Web Version - Drum Workshop

minutes, somewhere in the middle of the
second set. But...during the mixing of
Clockwork Angels, our co-producer, Nick
Raskulinecz, an irrepressible “enabler,”
insisted that I had to do my solo out of
the drum break in “Headlong Flight.” It
happened that that song would appear
around the middle of the second set, but
— ¡Jesu Christo! — “Headlong Flight”
is a fast-paced seven-minute song, in
the middle of a fast-paced hour-long
performance of the Clockwork Angels
songs, with another thirty or forty minutes
still to go. Plus, coming out of that drum
break I will still need to drive through a
long guitar solo, another verse, bridge,
and a double chorus, all at a fast tempo.
To say the least, it was daunting.
But...once again I applied some
“polyrhythmic thinking.”
What if I did two shorter solos, one in
each set?
Ooh, yes — that had possibilities.
I described the idea in an email to my
estimable teacher, Peter Erskine, as well
as reporting on an important observation
I began to have in the latter days of these
rehearsals:
This time my former marathon-length solo
will be divided into two -- in the first set, an
old-school, all-acoustic venture with classic
rudiments and solo stylings, then in the
second set, a more textural, electronic, and
melodic outing.
And...both of them will start out
completely improvised (I say “start out”
because inevitably you fall into themes and
patterns you like, but that’s okay--and within
the “spirit” of exploration).
So that’s huge.
Also, I had the realization in the past
week or so, as the playing started to come
together, that these days, “I am playing the
way I always wanted to play.”
Meaning that for all these 47 years I
have been working toward this combination
of technique, power, and feel -- “chops and
groove.” That’s a nice feeling.
Shame it took so long! But...
Of course it’s not really a “shame”
— that’s just how long it took. As another
estimable teacher, Freddie Gruber, used to
say before his passing in 2011, “It is what
it is.” I always insisted to both Freddie and
Peter that I was a slow learner, but a good
student, because I would practice and
keep trying — even if it took forty-seven
years.
During these rehearsals, I found that
when I played along with the old songs
we hadn’t performed for a long time, like
when I went into the upbeat ride patterns
of “Grand Designs,” it felt the way I wanted
that part to feel back in 1985, but had
only “approximated” it. Or when I played
the half-time sections of a new song like
“The Anarchist,” I could physically see
myself leaning back and away, playing at
full force yet comfortably sinking into the
groove of it — just “naturally.”
When I’m rehearsing on my own that
way, I know I’m starting to get somewhere
when I have to start changing my sweaty
clothes two or three times a day. In those
three-and-a-half weeks, I also dropped
at least ten pounds. (Obvious business
opportunity: “Do you want to lose weight
and tone your entire body — from your
nose to your toes? Sign up now for the
fabulous new, Bubba Drum Workout!”
It would be a counterpoint to another
weight loss program that claims to stop
insanity, only this one would be called,
with reference to the upcoming tour, “Start
the insanity!”)
Putting together a show like this one
will be is a grand adventure, no question.
I will never be jaded about that. But
like some Victorian explorer planning
an expedition to Africa or Antarctica,
the undertaking requires a great deal
of advance thinking and preparation, a
lot of people in our support crew (some
navigating without maps), and a goodly
amount of adaptability. No doubt there
will be suffering, too.
Right off the bat I will be away from
home for more than two months straight,
with band and production rehearsals
in Toronto, and the first leg of the tour.
The family will visit from time to time,
but still — that is a long exile from one’s
everyday life. Nearly forty years of such
a nomadic existence has adapted me
to being separated from my loved ones,
and taught me not to dwell on the sad
fact of it, but those at home do not share
that “partitioning.” Carrie now becomes
a single parent for the next five months.
Three-year-old Olivia has had most of a
year with Daddy being around, and now
she finds his absence unsettling — and
upsetting. As I have remarked before, I can
endure missing Olivia, but I can’t stand
her missing me.
For myself, there will be nights I won’t
want to “face the music” — won’t feel able
to go out there and drive myself that hard.
When I’ll be sore and tired, maybe ill, and
always homesick.
But those are not complaints — just
part of the price we pay for the privilege of
doing what we always wanted to do.
A joke my father loved when I was a
boy has always stayed with me — the one
about the man banging his head against a
brick wall, and when he is asked why, he
replies, “Because it feels so good when I
stop.”
Touring can be like that. Or like
old Sisyphus, who was sentenced to an
eternity of pushing a boulder to the top
of a hill, only to have it roll down to the
bottom again.
But there are those nights when
everything goes just right — when the three
of us lock into a musical symbiosis that
transcends our earthbound humanity and
sweeps the audience into a momentary
spell. That is the timeless magic of live
performance.
And there are the days off, when my
motorcycle will carry me down remote
back roads through natural splendor,
shades of history, encounters with friendly
strangers, and every sort of weather. These
other kinds of grand adventure keep me
stimulated and inspired through the
passing shows, and the passing years.
But the biggest reward of all is being
able to make a simple statement that has
taken me forty-seven years to earn:
“The way I play now is the way I have
always wanted to play.”
EDGE 10 ||| DWDRUMS.COM 25