Category: music

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Drummers

With the news of Charlie Watts’ passing there have been some reflections by fellow drummers, which makes me wonder whether any non-drummers (ie readers) reading these articles are able to make any sense of them; that is, what it is that these drummers are even talking about? Drumming’s a weird line of work, and drummers are an idiosyncratic breed. I should know because I was one, on and off, for several years (to riff on the Steven Wright joke, “not in a row”).

A good drummer, like any other good musician, is a good listener foremost. Don’t forget that. A part of me wishes I could forget my tainted impressions of virtuosi like guitarist Steve Vai and drummer Neil Peart. Don’t get me wrong, those individuals are super talented, super dedicated, respected by their peers and great examples of their respective craft. And yet both, I would argue, because of their intense discipline and skill almost became exaggerations of their trade, not by intent but by association. For Vai, by his association with the height of inflated 80s hair rock (hello, person who became David Lee Roth’s solo wingman); because I grew up with this it distracted me from his more substantial recognition, that Vai was known more obscurely as a musician’s musician, noted for his collaborations with such diverse artists as Frank Zappa and PiL previously. For Peart, somewhat more ironically, by association with his very skill. There is no doubt that there wasn’t a Chinese crash cymbal or glockenspiel in his kit that didn’t get a workout, but I would argue that his penchant for literally surrounding himself with every type of percussive instrument imaginable visually detracted from what makes a good drummer — see the first sentence of this paragraph. I worry that there are a lot of drummers with way (way) too much gear because they’re Neil Peart fans. Drummers like Charlie Watts, it should be known, kept it simple by comparison, rarely straying from a 4 or 5-piece drum kit. Neither Vai nor Peart did anything wrong, but I think they are examples of how the wrong idea about what being a good musician (or artist) is can get across despite the most honest of intentions.

One of the greatest compliments I ever received as a drummer was a bandmate nicknaming me “Mattronome.” At least I took it as a compliment.

Drummers are eccentric, which isn’t entirely surprising for a breed of people who deal not with melody and harmony but rhythm, which itself can be difficult to communicate to a wide audience (think shape vs colour). Reading Stuart Copeland and Max Weinberg’s reflections on Watts, I was struck by how unrhythmical their technical descriptions were of what made Watts stand out. It reminds me of the famous Martin Mull quote: “writing about music is like dancing about architecture.” We’re an odd bunch, with inter-dimensionally oblong interests, but, I insist, ultimately we are eminently loveable creatures.

How to take care of drummers:

  • Never mind the fact that we are nearly always tapping our fingers/feet to some piece of music that’s playing in the background, if only in our head. We aren’t being rude, just dutiful to our nature.
  • Never mind the fact that we tend to be either shut off from the outside world, or, paradoxically, so attuned to some microtonal aspect that regular humans can’t sense that we haven’t had a chance to listen to the very important thing you’ve been trying to explain to us for the past twenty minutes (this also applies to writers).
  • If you want to impress a drummer, mention how much skill it must take to play tambourine, and how people commonly underestimate this.
  • Empathize with how, unlike lead singers and guitarists, drummers can’t exactly roam around the stage when playing live.

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A note from Richard Chartier

I’m a fan of experimental composer Richard Chartier, whose solo projects (particularly under his Pinkcourtesyphone imprint) and collaborations (like this quiet monster w/ France Jobin) have received regular rotation in my eardrums.

I came across a newer composition last year which is sublime, however, of all things, it’s his artist statement at the bottom which caught my attention. I’m pasting it in its entirety:

A note from Richard Chartier
I find myself at the collision of an inflection point and more over a reflection point. 50 years on this planet. I still find it difficult to write about my work. This is not because I cannot, but because I want the listener to approach my compositions of sound as such. Focus on the sensorial nature rather than an explicit narrative or reasoning.

I do not see my work as abstraction but rather purely abstract.

I chose sound as my medium after many years as a painter. I slowly came to conclusion that I no longer understood how to communicate sensation via a pigmented surface. The visual language I was using had become foreign to me.

Sound allowed me a language that was wordless, open, moving, shapeless yet full of forms, connections, and progressions. It raised questions though and these are still part of what I struggle with in the ways I chose to create and then speak of my work

why these sounds?
what is the attraction to these sounds?
how did I arrive at these compositions and their placements?

The pieces exist then as less of a statement, more of a question, but a question that will be different for each listener. For me, listening to them over and over, they will take another form as time passes. They evolve. For now though, they are in limbo on a piece of plastic or a series of lines of data

Often i am puzzled by how other artists create their work, how they come to decide arrangements, sequences of sounds or just the sounds themselves.

That is the magic of music.

The reason I find myself coming back to this is its vulnerability, something I’ve heard in his music but have not been exposed to in terms of how Chartier himself– or any artist of his ilk — has chosen to represent themselves textually. Most artist statements are, to be perfectly honest, easily ignorable; they boil down to: “Here. Signed, x”. And that’s ok. I would prefer this to a ham-fisted statement which did the music (or the listener’s expectations) no favours.

Instead Chartier makes himself prone and speaks to the to-be listener not as an underling but an equal. Turning 50 recently myself, I can’t help but wonder what was going on in his life, his head, when he wrote this. There’s little ego evident, no unnecessary flourish of cliché (“So, me and the boys recorded this in a shack outside Fayetteville…”). Instead he lays himself bare and presents himself plainly, and emphatically. He allows us into his philosophical process, his inspiration, and his limits. He dares to express a certain innocence. This is not the Wizard of Oz, attempting to razzle and dazzle (and intimidate). Instead, Chartier allows the to-be listener to engage with him, and I think this approach is magical.

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Arguments with a Musician

There’s a musician I follow on Facebook who is driving me nuts, but I don’t know whether what is bugging me about them has more to do with me than them.

I worked with them from time to time back when I was in the film/TV industry, since they worked as both a score composer and session musician. They’ve had a long and far-ranging career in music — period — let alone the Canadian music scene. Their stories (and friends’ stories) are typically epic to read as they drop references to Leonard Cohen and Ray Charles. It’s helped, too, that they were a consummate professional, and rarely overbearing (considering the twin music/TV industry connections I mean this as a compliment).

Despite being an icon and pillar of the Toronto music scene, like everyone, they were affected by COVID last year. The doors closed not just on a handful of gigs (live and recorded), but all of them in one fell swoop. And within a few months they began posting updates decrying the dire situation musicians were in, along with anti-government diatribes. Now, here’s the thing: I don’t blame anyone in their industry — pillar or acolyte — wanting to express their frustration publicly with the lockdown conditions (for anyone reading this outside of Toronto, there hasn’t been live music or theatre performances for over 14 months). I especially understand anyone wanting to criticize our provincial government’s criminal negligence during this time. They’re posts could also be petty, seeming to express more disappointment about they’re lost prospects than, say, the thousands of others out of work, but I told myself: it’s a pandemic, how about we not hold people to too high a standard?

But something bothered me, particularly when the complaining didn’t subside and began to feel like whining. In other words, another Boomer with a swimming pool in their backyard shaking their fist at the sky when inconvenienced. What bothered me was that here was this person, as mentioned, a pillar. This person has a street named after them. Shouldn’t that sort of prestige, I asked myself, not come with any sense of responsibility toward a role of leadership? A sense of indebtedness to those less fortunate in their trade, to the degree they might realize that stomping their shoes on the ground wasn’t just a bad look, it was a missed opportunity for advocacy.

It reminded me of so many people in the film/TV industry who ground their teeth over any missed opportunity, taking like a mortal blow to their ego what people like myself had to endure on a regular basis just to land a gig that paid decently.

This person disappointed me, and I feel that there’s some of my own shit in that. I had few if no role models during those 20 years, and those who came closest could still say or do hurtful things, often because of their inflated sense of importance, or plain ol’ toxic masculinity (which ran from hot and cold taps back then). I don’t write about the industry very often because my relationship with it is bittersweet; there was a shit load of misogyny and general bad behaviour, which makes writing about it that much more difficult.

I would love nothing more than for this person on Facebook to stand taller, to look beyond their four-block radius, to think what might encourage or inspire others, rather than posting things like “TOO MUCH BIG-GOVERNMENT!”. It saddens me when people of a particular generation who were entitled to many more advantages than subsequent generations can’t see beyond their immediate domain. Worse still, when brought down a level or two from their prestige, appearing aggrieved.

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Man Alone (Can’t Stop The Fadin’), by Tindersticks

I’m in heavy novel revision mode at the moment. In fact, as I write this I’m at Artscape Gibraltar Point. It’s day 2 for me. Only a handful of artists here, given the lockdown conditions, which, as a writer, I don’t mind at all. I’m here to work. And eat like a 12yr old.

I’m very happy to have happened onto Tindersticks awhile back. This is from their newest:

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Patience

In a previous post I wrote about how guitar lessons have been a gateway for me to work with patience, and I thought I would devote a little more space to that (side note: sometimes I’ll look back on blog posts and see how cramped/dense the ideas are, which reminds me a bit of how my first drafts look like when I’m sketching fiction — except it’s not exactly in the nature of blog posts to go back and revise, so I apologize if sometimes what I end up writing here is a little nebulous).

Anyways, guitar and patience. I didn’t go into guitar thinking I would be doing anything great or fancy. Not starting a band or anything. I just wanted to build a relationship with this instrument — something I couldn’t do when I played drums (due to their cumbersomeness and noise, especially if you are living with someone). Thing is, drumming came naturally to me, even though I never really sought them out. I took piano when I was a kid, and when I signed up for concert band (because why wouldn’t you find any way possible to avoid staring at a blackboard) my keyboard skills weren’t quite at the level to easily follow the sheet music that accompanied the band. And so I was thrown into percussion. I took to it quite well because I’ve always had a keen sense of rhythm. Going into high school, the percussion section expanded and there was usually drum kit available to practice on. And so I helped myself and eventually joined a rock band. We lasted about 5 years and there are, as they say, no regrets. But, as I mentioned, it wasn’t so much my dream to be a drummer, as much as it allowed me to stay close to music. My relationship with drums is arms-length let’s say.

With guitar the first thing you realize is that, unlike drums where the pressure is keeping the beat, if your calloused fingertips are off by only a couple of millimetres you are probably going to play the wrong note. In other words, the feedback loop of wrong/right is much more immediate and sensitive, reminiscent of piano (even more so, I would say, especially if you trying playing guitar with an overdrive pedal). As a highly sensitive person (not diagnosing myself but being honest nonetheless) this feedback loop can be very intense, and, if I’m in an off mood, the “wrong” feedback can get on my nerves fairly quickly, leading me to melt down a bit. And this is where patience comes in. I’ve had many instances where, either because I’m developing a new skill (say, a pull-off using my fourth, or “pinky”, finger) or increasing my speed with an advanced piece, I’ll end up having a bad day. In the beginning of learning guitar, those bad days were stormy for me; I got frustrated with myself, frustrated with my lack of finger coordination — all the things. I learned a couple of things over time (which is easier to do when you’re playing a song you like): bad days are part of learning and not an indictment of any innate ability you have to do something; and taking time off (be it an hour, a day, even a week) — although it might seem counterintuitive to those of us who read about performers spending several hours each day practicing — allows you to come back to your instrument with a fresh mind and, in my experience at least, if not better technique then easier comfort with the instrument. As a result of allowing myself to take it easy, on myself and my expectations, I’ve gotten better at being able to picture myself overcoming the inevitable short-term stumbles and seeing the bigger picture where the mistakes I’m making today are not carved in stone forever, as they sometimes feel in the moment.

I’ve been cognizant of this because when I’ve been revising my writing in the past — my fiction in particular — sometimes my notes can be brutal. In a fit of frustration I’ll write things in full caps (“DOESN’T MAKE SENSE?!”) which, while maybe capturing how I’m reacting to something that’s a rough draft, doesn’t exactly make for pleasant reading when I come back to implement the revisions to the story or book. It’s like taking on the tone of a quasi-abusive teacher or parent. It can be oppressive and can make the process of revision (which is where the magic truly happens) tedious and soul-melting whereas I know it’s supposed to be where I develop a closer relationship with the work. Note the word relationship.

If you will excuse the generalization, there are two types of people who pick up a guitar: the person who wants to learn [insert cool song], and the person who is curious about developing a relationship with the instrument. Sometimes the former turns into the latter, but rarely does it go the other way if your intent is honest. Likewise with learning to write (which, in the end, is largely learning to revise) I’ve taken some of the lessons I’ve learned with guitar and patience and applied them to how I “speak” to myself in my revision notes. Do I need a stern lecture? No, I don’t. Do I need shouty language? No, I don’t. And, now that I’m up to my knees in revisions to Radioland, I’m implementing this approach. The full-caps are gone. Instead of “CHANGE THIS” or “NO” I try to write something akin to an editor’s voice — an editor who wants the intended end-result to rise to the surface of the current draft — with something like “This is working but could use clarity.” Imagine coming to that while you’re making changes? Doesn’t that sound more reasonable (let alone approachable) than something like “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY HERE??”

I suppose I’m putting this out there to show that there are many ways to grow as an artist — at any stage– and one of those ways is indirectly applying the lessons of one form to another. I still have bad guitar days and will continue to experience them as long as I endeavour to play, but the important thing is that I can look past those days. And because of that, I’m better able to see (and believe) that I can, as a novelist and short story author, work through the rough patches in my writing.

(P.S. Big shout-out to Michael @ Red House Music Academy)

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Ambient Album Picks 2020

Here are a few ambient/experimental albums last year that I really liked:

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Sault, track “Monsters”

Sault is an anonymous collective from the UK who released not one but two wonderful albums this year. Their stuff doesn’t seem to get much airplay on this side of the Atlantic, which is sad because it’s a wonderful mix of political funk, soul and trip hop.

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