played the Glastonbury festival — it was great. There are great talents in all genres and I try not to pre-conceptualize or be snobbish or judgmental about different styles and players. It helps keep my ears open to different influences, which helps develop my broader eclectic approach, and in turn makes it difficult to categorize what I do. I like that.”

Lockett is excited about his most recent project, which finds the percussionist expanding into an entirely different type of media — print. Hudson Music has just released his long awaited method book, Indian Rhythms For The Drumset. “The book came about over a long period of time,” he says. “I was teaching the South Indian rhythmic system and that became the core of the book. Once I had my approach to the system in place I was able to approach the system in a slightly more abstract way, so that the building blocks could be utilized by all musicians.

“I believe it is a book that will last a long time and is not a moment of fashion that won’t be of interest in five years. I like to give things back. It would be nice if more players did that.”

Pete Lockett Selected Discography

1971 Mainhorse Mainhorse; 1977: Rendezvous Sandy Denny; 1995 Behind Closed Doors Thunder; 1997 Storm Vanessa-Mae; 1998: Tigers Of The Raj James Asher; 1999: Hot Pants Idol David Toop; 1999: Nightlife Pet Shop Boys; 2000: One Pete Lockett’s Network Of Sparks; 2001: Encounter John Palmer; 2002: Bring It Back McAlmont & Butler; 2002: From Around The World Pete Lockett; 2002: Sean-Nós Nua Sinead O'Connor; 2003: Body Music — Nite:Life 015 Chicken Lips; 2003: Seed Afro Celt Sound System; 2003: Sixty-Six To Timbuktu Robert Plant; 2004: Taiko To Tabla Pete Locket & Joji Hirota; 2004: Trouble In Paradise B.J. Cole; 2005: Dakshina Deva Premal; 2006: Autek Parallax Beat Brothers — Pete Lockett & Scanner; 2007: Twisted Artifacts Parallax Beat Brothers — Pete Lockett & Scanner; 2007: Live In Istanbul Pete Lockett; 2007: Vitalization Steve Smith And Vital Information; 2008: Cinema Sonics Doug Wimbish; 2008: Acoustic Revenge Antonio Forcione.

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