Drum Core: Improvisation in Music Education

The beating heart of most of the music most people listen to most of the time is rhythm and groove. In the genres and styles that surround us and absorb us in movies, podcasts, TV shows, sports events, on the radio, in malls and grocery stores, in restaurants, bars, and streamed on the phones of children we teach, that rhythm is played on drums. Specifically, it is played on a drum kit or programmed electronically to sound like a one. The elitist (and largely drum-less) Western Art Music (WAM) tradition propped up by schools and colleges accounted for 1% of the music consumed globally in 2020 and has long been a societal anomaly in the U.S. Some believe classical music is better than other music, as though there were a competition. But all music is made in, for, and by people in specific cultural contexts. It is, therefore, an error to view Western Art Music as ahistorical artistic factotum.

The concert music of eighteenth century Western European bourgeoisie resonates about as much among today’s culturally pluralistic American public school population as any other social norms from that bygone era, like corsets, sleeve ruffles, and dysentery. It is clear, though, that at least 99% of everyone agrees that a compelling, toe-tapping, butt-twerking groove is essential to music they like. Critical theorists might ask whether we genuinely love this music or if we are merely familiar with it. However, historians, ethnomusicologists, and sociomusicologists have pointed for years to the ubiquity of drumming and rhythm in music making practices worldwide. Sure, Haydn wrote some chipper tunes, and Bach’s stunning productivity and consistency of style and output as a jobbing organist are commendable. But apart from, say, an especially vigorous Minuet and Trio, you can’t even dance to most classical music! Rubato is all well and good, but it’s doesn’t help anyone work out harder, wash the dishes with a spring in their step, or lip-sync to Cardi B, Ne-Yo, or Billie Eilish.

The notion that WAM is innately superior to any other music is as untenable as claims that, say, your favorite café serves the best cup of coffee, or that America is the greatest country on earth. My British compatriots like dry, witty humo(u)r and socialized healthcare, while Americans go more for strip malls and low gas prices. Once more, for the people in the back: it’s not a contest. We all like and value different things. Different strokes for different folks, folks.

The persistent primacy of WAM in repertoire and curricula in school is called Eurocentrism. This term seems strangely out of place in a country so patriotic as the United States, whose proud exceptionalism often seems aimed at distinguishing it from old-world ideals. Nonetheless, this centering of a narrow set of marginal musical practices has had the effect, in turn, of marginalizing majority musical styles like hip hop, R’n’B, country, heavy metal, pop, and rock. All these are fundamentally reliant on groove and rhythm, and they have deep roots in North America. It is possible, if a little simplistic, to trace contemporary popular styles back to jazz, which some have identified as the true national music of the United States. Jazz music, and the complex polyrhythms on which it is based, stem in large part from African musical styles that merged with immigrant styles in new world communities among the free and enslaved. Rhythm-based music is America’s music, birthed from Black musical practices and expression. As author, professor, and musician Ed Sarath had noted: Black Music Matters, and it could matter a lot more in schools.

As well as being rooted in rhythm, popular and jazz music are often deeply improvisational, especially for drummers, whose contributions are frequently not written down. Drummers get to create their own parts, usually in their heads. When drum kit charts in jazz and popular styles are written out in Western staff notation, they fail to capture the most essential elements of a rhythm – groove and improvisation – which are necessarily highly unique particular to individuals. Drummers are usually very well aware of their rhythmic heritage and forbears, since so much learning of drums happens aurally and autodidactically, alongside peer learning and mentoring that characterize drummers’ journeys. Professor of American Music, George E. Lewis, calls this consciously historic approach, steeped in tradition and cultural memory, “Afrological”, identifying it not as an ethnic label, but a mode of improvisation rooted in some African cultural practices. Drumming scholars have similarly noted how improvisation is a powerful way to connect present, past, groups, individuals, tradition and invention. Nonetheless, improvised drum music is rarely a feature of curricula or concerts in school music classes.

 

Here is a recent experience of mine:

In a faculty meeting, a senior colleague asserts with increasing vehemence that fluency in Western tonal harmony is a vital attribute for any ethnomusicologist. Despite the current highly visible, university-wide anti-racist initiative, the professor seems blissfully aloof from the notion that their own tradition, as one among many, might be relatively no more important than any other system of understanding organized sound. Other colleagues feverishly text-chat about how privileging this one system highlights the cultural dominance of a singular way of hearing music. I have never been good at speaking up in meetings. I need time to process how I feel and to decide how to respond to this; to what sociologist, Pierre Bourdieu, termed symbolic violence.

I book two hours in the glass-fronted street-level art gallery at Boston University’s College of Fine Arts. Two weeks later I drive to campus and set up my drums in the empty gallery. I improvise for 45 minutes, inspired by hip hop drummers Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson and Lenny “The Ox” Reece. I pay homage to Max Roach, who did more than any drummer to pioneer the drum kit as a solo instrument. I play covers of Roach’s famous solos, “The Drum Also Waltzes” and “Mop Mop” / “For Big Sid”. Roach was a Civil Rights activist who played drums with speeches by his contemporary, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Dr. King earned his doctorate from Boston University. It is my honor today, in a very small way, to pay tribute to the work of two towering figures in American music and culture. I am wearing a charcoal and white pinstripe suit with polished black shoes as an homage their sharp dress, with a Black Lives Matter t-shirt and mask to underline my reason for drumming. 

The symbolic violence of Eurological Eurocentrism is exacted and experienced as real violence. As such it impacts our students. It tells them whose music, traditions, and selves are valued. Drumming today comprises a broad range of practices using acoustic and electronic drums, body percussion, smartphones, tablets, and more. I encourage music teachers to explore improvised drumming with your students. Improvising can be intimidating at first, but in a compassionate, safe space it can be freeing, build community, and bring joy. Collective improvising can lower music makers’ anxieties. They can play “drums” with sticks, hands, thighs, chairs, tabletops, floors, buckets, drums of all shapes and sizes, tablets, beatboxing, and all manner of other sound effects. Grooving together is exhilarating!

Teachers can also introduce students to drummers improvising on YouTube in a range of styles and have students discuss what they see and hear. Have them develop beats using preexisting loops or their own invented patterns in GarageBand, Soundtrap, Groove Pizza, and other apps. Find out who in your classes already plays drums, who make beats, and who beatboxes. Acknowledge the richness of students’ musicking and encourage them to improvise rhythmically together. They don’t even need to perform. Doing music, grooving together is the point. Relish and cherish the vital, physical, emotional, spiritual, ancient, contemporary, magical music of drumming.

Check out the art gallery drum solo here!

Things that Aren’t Really Problems but that Annoy the Hell out of Me

Despite the nation’s hastening descent into the abyss of white supremacist totalitarian fascism, I mostly love living in the United States. My life here is, all things considered, pretty great. I am very fortunate indeed. But there are some things that bother me every single damn day. It’s exhausting living with all of them, so I’ve noted down a handful of my woes in an attempt to purge my mind of the constant raging confusion. Here they are, in no particular order:

When swimming lengths in a pool, why do Americans refer to them as laps? They are not laps. Laps would mean swimming around the pool, like NASCAR drivers or middle-distance runners on tracks. Pools even have lanes demarcating where one should swim, to the other end and back, in straight lines. It’s definitely not a lap pool; if it were, there would be no ropes between the lanes making sure everyone using it has to swim lengths.

Writing the date. This makes literally no sense. The slashes or periods either divide or they do something else. In nearly the entire rest of the world, the system is day [of the] month [of the] year. Here, though, it’s month [in which this is the] day [of the] year. How does it make sense to assign two different purposes to the same punctuation mark in the same context? It’s time to be consistent and logical and not demand of the slash or the period any crazy feats of contortion or contradiction.

Soccer, the world’s most popular sport, is actually called football. See, for instance, FIFA – the Fédération International de Football Association, the world’s leading authority on football. Furthermore, as British jazz legend, Django Bates, notes in the song “Football” on his 2004 album You Live and Learn (Apparently), “you kick the ball with your foot; that’s why they call it football”. 

Why are there no manual transmission cars? I know, I know, I could buy one if I could afford a brand-new special order with a six-month lead time and a massive premium for the privilege of such a specialized boutique request. But what the hell happened to any kind of autonomy as a driver? It’s so bloody boring driving an automatic. I was annoyed enough when all passenger cars started coming with power steering as the default (I can’t feel the road anymore), but to be stripped of my remaining decision-making power as a motorist is as dehumanizing as the stupid back-up camera (and why y’all can’t just call it “reversing”, I don’t know). I get to disengage almost entirely from the driving process now, which surely can’t make me or anyone else any safer. 

Why are people here so frequently obsessed with believing they live in the greatest country on earth, often without having visited any others? Leaving aside the very many reasons why the USA isn’t the greatest country on earth (the bail system, gun deaths, incarceration rates, absence of statutory maternity leave or basic health care, the coffee at Dunkin), who cares? I’m pretty sure no one outside of the USA even knows there’s a competition. Except maybe Putin. Instead of constantly claiming to have already won an imaginary contest no one else is taking part in, could we all just, for a moment, relax? 

Traffic lights. Two problems: 1) they dangle precariously over the middle of intersections; 2) they are commonly 30 feet in the air. The first time I drove in the US, in 2003, I drove right up to a red light, only to find I was in the centre of a four-way intersection. Genius. Stop signs and stop lines here are, sensibly, where you have to actually stop. In Europe, so are the traffic lights. It’s potty to put them anywhere else. And every time I am unfortunate enough to be in the front of a queue (yes, queue) at traffic lights, I have to basically break my neck even to see the lights. Why not put them closer to eye level? I am told it’s because of truck drivers. Well guess what, other countries have lorries (uh huh) as well, and their drivers either peer slightly downwards to view the lights or there are additional, higher lights to enable them to look only straight ahead. My neck hurts.

Election campaign funding. In the 22 years I lived as a registered voter in the UK, no one ever asked me for a political donation, even during the brief time I was a member of the Labour Party. I gave the Joe Biden campaign a handful of dollars a month or two ago, and I now receive at least half a dozen requests every day via text message and email from his campaign or another Democratic senator. It’s all the more annoying because Biden is the most vanilla of candidates. There’s precious little about him to get behind, but I agree with Noam Chomsky’s assessment of the Republican party as the most dangerous organization on the planet for human life, and would happily see almost anyone bar Trump in that office. Also, as a mere permanent resident, I can’t even vote.

Check, check and check (check, tick and cheque). There is a very simple way to distinguish between these three items. A check is a check. It’s what you do when you look at something to make sure everything is hopefully ok. A tick is the thing that goes in a box to say you agree with the terms and conditions or that the student got the answer generally right. A cheque is a paper slip that people in the rest of the world stopped using in the late 1980s as a form of payment for goods or services.

Why does sliced bread come in two bags? And why is one them totally shit? The outer bag functions perfectly well, but the inner one splits from the moment it’s delicately prized open until I reach the final few slices and have to disentangle them from noisy shreds of crispy, redundant extra bag. WTF.

Why does water always come with pounds of ice? Usually when drinking water, as opposed to coffee or wine, I’m thirsty or dehydrated or both. I want to neck a pint or two of Adam’s ale there and then. But the ice reduces the water content by about 50%, makes the water that is there about 80% harder to get into my mouth past the sodding ice, and makes the water so cold it’s impossible to get much down my throat or even past my teeth without wincing and needing a break. And on the rare occasions there is no ice actually in the water, it’s served in a bottle so bloody cold that I still can’t drink the damn stuff without freezing my esophagus every few gulps.

Related, advertisers large and small like to lure drinkers with the promise of ice-cold beer – nary a mention of the flavour. I really don’t give a rat’s ass about the temperature of my beverage if it tastes good. If it’s cold and crap, it’s still crap. A tasty beer at room temperature is still tasty and refreshing. And I can drink it faster. Win-win. People in many hot countries drink recently boiled tea to stay cool, because cold drinks make your body warmer anyway. 

In restaurants, I want to be left alone. A server should serve, not hustle and hover, especially when there’s a dozen empty tables. Why whisk away my plate the moment I rest my cutlery on it? Why bring the check the second I put down my dessert spoon, or, worse, while my friends and I are still eating?! In the UK I could really enjoy a meal out, often spending upwards of two or three hours at a table, chatting with friends, occasionally ordering another drink, and not being harassed by hawkish wait staff.

Finally (for now), it is time for the US to adopt regular paper sizes. A4 is the international norm, not “American Letter”, and it’s way, way better for making aeroplanes (yeah, aero-planes).

PS Also, you all know the melody for “My Country, ‘tis of Thee” is the tune of the English national anthem, right? Ok, just checking.

 

 

Remembering Keith Tippett

There’s a story Miles Davis tells in his autobiography, about how seeing Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie perform in a tiny club was the greatest experience of his life (he adds the caveat “with my clothes on”), and how he spent his career trying to reach that level of musicianship in his own work. For me, it was a concert Keith Tippet played at the Norwegian Church in Cardiff Bay, spring 1998. The first half was just Keith at the piano, and after the interval he performed with his wife, Julie Tippetts singing, and Paul Dunmall on sax. That night changed my life.

Plenty of ink has been spilled about the uniquely captivating qualities of Keith’s piano playing. Nonetheless, there was something entirely other-worldly about a Keith Tippett improvisation that on an average day was completely spellbinding, and on a good day was utterly transformational for anyone in attendance. He named one of his bands “Mujician” after his young daughter’s mispronunciation of his job. But Keith really was the most magicianly musician.

That phenomenal performance at the Norwegian Church was on a Thursday. I know that because the next afternoon was the college big band rehearsal, and Keith said to some early arrivals, “well, there are two kinds of people in the world: those who were at last night’s concert, and those who weren’t”. Years later I heard on good authority that even for Keith, with the 1000s of concerts of he’d played over 40 years or more by that point, that night was one of his favourites. I’ll never forget how it made me feel.

For the three years I was at the Welsh College of Music and Drama, I lived for Friday afternoons with Keith. 12-1pm was free improvisation, and 2-5pm was big band. It was magnificent. The first time I went to the free improv class, I thought Keith was bonkers. He asked me to play some bongos along with a flautist. Neither of us had any sheet music, a timeframe, a plan, or a clue what we were doing. Keith said to listen and respond without being selfish. I was wracked with anxiety and I’m sure whatever we did sounded horrendous, but Keith was encouraging enough to this 19-year-old budding classical clarinettist and closet rock drummer that I came back the next week. Keith would put us into duos, trios or sometimes quartets, and everyone was welcome in his class. He curated a beautiful, safe space where we could experiment and offer feedback on each other’s performances. The fragile young musicians in attendance learned to believe in ourselves because of Keith’s unerring belief in us all. I didn’t miss a class till I graduated.

Keith’s big band was like the free improv class on steroids, with sheet music. The pad was all music Keith had written for one of his avant-garde ensembles like Centipede or Tapestry. The melodies were memorable, the chords complex, the structures varied and often baffling, and the tempi ranged from incredibly slow to unplayably fast. All were welcome – we had French horns, violins, flutes, saxes, trumpets, guitars, piano, trombones, cellos, recorders, vibraphone, bass and drums. In addition to “burning” group free improv (I can hear Keith’s devilish Bristol accent now – “burrrrrrn!”), he had us all stroking wine glasses and chanting the names of fallen jazz comrades in whispers; we would collectively improvise freely in “circular time” in the middle of a composition, and play long or short random pitches at Keith’s direction in the middle of these improvisations. Each week a different person was a section’s riff-meister or riff-meistra and led conversational call-and-response during others’ solos. Keith ensured we played every note and every phrase with intent. The energy and focus in the room were intense. The students would all go to the college bar with Keith for a pint after class, or he’d go with us to a pub in town.

Keith rarely spoke to me much individually, beyond direction and feedback as the drummer (or, for two of my three years, one of two drummers) in the big band, but Keith’s influence expanded my listening, broadened my musical horizons exponentially, and made sure I practised my ass off. Keith was a sage – deeply wise and full of unvarnished love. He often spoke with adoration of his wife, Julie, and his children, Luke and Inca. He showed by example how to live life as a musician.

Keith’s sheer generosity as an educator was profoundly impactful during my formative years. A whole generation of musicians passing through the Welsh College before the turn of the millennium owe so much of our confidence and belief in ourselves – as musicians and humans – to Keith. In the spring of 1997, after only 6 months behind the kit in his big band, I was the sole drummer when we closed the opening night of the Bath International Jazz Festival in torrential rain. I played a drum solo that night in front of 10,000 people. That, like every class or rehearsal or performance with Keith, was a masterclass in listening and being fully present in the moment. Keith was relentlessly encouraging. He cared about the musicians and the music. He cared about each of his students, and remembered us all many years later. Keith demonstrated that making good music is inherently worthwhile. (He had left King Crimson in the 1970s after one album with them because their music and ambitions were too commercial!). Keith loved life and he loved music and he loved working with his students.

Keith’s jokes were a rite of passage at the Welsh College. He liked to say “groovy, baby / gravy booby” with a cheeky grin like a 13-year-old, and every now and again when directing us to play a mezzo-forte passage he would say “MF – mother f….” Keith appeared to wear the exact same outfit every day – light blue jeans, white shirt and a tweed waistcoat; judging from publicity photos from the mid-1970s, he’d not changed his look a bit since at least then. He didn’t like or trust acid jazz – he was an acknowledged jazz virtuoso and had certainly dropped acid, he said, so the music, in his opinion, didn’t live up to its name. He had the most preposterous sideburns, which I imitated until I shaved them off for a series of unusually well-paying gigs in the mid-2000s. He preferred the Spice Girls to the Rolling Stones (I’m still trying to get my head around that one, 23 years later). He loved professional football. He felt one should drink a full bottle of wine with dinner.

Keith was fond of saying to an audience or band after a show, “you’ve made an old man very happy, and a happy man very old”. Just last week I wrote the same words in an email to a younger collaborator; it was the first time I’d said it. Keith knew 24 years ago when I first met him that he was responsible for lighting a flame and passing the torch. I guess he’d want to know that even his awful jokes are still alive and well among the next generation.

Keith used to say to students when we graduated, “it’s an honour to have been a link in your chain”. Keith, it was the profoundest privilege that you were a link in mine. Thank you. Rest in Peace.

Back in the Saddle *

I’m auditioning tomorrow for a rock covers band and there’s something oh so very soothing about it. Being somewhat between jobs, I realized it was maybe time to start earning my keep again as a drummer, so I looked on Craigslist for a band. I found a New Jersey covers outfit comprising middle-aged men who play a handful of shows on weekends around lives with their families and day jobs. Sounds just about my speed. So long as the band is good.

I miss playing competently through a few dozen songs for an audience of half-cut revellers on a Saturday night. It’s fun to play my rubber practice kit in the garage, and it’s fun to hit the recording studio every now and again and to rehearse with an awesome originals band. But there’s something else and differently satisfying about the whole process of gigging, and after doing so for three decades and taking an almost three-year hiatus, I miss it sorely. I miss the driving to and from shows, the filling up at gas stations in the middle of nowhere, the watching the sun rise on the way home from a gig on a Sunday morning, the sneaking back into the house quietly and hoping to be back in bed before our daughter comes in to find us and getting up and blearily making everyone breakfast (or maybe lunch). I miss ending the songs tightly with the bassist. I miss the feeling of stick striking head making sound and feeling fantastic.

I miss the familiarity with the life cycle of my drums, like knowing how much longer till I need to change the snare head or buy a new brick of sticks or replace (part of) a cymbal stand. I miss sound-checking a couple of hours before the show and then re-tuning the kit completely a short while before we go on because the heat or the air conditioning has changed the tension of all the drums. I miss the extended, repeated engagement with my instrument in performance. I miss playing out several nights a week. I REALLY miss the productions where I was playing six to eight shows a week for two hours at a time. I miss how that made me feel like a professional drummer. I mean, I’ll always be one, regardless of how much I’m actually playing (right?!), but I love knowing that I just pulled off a handful of shows over a weekend and there’s two dozen more in the diary and I’m making it work as a drummer.

I love the physical readiness – the lack of stiffness in my arms, back and shoulders when I sit at the kit and the playing just flows because it was only yesterday I was playing the same kit for the same songs and I know exactly how to transition from one tune and one tempo to the next. My callouses are hard, blood blisters are gone, and the half-assed garage rehearsal volume is replaced in my motor memory with full-throttle performance-volume movement and power.

The best way to practise for gigs is to play gigs. The band gets better as a band by performing together as a band. I love congealing with co-performers in songs – the familiar, the surprises, the knowing glances, the coping live with the unexpected. I miss the broken sticks, the dropped sticks, the twiddling of sticks, the hastily picking up spare sticks, the on-the-job maintenance as the cowbell slips and needs tightening while the groove goes on. I love, love, LOVE the sounds of my drums. And I love the immersive feeling of the rest of the band around me and in my monitors. I miss sound-checking and the thrill of hearing the miked bass drum in an empty room. I miss people dancing to my beat.

I miss earning money from playing. It’s satisfying to do the thing I’ve worked at the most for more than 30 years and have people give me folded cash in a parking lot to acknowledge that I did it OK. I like the straightforwardness of that transaction – I play drums in a bar, the band splits the takings after the show. There might even be gas money on top. There’s no peer review, no promotion, no tenure, no APA, no spelling conventions, no theoretical framework, no ethics review and no aspirations to methodological validity. I get there on time, I set up, I play rock and roll, I load the drums back in the car, I get paid, I go home.

There is nothing, nothing at all, like the feeling of being a drummer.

* “Back in the Saddle Again” is a song that I used to play in an Aerosmith tribute band. I love the sentiment in the title and the tempo and the blues-rock riff of the guitars. I loved playing this song. Not so much when I re-joined the band in 2014-2015, but when I was first in the band in 2002-2003 with a guitarist who has since passed away (RIP, Frank). We achieved a wonderfully deep groove on this tune, especially in the chorus where I would sink low into the floor tom for the throbbing eighth-note rhythm. I used to look forward to this every show (despite some persistent anxiety around cocking up listening the guitar intro and getting my entry right). Part of why I want to play covers is a need to revisit that feeling – to get back in the saddle.

Three Things to Love about Taking Violin Lessons

Our daughter, Esme, just started first grade. She has always been immersed in music – we’ve sung to her since forever; she was the first person to play my custom aluminum drum kit that arrived the spring after she was born; she’s watched musical theater movies with her mother since she was old enough to sit still, and she’s been a lifelong fan of this song I wrote for our local car dealership, requesting a replacement key at no cost. We dance a lot (she more than me), and sometimes she narrates entire days in recitative.

A few weeks ago I was talking with a music educator friend about music lessons and our children, and he advised starting with Suzuki violin lessons. We dived right in – I googled teachers in our local area and found a chap based just up the road. We spoke on the phone and he seemed lovely, plus he teaches out of a charming family-run violin shop a few minutes from where I pick Esme up from the school bus. I’d also just started teaching an online class with a Karin Hendricks who’s published on Suzuki and about compassionate music teaching, so the stars seemed to align.

Not wanting to thrust unwanted violin lessons on my child, I asked Esme if she’d be interested in learning and she said ‘yes’. When asked if she knew what a violin was, she replied, ‘it’s like a guitar that hold you under your chin and you play it with a kind of bat’. The deal was sealed.

Thing #1: Daddy-daughter time

Ever since I wasn’t the one breast-feeding our child for three years, I have felt like the second parent, so I’m always looking for ways to spend time meaningfully with Esme. Our daily breakfast routine, tickling and the scooter-ride (me running or biking alongside) to the school bus stop are cool, but it was uniquely exciting when we both went together to the shop to rent violins. Esme got fitted for an instrument (1/8 size) and we were shown how to rosin the bow by Victoria, a high school student who’s looking to study music education at college next fall. She showed us the room where our lessons would be and we even met Mr. Chris, the violin teacher. We both felt rather proud, walking back through town with our violins!

We play every morning together, for about ten minutes after breakfast, between brushing teeth and leaving for the bus. Sometimes I lead, sometimes Esme leads. It’s wonderful learning together, because she helps me with things I forget and vice-versa. We take turns to play, we play in unison, I accompany Esme on drums or guitar. We play violin mostly in the garage, and the first two weekends we put up fairy lights to decorate the room (it now looks awesome!). Occasionally, Esme plays drums instead, which is fine by me.

Thing #2: Role models

Our garage door is adorned with pictures of women playing the violin – Allison Krauss, Martie Maguire, Hilary Hahn, Regina Carter – and I put up a photo of Hannah Welton-Ford playing drums for good measure. We’ve been to three concerts so far this month. The first was to see the Ulysses Quartet playing at the local university. The performance was captivating (we sat in the second row), and we got to meet the group after the show. The second violinist gave some advice to Esme about tenacity, then we pretended to nap in a campus hammock. The next gig was a street performance by a traditional Irish band, and the third was by House of Hamill at a local Celtic festival in the Poconos. Esme spent most of that show drawing interpretive designs in the gravel while the band played. HoH’s violinist, Rose, was incredible, and we got to meet her after the show too.

Thing #3: Watching Esme grow

When we first brought the violins home from the shop, Esme was super-keen to try hers out. She took it out of the case and played what would have been a blistering bluegrass solo if she’d had the technique. We played on our violins each day (except for when I was travelling) leading up to our first lesson together.

Our violin lessons are really good. Mr. Chris is fun, kind and patient. We learn about rhythms and posture and bowing technique, and there’s no sheet music to get in the way. We have a Thursday routine now where Mom gets to stay at work late so Esme and I spend the whole evening as a duo. We sing in the car on the way home, we do dinner and watch Storybots before reading stories and heading to bed. On the drive home this past week, I asked Esme to describe Mr. Chris. She said “he’s got peach skin, he has a beard and he laughs a lot” – all good things.

I bought a copy of Shin’ichi Suzuki’s book, Nurtured by Love, and William & Constance Starr’s’ To Learn with Love. I have yet to read them cover to cover, but I am loving this learning journey that has parent-child bonding at the core of its ethos and that prizes the feeling and sound and experience of playing the instrument with a co-learner. It’s wonderful as a parent, professional musician and educator, to experience my child’s learning. I love the growing confidence that she has as a violinist, and I am thrilled to be on this road with her, as we help one another to learn.

 

A Drummer in All that I Do

My job as a drummer is to help people realize their art. I am part of the music, part of the ensemble; my role is to support, and ideally enhance, the creative endeavours of others. This is my job as a teacher and editor too. I’ve wondered whether maybe I seek out opportunities to enable other people, but I don’t honestly believe I’m that altruistic. Probably I’m just better at responding and following than inspiring or leading. And when I do take charge, I don’t like to do so alone. I am often happiest as part of a conversation, a team, a dialogue. I have some intensely personal creative outlets too – writing limericks, haiku and prose like this blog post. But I spend most of my life being a ‘drummer’.

I like to contribute equally to a musical conversation. This opportunity is afforded me rarely, but in the Eruptörs everyone’s ideas are valued as part of the creative process. We also split royalties evenly. My preference for this modus operandi informs many of my day-to-day interactions. If I feel I am being overlooked or ignored, my solution is to play louder and faster and to be more distracting and annoying to others.

Drumming is uniquely suited to my introversion, and to what Anthony F Gregorc would term my Abstract Sequential (AS) mind-style™. Like many musicians and academics, I am probably somewhere on the autistic spectrum. (My dad slipped into a casual conversation a few years ago his diagnosis that I have Asperger’s Syndrome; he wished he’d only known about this in the eighties. I should probably follow up with him about that.) Drumming allows me to assert myself forcefully and non-verbally and to be essential to the outcome of a complex interaction while remaining safely out of the spotlight, hiding from other people and responsibilities.

In 95% of theatre productions, no one can see me at all, and in the operational hierarchy the only people permitted to discuss a show directly with the drummer are other members of the band; everyone else has to provide feedback via the musical director. In a rock band, although I am pretty obvious to audiences, they are (meant to be) mostly captivated by the antics of the front-person. I love playing jazz, for the intensity of the conversation between players. Free improvisation ticks that box too – I feel uniquely alive when ideas flow freely and are mutually respected and nurtured. I try to bring the same attitude to my teaching.

Drumming lets me work alone – practising provides a beautiful cocoon that shields me from the cacophony of the world. Writing and editing do this as well. I crave the solitude of my work – trying hard to improve, answerable to my own ideals (which, as a cultural psychologist, I acknowledge are not really my own; they just often feel like they are). Conversely, I yearn for recognition, although I tend to keep my need for praise pretty quiet, then harbor fierce resentment when I don’t receive it.

Being a drummer is akin to being an editor – I make important decisions about how a product looks or sounds, but to the casual observer or listener it’s the songwriter, singer or author who calls the shots. As a drummer I get to influence tempos and dynamics, but if the singer can’t get the words out fast enough or is running out of breath on the long notes, I defer to them and adjust. When editing and teaching, I similarly give what I can, based on experience and expertise, but ultimately the success is collaborative, and mostly attributed to another.

Drumming is also like writing – I hide behind drums as I do behind prose, and I am comfortable playing and saying things that I would horribly fumble if I attempted to articulate them aloud. On the printed page I can say what I need, then upload or publish it and run for cover without (maybe ever) having to interact face-to-face. Both the drums and the written word provide a barrier between the world and my soul. Or, more likely, they offer a direct connection between them, whereas my social ineptitude and anxiety serve to bar access to the real me. So that’s it: drumming, in all its forms, provides a window on to my very soul.

 

The Privilege of Working with Paul Scott

Paul Scott is a gentleman bassist alongside whom I have had the distinct pleasure to work for the past several years in my job as an educator and occasional programme administrator at a music school. Having narrowly escaped a bleak future of manual labour in England’s industrial northeast in the late 1970s, Paul quickly became a pillar of the music establishment in the UK, propelling the Glenn Miller Orchestra and many others (Jimmy Witherspoon, Brian Johnson, Max Bygraves, Jamie Cullum, you name them), through their sets night after night, civic centre after hotel after town hall. Paul has played more gigs than I’ve eaten hot dinners in the last 40 years. He spent the ‘90s as Music Editor of popular trade publication, Bass Guitar magazine, and these days he can often be found late at night, roaming muso posts on social media, dispensing advice about basses, effects pedals and amps that he’s tried and tested throughout his career. And just when it seems he’s been a bit quiet, he’ll post another photo on Facebook of his double bass and a drum kit, ready for action on the stage of the Barbican, the Royal Albert Hall or another legendary concert venue.

I once drove a group of colleagues to a one-day music education conference a few hours north of London in Huddersfield. Those closer to my age deferred to letting Paul ride shotgun, and he entertained us all with good-tempered banter the entire way to Yorkshire and back. He’s the guy who keeps the driver awake while others nap in the back, without providing opinion on the quality of the drive. Similarly, his enthusiasm for wordplay and eye for a pun frequently brighten the dullest of administrative email exchanges on, for example, assessment protocol or grading spreadsheets.

Paul is an expertly pedantic and diligent teacher. He is meticulous in all that he does, from his lesson plans to his responses to student correspondence at all hours of the day or night. In the eight years I’ve known him, Paul has unflaggingly reinvented the Instrumental and Vocal Teaching course on an annual basis at the college where we teach, in response to new regulatory frameworks, all the time ensuring students learn the most pertinent pointers for careers as portfolio musicians. An hour spent in Paul’s History of Popular Music or Aural and Transcribing class is an hour among the pages of a multi-media encyclopaedia of industry insight, music trivia and theory. I long ago stopped thinking it an exaggeration to say that Paul knows literally everything. Students and alumni sometimes joke about Paul’s dense, intense classes, but they always betray the tremendously high esteem in which they hold him.

While regulations, ‘best practice’ and tastes – regarding assessment, lesson structures or parking allocation – change with the tide, new company marketing executives or government education ministers, Paul remains constant and steadfast. There is a lot that’s old-school about Paul. Like his ability to read fly shit at sight in the dark and effortlessly lay down a monster groove. Or his unswerving punctuality, regardless of traffic or weather conditions. But in no way is he a dinosaur. Catastrophic meteorological events could not unseat him from his bass stool or divert him from his plotted pedagogical plan. Paul’s is a paradigm of paramount professionalism.

Paul is also a marvellously collegial colleague. An erstwhile Union Rep for the Universities and Colleges Union and a longtime card-carrying Musicians’ Union member, he knows when to offer advice and when to hang back. He always answers his phone, and times his emails, texts and calls to perfection. His is the empathy and wisdom of experience. Paul is long enough in the tooth, sufficiently quick of wit, adequately mild of temper, and possesses such a discerningly low bullshit threshold, that he is surely among the most indispensable of colleagues. Thanks, Paul.

Are Drummers Mathematicians?

This piece was originally written as a contribution to the 2013 Drum Expo. 

When I was asked to write this article, I thought I should write something about how good drummers all need to be at counting a band in to a song in any tempo or time signature, and at maintaining solid, grooving time throughout. Drummers need – as we all do in the modern world – a basic understanding of maths, but I reckon that even drummers who play math metal or are who are as technically and conceptually outstanding as Gavin Harrison don’t need much beyond a basic grasp of addition, subtraction, division and multiplication.

 If I were to say that drummers are master mathematicians, this might look like I was ignoring some pretty fundamental things about music and might appear to place us undeservedly on a pedestal. While drummers are necessarily experts (or at least competent) in rhythm and dynamics, the other parameters of music – harmony and melody – are also inherently mathematical, and more complicatedly so than our native land of rhythmic patterns. Music in Western cultures is all based on the harmonic series and 12 semitones deriving from the work of the (ancient) Greek polymath, Pythagorus; it is from these that all of our chords and tunes derive. Mastering harmony, especially in a fast-moving, tonally complex environment such as jazz, arguably requires a far great facility with mathematics than even the most intricate of prog metal drum parts.

 Musicians often say they have an affinity with mathematics, and that they really enjoy working with numbers. I know several people like this and, while I understand them up to a point, I’m much more drawn to – and, as a consequence, have spent three decades honing my craft with – words and music. I don’t love numbers. I’m pretty good at remembering my times tables and other basic arithmetical stuff, but I tend (perhaps oddly) to remember facts about maths, rather than any of the underlying principles. Mickey Hart of the Grateful Dead wrote in his book Drumming at the Edge of Magic, “rhythm and noise. That’s where drummers come from.” This is far truer to my experience of drumming than banging on (excuse the pun!) about time signatures and BPM (which we pretty much have to take for granted).

Through rhythm, movement and sound (our currency as drummers), we connect with the intangible. When we groove, band members and audiences get it. The air is alive as we engage with our surroundings, energizing the atoms and neutrinos in and between people in space and time. In this sense of being in touch with the make-up of the universe, we have a kinship with creative, exploratory mathematicians and cosmologists. We have to be much more than this, though –Billy Ward says we need to study music and human nature; Questlove writes in his new book (out just last month) that the drum is “a kind of magic signal system, a coded language”. So it goes pretty deep. I don’t think that drumming is a language as such, but neither is it just mathematics. Drumming is a big deal, though – it is a joy and a responsibility. Drummers are actually shamans, what Keith Tippett calls “Mujicians”.

Playing with My Eyes Closed: Experiential Listening

When we’re teaching rhythm section workshops and other performance classes at the college where I work, my fellow teachers and I often tell the students to look around and pay attention to those with whom they are playing on stage. I believe this to be sound advice, since a lot of the time inexperienced ensemble players will appear to be in their own world entirely, disconnected almost completely from the music that could be happening if only they would play with their band rather just at the same time as their fellow musicians. However, it is advice that often I do not follow myself. I play a lot of the time with my eyes shut. I don’t deliberately not look around – I just find that I can connect better with the others by listening to them. Sounds obvious as a musician, now that I think about it. I have noticed that on many occasions – and the best ones at that – I tend to play with my eyes closed, but I’m not ignoring the rest of the band. On the contrary, these are the times when I’m paying the closest and most focussed attention. I rarely block myself off from visual stimuli in a conscious effort to listen more intently, but frequently discover (when I blearily open them) that I have had my eyes closed for some time. This article is a brief musing on my inadvertent practice; hopefully it may trigger something in fellow teachers for reflection, or for discussion with students

When I play in Gillian Glover’s band, as I have been doing a quite a bit recently, I often find myself opening my eyes at the end of a song. I usually don’t notice that they are closed while we’re playing; I find only that I cam completely absorbed in the song – the music is all I hear, all that I am in those moments. Coming out of the music (as happens when I open my eyes) is a little like coming out of a deep and immensely satisfying sleep. Going in to the music, I am happy to descend, contented to be enveloped by it entirely. Being in a song, or in a piece of music is like a total immersion of my self – emotionally, mentally, physically.

I have similar experiences in the blues-rock band in which I play; we groove together easily. We lock in as an ensemble immediately in rehearsals, and can begin work on the perfecting architecture of individual songs – the oneness, the ‘magic ride’ (to quote Grateful Dead drummer and ethnomusicologist Mickey Hart) is already there. Owing to the nature of the music that we play, I often lay down rhythms with little or no variation for a minute or more. This experience becomes wholly immersive, entrancing and absorbing as I repeat the pattern over and over. I become part of what I play in real time as I play it. With a groove of equal commitment being simultaneously realized by the band’s guitarist and bassist, the feeling is bigger, deeper, more intense. The listening and feeling become one in a cyclical, instantaneous intra-personal feedback loop between my head, hands, feet and every sinew of my body; and, on the best days, every part of my being. The loop is also inter-personal, and how I wish it could be every time I play. I find it frustrating when I (or we) cannot achieve this sense of oneness, of total submersion, for whatever reason.

I owe a debt of gratitude to my friend Steve. He is the first musician with whom I felt this greater-than-the-sum-of-its-parts awesomeness that transports us both to another plane of being (he too closes his eyes when we play.) How incredible, as well, was the sensation – repeated again and again – when Steve and I found our bassist, Hannah, to be the perfect player to complete the trio! I remember blinking into the lights of our rehearsal studio on many occasions when we had worked on songs – we had no need to look at one another. It was all about the immersive, submersive, experiential phenomenon of being together in the same place, at the same time and in the same way. Amazing.

I do not need to close my eyes in performance, but nor do I need to keep them open. What I feel an imperative to do is to pay attention as completely as possible. I open my eyes when I need to look around or give a visual cue to someone else in the band; or when one of us makes a mistake. Instances of the latter are quite arresting, and I react to my own mis-hits with the same sense of disruption as when a band-mate slips up. ‘Awakening’ in this way brings me back to another level of reality – and I much prefer the one where we’re quite literally all about the music and my eyes are closed.

Noted music educator David Elliot wrote in his 1995 book Music Matters that listening ought to be an integral part of any musical endeavour, any form of musicing. Perhaps inevitably, this is so – at least for those of us who are successful in music (by which I mean those of who succeed in making music – not those who reap significant commercial or financial rewards for the music that they have made and turned into commoditized artefact). I recall the advice of my drum kit teacher and guru while I was at the (now Royal) Welsh College of Music and Drama in the late 1990s: Peter Fairclough told me that the only thing I should consciously do on stage is to listen. Clearly such an aspiration depends on the agenda and the context of the music that I am playing. When I have to read a score and follow a conductor (depending in no small part on the ability or capriciousness of the MD on a given gig) I may need to pay a good deal of conscious attention to him and let the listening happen somewhat subconsciously. On loud, sweaty gigs with my punk band the Eruptors, I point my sticks at audience members because this is one of the tropes of authentic (and great fun!) rock performance; I twiddle one drum stick over my head while attempting a one-handed roll with the other. While this can be immensely satisfying in many respects, I find that performances of this kind appeal to something in me that is more physical than emotional. I am not belittling rock music or rock events – I love them and feel incredibly happy and excited when taking part. However, these are events that require a drummer to perform, to come outside of the music. At a rock concert, I am engaged in other reciprocations with audience and band members than attempting to summon a sublime musical experience – they expect interaction. While I enjoy Eruptors gigs – admittedly an emotional response – they feed the extrovert in me, rather than the soul-searching introvert. I am never entirely happy with rock performances, nor with only playing gigs that place higher value on intra-musical moments on stage, which is why I choose to play in a wide variety of contexts; this muso-schizophrenia is perhaps better left for discussion another time…

On occasions when I am afforded the ultimate luxury of the total human experience that for me is not internal or external but both – the (‘omni-ternal’?!) phenomenon of making music to which I am in that moment devoted, when I have only to concentrate on that, and when I am permitted so narrow a focus – this is when music exists wholly completely, albeit fleetingly, as something that only those who are there can understand. Almost always, achieving this means closing my eyes.

Is this mere self-indulgence? I do not think so. I believe that the self allows the music to be indulged, permits this to be so. And so it must be. If we are selfish (twiddling sticks and showing off, maybe trying too hard – and likely only part-succeeding as a result) we do not serve the music. And we must. Not because we are accompanists – quite the opposite, in fact – because we are the music. We drummers, we musicians, embody the music and it embodies itself though us, momentarily as we act as conduit, curator and creator. Music is a magical thing. It exists before we play it, as we play it, and directly after we have played it. I have to play in response to my decision to play in response to what I hear; as I play I make sound, and after that sound reaches my ears and those of the rest of the band or our audience, that music continues, and it continues as it affects and effects my and our next music-making decisions. With my eyes closed I am more vulnerable to the music. What I take in with my eyes distracts me, more often than not. What I take in with my ears and through the nerve-endings in my hands, arms, legs and feet only helps to make me more susceptible to the muse, to the music, to the embrace of our musicking.

Afterthought

The very best performers can share the oft-elusive feeling that I have tried to describe with audiences. I am unsure how they (or perhaps we) do that, or if any who manages it can provide an explanation; but when this happens, we all know, and it’s electrifying. It happened to me most recently at a gig at the Vortex jazz club in north London. It was the last tune at a gig by the Han Bennink trio. Bennink is renowned for his mad antics – sudden bursts of extraordinary energy, booted feet on the snare drum, attacking the furniture, that sort of thing – but after this song you could have heard a pin drop a mile away. No one in the audience or on stage moved. I don’t even think anyone breathed for about thirty seconds. The student I’d taken with me was stunned. As for Bennink, I didn’t spot whether his eyes were closed… but I reckon they might have been. Keith Tippet would understand; he too has transported audiences to another plane.

Bucket Lists

What on earth is wrong with people? I mean, ‘things to do in London before you die’… What the bloody hell other options do we have?! I mean, where are the lists of ‘things to do in London shortly after you pass quietly away/get unfortunately mown down by a bus’?

By definition, any ‘to do’ list (involving buckets, spades, or indeed other gardening or seaside holiday utensils) requires the person checking off the items to be physically capable of accomplishing the tasks – which in every case is contingent on that person being alive.

These lists would make more sense if they at least appealed to the sensibilities of weird-if-comfortingly-endearing reincarnation-ists. A list of things to do while you still inhabit your current human shell and before you return as a shrew, rain-drop or mulberry bush would perhaps of some small use. But even then, I think that most Scientologists and Hindus probably realise that doing anything on a bucket list would require them to be a) sentient, and b) not entirely dependent on water and photosynthesis for survival.

So, bucket lists should be outlawed, for these reasons:

1 They are completely pointless and insulting, appealing to our worst rapture/doomsday/nuclear-apocalypse-fearing nature, and

2) They make the authors look like imbeciles.

In my humble opinion, that is.