Kid in a Candy Store

When I was in college, studying classical music at Gordon College and taking lessons in jazz drumming at Berklee School of Music, I used to practice for three hours a day.

I have to admit, practicing is a bit of a stiff word for at least half of what occurred during those morning, evening, or late night stretches. For the first hour hour or two, I was an obedient pupil, drilling exercises from classic manuals like Goldberg's Modern School for Snare Drum, Stone's Stick Control, Bellson's Modern Reading Text in 4/4, or Reed's Syncopation. The first 30 minutes were great fun, the next 30 were fine, and the final 30 were a molasses slog.

When the notes became ants on a page that seemed to squirm off their five-lined perches, I would file the texts into slots on the bookshelf and reach for an antiquated pair of brown studio headphones. After plugging the textured 1/4" jack into a 1980s Kenwood receiver, I would pop a colorful disc into the tray and maaneuver my way back to the helm of my nitron yellow Eames drum set.

Decibels pumping through the headphones and sticks firing away, I would get lost in the sounds of the combos of the 1950s and 1960s. Staples included Miles Davis recordings with Jimmy Cobb at the tubs, Herbie Hancock with drummer Tony Williams, Red Garland accompanied by Art Taylor, and McCoy Tyner collaborating with Elvin Jones. For the duration of these practice-room sessions, I lost all touch with reality. I may as well have been in the bands, burning grooves in Harlem with the original innovators until the twilight hours.

Diplomas and desk jobs later, those years all but faded from memory. But today I had an unexpected date with nostalgia.

As posted yesterday, I set up the same Eames kit in Studio Redline (also known as my basement and laundry room) to attempt an acoustic drum cut on one of the final project tracks. I have recorded some analog percussion - a cymbal here, a djembe there - but so far all drum set appearances have been MIDI stand-ins. I kept off-putting analog drum set recording so I could lay down the instrument for the entire album in one swoop.

The time has dawned for a grand Redline Project drum fest, and I left the yellow drums set up yesterday in honor of this weekend's goals. Like a child drooling at glass vats of colorful, chewy bits of sugar, the drums had me salivating all day, glancing over every ten minutes for a quick ogle at the shimmery cymbals and matte yellow handcrafted drums. At the stroke of five (or perhaps a few minutes before) I popped Logic open, selected a track from the Redline Project finals, and sat down on the familiar blue throne, headphones donned.

In an instant, I was transported to those sparkly days of being lost in the recordings, only this time, my mind basked in the sound of my own music. Marvelous.

There is no doubt that the accumulated years allowed rust to eat away at my drumming muscles. (I can say with sober honesty that I stunk it up today.) But creating rhythms at the set pulsed life itself through my veins. Perhaps the Redline Project will inspire me to chase away the dust bunnies and try to find a bit of rhythm once again.

Daunting Task

Tonight, for the first time since the Redline Project commenced, I attempted to record myself playing a drum set.

Let me dive right in with an admission. Neatly tucked away into the boiler room closet (a no-no by any semi-serious drummer's standards), my citron yellow set of Eames has been collecting pollen, cockroaches, and other such annoyances for about four months.

As I picked up the sticks (Regal Tip 8A Maples for those who care), I realized in an instant that my excitement to play far exceeded my ability to produce coherent beats. Years have come between me and my serious pursuit of the instrument, and a solid four months elapsed since the last time I touched the old tubs in any form.

I feel as though I am down in the count long before I even step up to the plate. I have no fancy equipment for capturing a decent drum sound - just a trusty, borrowed condenser microphone. I plug the stout mic into the mixer, a dubious smirk plastered across my face. A few clicks later with headphones securely cupping my ears, I am off and running.

Rust creeps its way around my fingers as ivy climbing a collegiate brick facade, and the feeling of Ace bandages tightly wrapped plagues my limbs. All hope seems lost as I scour around for a little muscle memory. Two measures to go until my cue. One measure to go. One, two, three, four...

A surge of energy spikes from nowhere, and I a steady rhythm pulses from the wooden beads of my Regal Tips. The groove thickens as measures pass. I close my eyes and let the music swirl through my cerebellum, reveling in the woven phrases and all but forgetting that I am laying down a track.

The passage ends, and I am shaken from the trance and settle into my office chair for a listen to the music that just unfolded.

One universal truth about recordings: they do not lie. My euphoric grin has faded into a puzzled grimace. The rhythms are off, the dynamics are terrible, and the beats are juvenile - not to mention the recording sounds as if it were tracked in an echoey basement (oh wait, it was).

Attempt one: fail. I have the weekend to figure out how to shake some cobwebs free and lay down some beats again.