Gear Acquisition Timeline (GAT)

Now that I have reduced the number of guitars to just three here in the Short Punks house, Pearl has suggested I create a great archive. I think of this as my Dickens-like holiday review of guitars past. Do I miss any of these? Not really. They served a purpose and marked certain periods in my life and when those times were done, the guitars and I had to move on. I have photos of most of these instruments so I may add illustrations as I find them. Unfortunately there is no existing picture of my Mickey Mouse guitar. I'm sure it will look much better in your imagination than it did in real-life...let's see, where shall we begin...?

1990...The Mickey Mouse guitar. After listening closely to Lou Reed, Paul Westerberg, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, and The Edge, I found I had the urge to learn guitar. My parents took me to a Toys-R-Us on Cape Cod (we were on vacation) and I found a plastic toy with plastic strings and a chord sheet. I learned all my cowboy chords on this guitar.

Christmas 1990...an Applause student-model acoustic guitar my mom found for me at T.C.'s Pawn and Gun in Waterbury. I played this guitar for years, did a lot of gigs with it, wrote a lot of songs. I think my mom gave it to my cousin, so it's got a good home.

Spring 1991...fake Les Paul from T.C.'s Pawn and Gun. This guitar looked kind of like a Les Paul, Jr., which some kid had assembled in shop class. It had cardboard shims in the neck and a horrible wiring job. On the plus side, it was easy to play, had two great humbuckers (which had been sabotaged by the faulty wiring), and a brass nut. I think my cousin has this one, two, or it's been recycled and gone back to the earth which spawned it.

Winter 1991...a Grand Prix Telecaster. I bought this for $75 at Blue Mountain Guitar in West Lebanon, New Hampshire. Within a week the nut had fallen off the neck and I tried to repair the guitar with super-glue. It never stayed in tune and had a pointy head-stock, so it was the unholy union of amber-colored Tele body with a hair-metal neck. I pawned it at T.C.'s for my next instrument...

Winter 1993...a Peavey Fury bass. In the fall of 1992 I joined my first band. I couldn't get very far with my Grand Prix guitar and Matrix amp (sort of like a Gorilla practice amp without the fake "tube" overdrive), so I rented a bass and bass amp and, within twenty-four hours, I was a bass player. I needed a bass for my first gigs in early 1993 and ended up back at T.C.'s trading my barely-playable Grand Prix for a Peavey Fury with a warped neck. I used a shoelace to keep the A-string intonated. A small family of trolls could have lived in the huge gap between the strings and the fretboard. A few years later I asked Duke (dukeplaysbass.com) to fix the neck. His response? "Nice log. You got a fireplace to go with it?"

Winter '92/'93...Fender Squire Stratocaster. Made in Korea. Great neck, comfortable body. This was my first playable guitar. I got it for Christmas, but the day my dad came up to Dartmouth to take me home for the break, I had a massive hangover. Having never gotten drunk before, especially on cheap red wine of all things, I was afraid my parents would take the guitar back to Blue Mountain. When we got back to Connecticut that evening I tried playing it but I still pretty toasted.

I will add details to the next set of guitars as soon as I get back from Christmas shopping...

Summer 1994...Rickenbacker 335 from Banko's Music in Ansonia, CT. I traded this in at Blue Note Guitars in Northampton, Mass., in 2004 just before Pearl and I moved to Louisiana.

Fall 1994...Yamaha 12-string acoustic from--you guessed it--T.C.'s Pawn and Gun.

Fall 1996...Gibson Les Paul Studio from Banko's Music in Ansonia, CT.

Summer 1998...Fender Tex-Mex Telecaster from Lasalle Music in East Hartford, CT.

Summer 1999...Martin D-15 acoustic from Banko's.

Spring 2000...Danelectro reissue Longhorn bass from Banko's.

Summer 2000...Rickenbacker 335 12-string from Banko's.

Fall 2000...Fender reissue '62 Jazzmaster from Lasalle's Music.

Spring 2005...the Great Gear Sell-Off! Green Ibanez bass from some little shop in Baton Rouge, LA.

Spring 2005...A red MIM Fender Stratocaster from C & M Music in Baton Rouge.

Spring 2005...G & L L-2000 Tribute Bass from Fat Katz Music in Baton Rouge.

Spring 2005...Fender American Jazz Bass from Fat Katz in Baton Rouge.

Summer 2005...Used MIM green Fender Stratocaster from the Old Town School of Folk Music garage sale.

Fall 2005...Martin SWOMGT acoustic from Old Town.

Winter 2006...MIM Fender Precision Bass from Guitar Works, Ltd., in Evanston, IL.

Spring 2006...MIM Fender ash-body Telecaster..from Guitar Center (say it ain't so!).

Summer 2006...G&L L-2000 bass from some little shop in the Chicago suburbs.

Fall 2006...Ibanex Artstar hollowbody from The Music Shop on Irving Park Road in Chicago.

Winter 2006...gold MIM anniversary Stratocaster from Guitar Works in Evanston.

Winter 2007...Reverend Flatroc from Ax in Hand in Schaumburg, IL.

Spring 2007...Reverend Charger from Ax in Hand.

Summer 2007...Reverend Buckshot from Ax in Hand.

Summer 2007...MIM purple Fender Standard Stratocaster.

Fall 2007...Gibson Les Paul Studio Vintage Mahogany from Fat Tone Guitars in Northbrook, IL.

Fall 2007...Fender American Telecaster from Midwest Buy & Sell in Chicago.

Only THREE of these guitars remain. If you can correctly guess which three, I will buy you the Mountain or Hawkwind album of your choice! Have at it!

The Newest Member

It's official -- SPiL has added a member to the band.

His name is a Jackson. A 2 pound Velveteen Lop. In two days he's already proven that he considers himself an integral member of the band: he peed on Brian's amp.

Finally, I'm not the only critic in the band.

Look for more pics of Jackson in the coming weeks.

The Feet

If you've never seen us play live then you've never seen one of the more unusual elements of Brian's set-up when he plays. Aside from the two amps (Peavey and Crate), aside from the pedal board with the boutique pedals, and aside from the two Reverend guitars, Brian also brings his own little blue rug to play on and he plays barefoot.

I began to realize this was unusual when I would get our digital camera back from people who I would ask to take pics for us at shows. Invariably there would be several shots of Brian's feet, naked as the day he was born, on his blue rug.

The bare feet have become so commonplace for us that we don't even notice it anymore. But others notice because here is a guy, shredding on his guitar, playing barefoot on a blue rug.

"Why is that so strange?" Brian asked one night after a show.
"Because the last time anyone did that it was 1967."
"Oh yeah." He eats a spoonful of cereal. "No wait. The guy In Living Color sang barefoot."
"Who's going to remember that?"

And so here's Brian's feet next his pedal board. Why the bare feet?
"I want to feel like I'm in my living room."
It's true. On stage he looks exactly as he does when he's in our living room. He sits on the floor in front of the TV, an amp next to him, the pedal board in front of him and he plays.
"See? It's just like when I'm at home."
So, this is probably why we're not cool. If you see us in a club, we act like we're at home. We're not 'rock stars' -- we're people who should be playing music at home but we're playing outside.

In Chalk

Both of us write with chalk all the time. We're teachers. Chalk is an occupational hazard. Five days a week, Brian and I come home with white, chalky patches on our clothes. Some days I see a whole hand print of chalk on his pants from where he rested his own hand. Meanwhile, I've spent whole afternoons with a white smudge mark on my chin. A woman in a store once pointed it out to me when I was waiting to check out.
"You have something on your face," she said.
"Oh God..." I said. Then I when I saw the white residue on my hands, I added "I'm a teacher," and smiled weakly.

But on Saturday, for the first time in years, I was happy to see chalk.

So, here it is everyone, Short Punks (minus "the Love") in chalk.

Chicago Guitar Show Gear Hunt, pt. 2

Since there's been such a huge demand from folks wanting to know what I found at the Chicago Guitar Show (which was in St. Charles, not in Chicago) a couple of weeks ago, I thought I should provide an update. So, here goes! You'll see a photo of some of the items I stumbled across. Let's start with the basic stuff first and work our way up:

To the left, you'll see an old Digitech Digiverb. As best I can tell it's one of the American made ones. Whoever owned it before me removed the screws from the bottom plate and forgot to replace them and also lost the original label with the serial number. However, it has a great spring reverb sound, and I'm also a fan of the reverse reverb setting for those moments when I want to imitate Robert Plant's vocal wails or, better yet, My Bloody Valentine's patented skronk. To honor its DOD ancestors, the switch doesn't always work! Those of you who owned DOD pedals bought from the local pawnshop in the late '80s and early '90s will know exactly what I'm talking about. Oh, in case you don't know about the skronk, let Lester Bangs teach you here.

Next up we have some fine reading material from the late jazz guitar genius and teacher Ted Greene: Chord Chemistry and Single Note Solos, vol. 1 (www.tedgreene.com). For those of you who thought I used weird chords before, things are about to get even stranger (and if you haven't heard Ted's version of "Danny Boy" from his album Solo Guitar, you should download it right now!).

I also finally tracked down a DVD copy of Jim Weider's Get That Classic Fender Sound. Many of you will know Weider as the guitarist in The Band in the '80s and from his group The Honky Tonk Gurus (Jim's site is here: www.jimweider.com). Here's a clip from the DVD you can watch on You Tube...Jim shows you cool gear and then teaches you how to play it:

Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Robbie's "Mystery Train" Lick but Were Afraid to Ask

Jim's one of my favorite guitar players and I've learned a lot from his teaching and playing styles. You will too--watch the clip!

And now we have come to the two most important finds at the show. Let me start with the vintage 1980 BOSS DS-1 Distortion pedal. Was it made in Japan? Yes. Does it have that TONE? Absolutely. Does it have a silver thumb screw? You know it. And did I get it in trade? Of course. Pearl's response to it: "Don't you have one already?" Yes, I said, but not a made-in-Japan 1980 silver-screw model. She conceded later that it sounded "pretty warm."

Now, this last item hasn't arrived yet...I've decided to trade my Reverend Flatroc for it, and this new guitar should appear sometime before Christmas thanks to the wonderful folks at Ax in Hand (www.axinhand.com), our favorite guitar shop in Schaumburg. I won't say any more. I will let you follow this link and look at its majesty. And, yes, they finally put a decent bridge on it so it will stay in tune. Pearl likes the purple/gold color combination:

The Purple and Gold Rock Monster

That's it. Now let me get back to my preparations for the Van Halen reunion show coming up at the United Center in a couple of weeks. They better play "Hang 'em High."

GEAR ALERT: The Chicago Guitar Show

This post isn't about gear. Chick Drummer knows next to nothing about guitar gear. This is post is about Brian, who loves guitar gear. And this post is about how happy shopping for guitar gear makes him.

Today was the second day of the Chicago Guitar Show in St. Charles, Illinois. Like a kid on Christmas morning, Brian kept waking in the middle of the night "Is it time to go to the Guitar Show?" At 7:00 AM he gave into anticipation and got up to wait the hour or so until he could drive to the show, an hour away. At 9:00 AM he set off for the show, a canvas bag full of pedals in tow. "For trade," he said, as he kissed me good-bye.

At 12:00 PM he called me from the parking lot. Breathless, like a kid fresh from the toy store, he told me all the things he bought and traded. Alas, for you gear-heads, I don't remember any of the gear. I remember the framed picture of Ricky Nelson and James Burton. I remember an orange Boss pedal, "silver screw," he said. And there were more pedals. He pulled them out of his canvas bag when he came home like he was the Santa Claus and not the kid. In elaborate detail (which I cannot recall) he gave me their history and their vintage.

If you're interested in knowing what they are, then you should pester Brian in the comments to send pictures and descriptions. He's proud of every one of them.

Right now, he's gone to a gig. The new pedals safely clipped into his Boss pedal board, waiting to be debuted in Brian's solo set (sans Chick Drummer, alas).

So there has been a gear acquisition and like a good cliff hanger, you will have to keep tuning in to find out what he purchased or traded. Oh, and in case you're wondering... he got a guitar, too.

Can't Wait John Waite

It is a little known secret of Short Punks that all of the songs can be broken down into three major influences: Paul Westerberg, Lou Reed, and....Rick Springfield.

Brian's unabashed, unapologetic, completely sincere admiration of mid-80's top forty hits means that on any given night we can be found at a state fair, municipal civic center, or small club waiting for an 80s pop star to relive his or her glory. It could be The Fixx or Van Halen or Rick Springfield. If the artist is now or was at any time featured on a K-Tel album then Brian's gone to hear it.

So last night we were at the Schaumburg September Fest swatting mosquitoes from our our ankles while we waited for John Waite to take the stage. The only song of his you probably remember if you watched MTV in the mid-80s is "Missing You." And along with a couple hundred people lounging on blankets and tarps with beers and barbecue chicken, Brian and I waited for John Waite. It was a cool and pleasant summer night. The tilt-a-whirl swung back and forth in the amusement park behind the stage and there was the distinct smell of cotton candy and popcorn in the air as we threaded our way through crowds of high school students in their last night of summer glory before the end of Labor Day Weekend.

"I feel like I'm on hall duty again." Brian said as we walked past mobs of teen-agers.
I didn't respond as I looked for the food vendors. I didn't eat dinner and the idea of a bratwurst with mustard was appealing to me.

The field in front of the stage was covered with blue tarps and blankets. Whole groups of people had staked out their five by five foot square with coolers and chairs. Brian and I stood at the edge of the field, holding hands.
"Where are we going to sit?" I asked. We came spontaneously and brought no blankets or chairs.
"I don't know."
To our right I saw a path of green, the last bit of grass showing through the blankets.
"Let's go that way." I pointed.
We stepped over bottles and plates of half-eaten chicken and made our way to the front of the stage.
We found a spot in a crowd standing up front. The stage was bigger than I thought it would be and the front was roped off for VIPs and technical crew.
"So what's the appeal of John Waite for you?" I asked.
"He's awe-some!" Brian said. "I like the stuff he did with The Babys but his last solo album was really good too."
"Okay." I said. Brian continued talking. He described John Waite's early bands, his solo projects, his favorite songs, and I half-listened. I was hungry. The show was due to start in15 minutes.
"I have to go to the bathroom. And I have to eat." I said.
Brian stopped mid-lecture. I have this way of interfering with his flights of fancy that brings him slamming back to earth. Brian often forgets he's hungry, sleepy, or that he has to pee. When music is involved he goes to some other world and he forgets that he's not made of ether. I, on the other hand, always remember that I need to eat.
"I'm hungry." I repeated.
"Do you want me to come with you?" He asked.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Just wait here."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'm sure."
I threaded my way back through the field towards the amusement rides looking for food.
After twenty minutes I came back, a box of popcorn in my hand.
"That's what you got?" Brian asked.
"I only had three dollars." I shrugged.
"Why didn't you say so. I had money."
"Don't worry about it." I licked salt from my lips. "This is good."
And it was good. Standing in line in front of a brightly lit booth swathed in the smell of cotton candy and corn dogs, I was swept back to childhood. I was ten years-old again clutching a dollar bill waiting to buy a caramel apple at the annual carnival in Mt. Morris, New York. If I had money left over, I thought, I was going to try and win a gold fish from the booth where you toss ping pong balls into fish bowls. But carnival games are more expensive than they used to be and there wasn't any change.
John Waite's opener was a the crowning of Miss Schaumburg. A row of giggling girls in burgundy prom dresses stood on stage. I missed the crowning while I was getting popcorn, but I passed them on the way back. They clutched roses and beneath their dresses they wore flip-flops.

It may be hard to imagine, but John Waite can rock. He's got a strong voice reminiscent of 80's anthem singers like Steve Perry and he has good sense of how to push a song with his vocals.
And the band rocked. All solid session musicians with a sense of precision that I could never imagine having myself.
When Brian and I are at a show together, listening to a musician, it's not unlike when we're on-stage playing with each other. I know what he's thinking when he's listening. So conversation has a half-spoken quality, as if you were only hearing one side of it.
"You could do that." I say as the guitarist plays riff.
"Yeah that could work in the new song. And you should do that..." He says.
The drummer just ended with a big tom fill.
"I suck at the big toms. Not fast enough."
"You'll get there."
"How about that?" I say.
The bass player had just played a descending line.
"I do that already."
"Oh yeah."
And then there was a big guitar solo. I laughed out loud. Brian smiled. There's something about those big guitar shredding solos that make me laugh. Brian loves 'em. Every note of them.
"Why don't you do a solo like that?' I ask.
"I couldn't if I tried."
John sang for another hour. Brian watched every movement of each musician.
At the next rehearsal I know what to expect. He'll play 80s sounding guitar lines and he'll expect me to punctuate them like an 80s rock drummer. I'll try, but fail, and then Brian will get bored with major chords and throw in suspended ones and before we know it we'll sound like Short Punks again.
John had one encore. A Zeppelin tune. And he rocked it. The band rocked it. The crowd exploded.
"I wished they had played Zeppelin all night." Brian said as we were leaving.
"I'm sure they wished they could have done that too.""
The fireworks had begun and the night sky exploded into red, green, and purple blooms.
We drove through empty suburban streets and down the interstate back to the city. We skipped rehearsal to go to the show, but in a lot of ways, it was better than rehearsing. If it wasn't for Brian I wouldn't explore musicians outside of my narrow interests of jazz and blues and if I didn't hear guys like John Waite and his band, I would have fewer ideas to work with.
For Brian it's a lot simpler than that -- pop songs make him happy.

Rockin' Phyllis' Musical Inn

The Friday night show was a three-band night at Phyllis Musical Inn on Division. Our old friend Sam Saunders booked us to open for his band, the Sam Saunders Machine, and an Indiana band called Factor Four (http://www.myspace.com/factorfourf4).

Factor Four was a real welcome surprise for the Chicago scene. A blend of punk and post-punk, they are reminiscent of Wire, Joy Division, early Cure, and Black Flag. It was a mutual admiration night with the Short Punks diggin' the music of Factor Four. We were impressed by the tambourine player -- "reminds me of the Byrds," Brian said later. They play extensively in Indiana so if you're in the Midwest, definitely check them out.

In the meantime, here's some pics of SPiL, Factor 4, and The Sam Saunders Machine.


Chuck of Factor 4 leading the band with Chris on drums, James on guitar, and Shelly on a mean tambourine.





Sam Saunders tears it up with Dara on bass and Rich on drums.

At the end of the Short Punks set we were surprised by the entrance of 10-15 bar crawlers in 1980's workout regalia. Feel the burn, everyone.

For those of you who haven't seen SPiL live, here's shot of Brian's foot -- he plays barefoot.











Thanks to Sam Saunders for the great pics!

Montrose Saloon

We did a show on Friday at the Montrose Saloon, one of our favorite places to play. This time, we had guests: John Mead from Mystery Train and his friend, an Old Town School of Folk Music guitar instructor, named Cathy. John and Cathy did an opening set playing some of John's originals.










Then John sat in for four or five songs with Short Punks. Before this show, John and Brian had met for less than 5 minutes 3 years ago, but on Friday they rocked like old friends. As self-taught guitar players that shared a mutual vocabulary in classic rock. They jammed on impromptu versions of "Road Runner," "Sweet Jane," "Garden Party," and some Dylan classics.


We look forward to having John sit in with us at a future show.

Gear Alert: John Bull

Acquiring guitar gear is probably one of the few things Brian lives to do. And one might wonder what that has to do with Chick Drummer. Does she have input in pedal choices? Does she care? Gear acquisition discussions usually begin like this:

Brian is at the computer in the kitchen. I’m washing dishes.

Brian: Where’s Northbrook?

CD: Uh…above Evanston, why?

Brian: Just curious.

A minute passes and I figure it out.

CD: What gear do you want to buy now?

Brian: Well, there’s this…no, no, I won’t get it. I don’t need it.

CD: What is it?

Brian: Well…[he lifts his hands in the air, the fingers forming a box shape] what it is does is [insert gear head ramble here]…so you see I could get a whole new sound…

CD: Where is this pedal?

Brian: A new guitar store opened in Northbrook called Fat Tone Guitars and they’re the only ones who sell this pedal.

Then, here comes the look that would make juries weep…a round-eyed lost puppy dog look.

CD: Okay, I’ll do this. If we go to Evanston first so I can have lunch at Blind Faith and go to Dave’s Rock Shop, then I’ll go with you.

Brian: Okay!

And sure enough, in a day or two after a lunch of eggs and granola at Blind Faith and a quick trip to the rock store, we’re pulling up to Fat Tone in an industrial park in Northbook.

Brian: Um…you can stay in the car, if you want.

CD: I was planning on it.

Guitar stores are tough places for drummers. There’s an obscure tech lingo in these stores and nothing a drummer can hit. In fact, it’s quite the opposite: you better not hit anything in a guitar store, because it could cost you a fortune to replace. But for Brian guitar stores are like temples and he enters, his guitar slung over his shoulder like King Arthur wielding Excaliber.

I wait in the car. I’m the dusty, awkward groom who waits behind with the horse while the hero battles a dragon. For an hour and half, I read, sleep, and sweat. It’s 85 degrees and I start to feel like a survivor on a desert island. Thirsty. Impatient. Hot. Thoughts of abandoning him to drive to Target down the road and browse housewares invade my mind. No, I’ll wait. I can’t leave. Just as I think I’m going to go mad with dehydration, Brian emerges, little white box in hand. He’s grinning.

A pedal acquisition is no ordinary trip. It involves negotiation, travel, patience, and an epic journey to lands time forgot. But Brian emerges from the lair of the minotaur with his new conquest. A bright, gold covered box. Beowulf emerging from the depths would have looked no less triumphant.

And like all secret talismans, ordinary folks like me have no idea what it does. For more on that, e-mail the guitar wizard himself at shortpunksinlove@sbcglobal.net But make sure you have the secret password, the magic phrase that will open wonderous worlds: short punks rule.

God speed, brave warriors.

Chick Drummer Has Moved

Omigod did you leave the band?

No. I didn't leave the band. At the Blogher conference I received some good information about expanding the Chick Drummer to its own blog so that I can explore more issues about women and music. I also wanted to devote some time to writing about our shows in general. So this blog, Short Punks in Love, will be about our shows, rehearsals, recordings, podcasts, etc.

So, if you're looking for Chick Drummer, go to: http://chickdrummer.wordpress.com/

I'm new to wordpress so let me know if there are things that I should change on the new blog. And if you subscribe, don't forget to add the link.

Meanwhile, stay connected here for news on SPiL!

Thanks for reading!!

Walking a Cat

Brian took Rosie for a walk today. Well, sort of. Rosie is a cat. Cats don’t get walked. They get tethered. And once you tether them, you better be prepared for the cat to make the rules. Cats always make the rules, but it is only when you leash them and try to make them act like something that they are not that you begin to realize finally that they are not dogs or weasels or horses. They are cats. They live by their own rules.

Brian has been sick. And his daily perambulation consists of sitting on the porch with Rosie on his lap while he sniffles and coughs at the August sunshine. Brian hates summer. Having a cold during the summer just makes a bad situation worse. So while he sits on the porch and hates his cold and his summer and longs for the bite of a Chicago winter, Rosie sits with him

Today, however, she seemed more enchanted by the outdoors than usual and rather than sit contentedly on Brian’s lap while nature came to her, she decided to investigate nature. This meant an attempted leap off the porch. The only thing stopping her was my hand on her tail and Brian’s hand at her collar. That’s when I suggested he leash her. We tried using a harness once, but she bucked it like a wild horse bucks a saddle. She leapt up and down throughout the living room and kitchen, toppling guitars and chairs before I had the presence of mind to grab her by the back of her neck like a mother cat grabs a kitten while Brian unbuckled the harness.

Now, we just attach the leash to her collar. She gets the idea anyway. She knows she’s attached to something and instead of going to explore as we think she would, she sits down instead and bats at the leash or pulls at it with her head. This is perhaps the only time when she seems like a dog – rather, a puppy. Which, by the way, is one of the ironic nicknames we use for both cats – “puppy.”

So Rosie sat there on the porch peering at her green leash while Brian waited at the bottom of the stairs. It was there that I remembered a story I read – the only story I remember, really, and not even a story at that – about Shelley Manne, the drummer. Manne was a great drummer who began during the big band era. I still remember my first sight of him on a DVD of jazz drummers. He sat on a riser above the band behind a white drum kit with a bass drum the size of a coffee table. He had a solo. The bandleader signaled him, but instead of a flashy Buddy Rich solo, the kind I had been accustomed to seeing, Manne did something subtle instead. A quick roll. A swinging beat on the hi-hat, and then without hesitation he moved to the floor tom and changed to a slower tempo but it still swung. You could hear all the beats even when he wasn’t playing them. Wow. And he was cute, too.

What’s that guy’s name?” I asked Brian who was holding the remote.

“I don’t know. Let’s see…” He skipped back on the DVD. “Shelley Manne.”

Be still my heart. Shelley Manne. Where are you?

Turns out, he’s dead. Long since.

A quick Wikipedia search told me he had died. That was all I really learned aside from the usual listing of recordings and famous appearances and friendships with other musicians. But that’s not what I wanted to know. I wanted to know some story, see some picture of the musician that would help me see what kind of person he could have been. A few weeks later I ordered a book about him from the library. In the dim light of my library carrel I skimmed over the names of records and appearances and then I read an anecdote about where he grew up. His father was a music director in New York City and young Shelley, perhaps no more than 7 or 8, would walk his cat on a leash through Central Park.

Walk his cat on leash through Central Park. That’s what I needed. Every time I see him play or even think of him playing I see that picture of him in my head – a young boy in short pants, a boat under his arm, walking toward the pond in Central Park with a cat on a leash. A cat that undoubtedly would stop and sit and pluck at his leash rather than walk.

So this morning, while I watched Rosie chew on her green leash and while I watched Brian wait patiently for her to notice him and not the leash, I saw in my mind a young Shelley Manne, seven years from his first drum set, try to walk a cat through Central Park. It’s these odd pictures years apart in different cities and lifetimes, but which are remarkably similar that remind that we are all the same and that once Shelley Manne, just like me, had to learn to play triplets, or hold his sticks properly, or accentuate a beat, or come in from a break. That’s why stories about famous people are so comforting to us. We realize that’s once they were just like us – just like us trying to walk a cat on a leash.

The Magic of Elephants

About a month after I started playing the drums, we got a gig at the Red Line Tap and I suggested instead of practicing at home that we should rent a rehearsal space for a few hours to hear how we sound at a louder volume. We found a practice space just south of Wicker Park in the old industrial district that rented rooms with equipment for $10.00 an hour. Ten dollars got us a room full of amplifiers, a P.A., and a drum set. The usually smelled of sweat, bear, and stale smoke which filtered in from one end of the hallway where people were allowed to smoke since smoking wasn’t allowed in the rooms themselves. For me, the advantage of playing there was being able to hear myself play loud. At home, I covered my drum et with an assortment of kitchen towels and placements to dampen the sound, but no matter what I did to the drum set, it was loud, so loud that if Brian was playing it, which he often did when he was recording a new song, I could hear it halfway down the block. Despite my enthusiasm to learn to rock, at 38 years-old, I could imagine how annoying it would be for the next door neighbor who just moved into that million dollar single family home next door to hear me banging on drums at one o’clock in the afternoon. So I covered them with towels and did my best to play quietly. But that’s antithetical to the instrument and in order to hear how I really sounded, especially when I played with Brian, we had to rent a practice space by the hour in four-story factory building. The first time we went, Brian insisted on bringing his own tube amplifier, which is a heavy kind of thing be carrying up four factory flights of stairs. As time went on and the more we practiced there, the less we brought so that eventually I only brought drumsticks and a bottle of water and Brian brought his guitar and his pedals. It was on one of those evenings that I discovered the magic of playing music.

It was an awful rehearsal. I sucked that night. There was something going on in my head. I thought everything I played sounded terrible and at the same time I could play what I heard in my head. Brian would hit some chords and in my head, I would think: “Okay, double snare hits, right here.” Instead I would miss the space to play them entirely and I would play out of rhythm. I stopped several times, just gripped with a kind of panic, that all of sudden, after almost a year of practicing I couldn’t play even the simplest thing – something I could have played in the first month. Each mistake just made me more panicked until I became focused only on what I couldn’t do and not what I could do. After an hour, I felt paralyzed. I sat behind the drum set almost unable to move. It was made worse by the fact that we weren’t at home, where I could get up, take a break, maybe have a cup a tea and then come back in an hour. Here we were paying to play and I wanted to make the two hours worth the money we spent on it. My shoulders slumped over. I sighed. Brian smiled sympathetically.

“What’s wrong?”

“I feel like I can’t play.”

“But we’ve played this before. We’ve played it out.”

“I know. There’s just something going on my head. I think I can’t play.”

“You can play.”

I sighed. If I was a Peanuts cartoon, someone could have looked at me and seen the word balloon with SIGH written in it above me. I almost didn’t know what to do. I tried for a few minutes, continually looking at the clock, thinking “another hour.” Then after half an hour, “another half-hour.” And then later, “okay, it’s 15 minutes before the end of the reservation, I can pack up now.”

The two hours ended with me, unhappy and depressed – dejected. I wanted to give up. Who was a I kidding anyway? The thought was embedded in my brain as we walked down the four flights of stairs to the street. I barely spoke.

I was in front of Brian, opening the door, so I saw them first. It was 10 o’clock at night, dark in the street between the factory buildings, but even in the darkness I could see the huge forms of grey elephants, walking tail to trunk. I stopped. My mouth opened slightly and then as if I was twelve, I shouted “Elephants!”

There they were a line of four or six elephants lumbering gracefully with their giant padded feet down a street in a Chicago. Next to them were keepers, who smiled as I shouted. What it must be like to take elephants for a walk down a street in Chicago! I heard a footsteps racing down the staircase behind me and the door burst open. One of the managers of the practice space had raced down the four flights.

“I saw them from upstairs,” he said, breathing heavily. “And I wanted to see them up close.”

The three of us stood there, watching, mouths slightly agape as a short little parade of elephants and then zebras passed in front of us quietly and calmly. And it was in that moment of awe, of wonderment, that I forgot the very thoughts that had kept me paralyzed for the last two hours. For three endless minutes, it wasn’t about me being disappointed in myself and fearful of the future, but me with elephants and zebras standing in wonderment of the circumstances that brought all of us together.

“Where are they coming from?” I asked the manager.

“The circus is at United Center and there’s a loading ramp to the trains behind the building so they walk them to load them into the train.”

“Wow.” I said

“Yeah.”

The last zebra twitched its tail in good-bye to us as the parade receded into the dark, damp mist of a Chicago November night. From that night on, I tried, whenever the fear of my inadequacy loomed large in my head, to think of elephants, and their magic which helped me forget that the largest part of who I am is not the part that can’t do something, but the part that can.

The Green Elephant

Making your dreams come true is one thing. Practicing to make them come true is another.

I had the drum set – hunter green – set-up in the spare bedroom (now known as the “music room” after we removed Brian’s desk and the books). But owning a drum set isn’t the same as playing it. And because of the flu, for the first 2 weeks, I barely touched it. When I did, I sat on the drum stool (“throne” I eventually learned later), hitting things sort of aimlessly. I was timid with this new monstrosity that took up all the available space in the bedroom the way an elephant takes up the space around a small circus stool. Oddly though, I felt huge behind the drums rather than small. I thought I would feel small behind it overwhelmed by the drums that I didn’t know how to use and the bronze cymbals that seemed to loud in that too small space. Instead, I felt like an elephant trying to balance a huge foot on a small table. Everything seemed too small as I hit a drum head with a stick. And I seemed too big. Out of place behind the set. I feel I didn’t fit. This wasn’t me … yet.

Learning to make that drum set feel like a part of me rather than a set of false limbs was what practicing came to mean to me. The more I practiced, the more I realized I was learning how to live as me rather than just learning how to play the drums. This realization came one day during one of those tortuous practice sessions when I would bash at the heads and sound would come out, but nothing that sounded like music. Or, to put it more simply, I was not playing anything that even I wanted to hear.

On the rubber practice pad, I had begun to feel as if playing the drums was possible. Without the loud, real sound of a stick hitting a drum head on a huge birch shell, I could feel like I was playing really well. Yeah, I rock, I thought, as I heard the muffled fwack-fwack of the drum stick on the rubber. Fwack-fwack, fic-fic, fwack-fwack.. Oh yes, I definitely rock.

The day I took those sticking exercises to a real drum set for the first time was the moment I realized that I had only learned half of it. On those drumheads, that fwack-fwack sounded like bash-bash-rattle, bash-rattle-bash. When I tried to play softer, thinking if I lowered the volume of what I was playing, it would sound better all I heard was a whooshing rattle noise that buzzed in the air long after I played it. That’s when I felt as if learning how to play the drums was one of the most misguided ideas I have ever had and I had a few in my lifetime.

I sat there on that stool, dejected. My heart fell into my shoes. And the sticks, felt heavy and leaden in my hands. What happened to that magic daydream that I had in my head? How was I going to get there from here? I put the sticks down and walked away from the kit. I stayed away for a few weeks. Whenever I walked by the room and saw that green drum set, it looked like a huge face, opening its huge bass drum mouth and mocking me: You can’t play me. Ha-ha. You can’t play me.

I started to wonder if I should sell it. Post a picture of it Craig’s List and buy a futon for that room and some plants. Maybe make a library.

The drum set had arrived on the December 23^rd, but because of the holidays and my teacher’s departure to Texas to plan his wedding, our next lesson wasn’t for another 3 or 4 weeks. I continued practicing on the rubber practice pad, where I felt safe. At my next lesson, Ben asked if I had found a drum set. I triumphantly told him I had.

“Awesome!!”

I told him how much I paid and that it had been delivered to me by a filmmaker in Milwaukee who was on his way to Indiana to film a documentary.

“That’s a great deal,” he said. “And it was delivered to you! Well, we have to teach you something you can play on it.”

We do? I thought. You’re going to help me conquer that green elephant in my possibly-soon-to-be a library?

That’s when Ben had me move my stool up to the drum set that sat in the basement of Andy’s Music where he gave lessons.

I tensed. I was sitting behind another drum set and that feeling that said you will never do this in your whole life even if you tried returned.

“Okay,” Ben said. “You’re going to learn the basic rock beat.” While he talked I tried to breathe while he wrote the notes on tabulature. He showed me how to read the notes: the middle note was snare; the bottom note, bass; and the row of x’s on the top, hi-hat. All those violin lessons were finally paying off. At least I can read notes across a page, but the hard part was going to make my limbs recognize that the middle note wasn’t an “A” but a snare hit. Over the course of an hour, Ben helped me discover a new road into the mysterious land of that drum set. The hi-hat clicked out the time in eighth notes: one-and-two-three-and-four-and. Chik-chik-chik-chik-chik-chik-chik-chik. As I played it, I recognized it as that sound I hear in most songs that ticks out the beat, a high-sounding clicking that can be heard above the other sounds. Then, I learned the snare sound, a crack that came on the TWO and the FOUR. So, now I heard chik-chik-CRACK/chik-chik-chik-chik-CRACK/chik-chik. And finally, the bass drum, the boom underneath it all; that came on the ONE and the THREE. BOOM/chick-chick-CRACK/chik-chik-BOOM/chik-chik-CRACK/chik-chik.

OH MY GOD!! I thought. I’m playing the drums!!

And as soon as I heard it, it was gone. The booms fell on the cracks the chik disappeared altogether and I was playing the same noisy-bashing I played at home. I looked to Ben, expecting either disappointment or concern.

Instead Ben’s face flashed a huge smile: “Awesome!! That rocked!”

“It did?”

“Yeah, you got it. Now, you just have to practice it.”

Practice I did. I practiced and practiced it until I could play that plain old rock beat for 3 minutes. At first it came for only a few seconds, then a full minute, and then, one snowy, sub-zero afternoon, I heard that rock beat come steady and loud and I knew I had tamed that elephant. The mocking maw of that bass drum was vanquished, and instead of the drum set being a land too small or too large for me, it was a place that was beginning to be made just for me. It was on that day that I discovered how music could be a place to go to not only to escape, the most obvious reason, but also to discover – to discover who I was going to be now and what I was going to do now.

Drum Set Sick

We’re sick this morning. Both of us. With the same thing. Sore throat. Headache. Congestion. Cranky. Conversation this morning went something like this:

“You don’t love me.”

“I do.”

Cough. Cough.

“I want a movie.”

“Which one?”

“Something stupid.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t love me.”

“I do.”

Like I said, cranky. Whenever I’m sick like this – cranky, tired, sore throat sick – I occasionally remember the day my drum set arrived. The hunter green one I bought off Craig’s List for $370. I was sick then, too. Flu-sick. And it was December…

(insert here: a swirly flashback effect)...

It’s December 23^rd and I’m in bed with an arm over my eyes and swallowing. Am I going
to vomit now? I swallow.

No. Not now.

My stomach churns. Under the heavy wool clothes, I am damp and sweaty. I cough. My throat is dry and sore. At the same time my nose and sinuses are full and wet.

I am lying in bed with the flu. But I want to be up with Brian sitting on the couch waiting for the drum set to arrive. I wait to hear the doorbell ring which would mean the filmmaker from Milwaukee was here with the drum set.

I searched Craig’s List for a week looking for a drum kit I could afford. I was not even sure what I needed or what I should be looking for in terms of quality. All I knew was that I had about 400 dollars to spend. I had 200 and Brian was giving me 200. Everything on Craig’s List seemed like it was 600 dollars or more. What made it worse was that it was Christmas and every parent in the country was probably looking for a kit for their kid. But I hunted until I finally realized that I would be willing to drive an hour or two to Milwaukee or Madison or Indiana. After that, finding a set didn’t take long. In Milwaukee, a man had posted a picture of a green Tama Rhythm-mate. I didn’t know much but it looked hardly played. He had photographed the name plates on the drums so that I could see the name and serial numbers. He wanted $400. I could negotiate him down to $350. It was green. This was my set.
When he answered the phone, he seemed eager.

“Hi, I e-mailed you about the drum set.”

“Yeah!”

There was a pause. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to ask.
“So…” I said, trying to make time while I figured out what to say next. “You’re selling the one in the ad on Craig’s List?”

“Yeah. It pretty much is what you see. I bought it thinking I would overcome my fear of drums, but I never got around to it. I bought it used from a guy, but it looks like he didn’t play it much.”

“So why are you selling it?”

“Well, I’m a filmmaker and I need the money to finance the movie I’m working on.”

“Oh. What’s your movie?” I asked that because I didn’t know what to ask abou the drum set. He proceed to tell me about a man in Indiana, whom I said I heard of but hadn’t, who also makes movies, horror films and is the subject of his documentary. I listened politely.

“I’d like $400,” he said. “But I’m willing to negotiate.”

“How about $350?” I asked. “I live in Chicago so I would have to come up and get it.”

“You live in Chicago!!”

His enthusiasm for that fact took me aback. “Yeah, why?”

“I had to go through Chicago this weekend to go to Indiana to do a filmshoot. I can drop it off.” A pause. “If you want to pay for gas...”

“Okay, how about twenty bucks?”

A pause. “Okay.”

And we sealed the deal. I told him where I lived and how to get here from Milwaukee and he told me when he would be arriving.

Two days later, I have the flu. The filmmaker said he would be arriving around ten o’clock but it was already ten-thirty and I couldn’t stay awake anymore. I go to bed, while Brian stays up watching TV, tapping his feet, like an expectant father.

I hear Brian’s cell phone ring and then I hear him giving directions to someone. “Just go west on Belmont…”

Brian’s voice fades away as I feel a wave of nausea surge upwards again from my stomach. I fall asleep and from somewhere in my sleep, I hear the doorbell ring. I listen as two male voices speak to Brian and I hear heavy objects being brought into the kitchen. The voices recede again towards the front door and the door closes. A minute later Brian’s hand is on my shoulder.

“It’s here.”

I open an eye. “Yay…” I mutter into the pillow.

“Do you want to see it?”

“Sure.” I pull myself out of bed, the air of the room is frigid against the heat of my body and I shiver. I grab a blanket and wrap it around me.

On the floor of the kitchen is a pile of green drums, stands, and cymbals. It looks like the limbs of a skeleton, taken apart and scattered across the kitchen.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“It’s nice….”

“You don’t like it?”

“I do…” But that’s when the reality of it hits me like a stick. Can I learn how to play those? Would I be able to?

Doubt creeps over my head and pounds on my brain. I feel myself get dizzy and the drum set turns into a pool of inky green before my eyes. I walk out of the kitchen back into the bedroom and pull the covers over my head. Is this some hopeless dream?

A year later, I realize it wasn’t a hopeless dream. I play the drums now – perhaps not as well as I would like – and I play them in public – perhaps not as well as I would like, but I play them. So now I know nothing’s really hopeless…I think.

.2 seconds of Non-Fame

I wasn't planning about writing about this. In fact, I had consciously decided I wouldn't write about this because it wasn't directly related to drumming. But I've ended up as a sound byte on NPR so I guess I have to write about it.

Today I want to the Blogher conference in Chicago which is an annual meet-up for women in blogging (http://www.blogher.org/about-blogher-conferences-events). My decision to go was a last minute one. I found a link to the conference on a foodblog and discovered the conference was being held here in Chicago. Well, I thought, how often does that happen?

It was overwhelming. Hundreds of women filled the Grand Ballroom of Navy Pier. I expected one hundred, maybe two, but I heard the women down the hallway before I saw them -- a muffled roar. And then I walked in. Hundreds of women. I didn't even know where to start. But before I even had a chance to get coffee, a woman introduced herself to me, told me about her blog, asked me about mine, and before I knew it, I knew someone.

The ice-breaker activity however is when I really felt it was possible to get something out of this experience. We were asked to stand in two circles, one inside the other, and face the woman in front of us. They set a timer. We had one minute to describe our blog to the other woman and to hear a description of her blog. After a minute, we moved to the next woman to our right and did it again. I met 7 women or so who wrote interesting blogs (the few exceptions being corporate reps who were there to tout their wares). I gave away business cards -- good thing, too, because I stayed up until 2 am last night printing and handstamping them with the short punks logos (excuse me, brand).

It was during this activity that I noticed men with microphones standing beside us while we talked. And while I was describing Chick Drummer to another woman, I noticed the microphone was right next to me. I thought nothing of it and moved on. I thought nothing of it that is until I listened to the local NPR station's coverage of the event this evening. In the first few seconds of the story, I heard that muffled roar -- the one I heard this morning in the ballroom -- and as the reporter began to describe the conference, I heard a voice, a familiar voice, say this: "I'm a drummer for a band. I write about being a drummer." Hm, I thought as I listened to the NPR broadcast, why didn't I meet her? We have a lot in common. Then it hit me. Oh my god. That was me. That was me describing my blog at the ice-breaker. Holy shit!

And that's all I said. No interview. No "What's your name?" Just my voice. So this is my .2 seconds of non-fame.

But you know who it is. And that's good enough for me.

If you want to hear my .2 seconds of non-fame, then here's the link. Don't snooze, you might miss it.

http://www.chicagopublicradio.org/CityRoom_Story.aspx?storyID=12332

A Rock and a Stick

A part of me had to get over what seemed like the basic ridiculousness of the drums. What drumming boils down to is a stick hitting a rock. The primitiveness of that idea – and the complementary idea that only boys hits things with sticks was one of those ideas I had to get over to learn how to play them. The violin, which I had grown up playing, was a gentle instrument, refined over centuries, ethereal. The drums, on the other hand, is this: a stick hitting a surface. The good side of that is anyone can come to the drums and make a sound – a decent sound. That’s hard to say about the violin. It takes a fair amount of training and practice just to get a sound. The bad side? The drums seem easier to learn than they are. A drum teacher told me once and I realized it later myself, that it’s a lot harder than it looks to become a good drummer. A person can get through a song bashing at the drums, but to be really good at it takes time and practice.

From the moment I got my first drum kit, a late eighties, forest green Tama Rhythm-mate, I was intimated. It was almost too simple. And yet, I couldn’t even put it together by myself. That would be the first dichotomy I would learn about the drums: it’s so easy, it’s hard. Thankfully, Brian knew about drum set-up from the bands he had been in and the drummers in them. Andy, the drummer of Brian’s band in Connecticut, had floor toms and cymbals galore which meant, as Brian reminded me, that they – the other bandmates – had to gather all that gear from the rehearsal space and load it into their cars. Brian, not me, knew that the drum stool is not called a “stool” but a “throne.” Brian, not me, knew I needed a drum key to attach the drum pedal and to extend the legs of the bass drum. And Brian, not me, knew how to attach the cymbals to their stands. All I knew was that a huge drum kit was taking up all the space in my kitchen.

That brings me to another dynamic of learning how to play the drums – the lingo. There’s a few terms that only gigging musicians know and while I had been living with a musician for 4 years and had heard the terms before, as I began to play and gig myself I heard myself utter specialized lingo with the same casual manner that I would have previously said things like “I’m going to the bathroom” or “Have you seen my keys?”

Now, my everyday conversation includes phrases like: “Can you help me load up the gear?”, “Who’s doing the backline?”, and our personal gig favorite “I need more mids in my monitors.”

The terminology is something I learned in context, gradually, as if I was learning Italian or Swedish. When we set-up for a show at a bar, the Sound Guy (usually a guy – although we’ve had Sound Girls twice) appears and asks:

“How many vocals you need?”

“One,” we say.

And we do sound check – another term meant to designate that period before the show when the sound guy/girl listens to you play and sets the “levels” – another term for setting the bass and treble – essentially the sound of the music. Setting “levels” is much like adjusting the equalizer on your car stereo. With each gig I learned more of the language that made me less a novice and more…well, I wouldn’t say “pro”, how about “experienced”? Understanding what was going around me during the set-up of a show also helped me feel more confident about actually playing the show. I don’t start the night by being baffled so I don’t end it that way either…well, most of the time, anyway. My confidence these days has risen so that I remember to learn the names of the men and women “who run the board” (that’s more lingo for Sound Guy) and also to show them the due respect. I’ve also learned that no matter how well we play, if the P.A. and the sound isn’t working, it won’t matter. My confidence is also good enough that on stage I’m as comfortable speaking to the Sound Guy as I am speaking to Brian, but that too was another journey.

As I learned to play I learned to step away from ideas about drumming that had stereotyped it and hence, made it inaccessible to me. I stepped away from the idea that it was for boys, especially young ones, or for teen-agers. I also stepped away from the idea that it was primitive. The more I learned to play and the more I listened to great drummers, the more I could feel the emotional content of drumming. And as I practiced on my rubber practice pad in the extra bedroom next to the closet with the litter boxes the more I began to appreciate the subtlety of an instrument that, at first glances, seems to be about the not-subtle. When I hold a drum stick in my hand I don’t feel the urge to hit things, rather, I feel now the grain in the wood, the gentle curve of stick as it sits on top of my fingers. I feel the weight of its tip as it hits the practice pad. I feel the muscles of my arm moving slightly and simply to adjust the sound. I feel my pinky finger adjust at the end of the stick and I realize that this hitting a surface with a stick is not an act of aggression, but expression. And as I sit upright and breathe and count, I move inward into myself and feel how that stick and I are part of the same universe and my expression is a feeling beyond me.

And then there are other days….

One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and..

Left-right-left-right

When it feels like I’m just hitting a rock with a stick.

Fifty Ways

I’m trying to learn the drum beat from Paul Simon’s “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover.” That distinctive Steve Gadd beat that starts the song. The beat that seems to have 3 to 4 different beats in it, but when you put it all together it sounds like one. I’m not really interested in the whole song just that first few bars with that distinctive beat. I listen to it, and then I start the track again, listen, start over, listen, and start over.

I don’t get it and I’ve been trying to learn it for over a year. I once asked Jon, one of my first drum teachers, to play it for me and effortlessly he reproduced the beat for me.

“Where did you learn it?” I asked him, in awe.

He shrugged. “All drummers know it.”

I didn’t. And so, by implication, I felt that I wasn’t a drummer. Not too far off the mark really since I was still in the first year of learning. That beat has become my new Everest – a mountain I have chosen to climb. And I’m not doing shortcuts. I’m not looking up Steve Gadd on YouTube. Or looking for sheet music. No, I’m just listening to the song, over and over again.

But even as I repeat the track over and over and try to imagine Steve Gadd playing that distinctive beat that chik-chik-chikitty-chikitty-chik-boom inside my head I see not drums and cymbals, but the blue and white landscape of a Grecian island. I see and smell the sea. I taste the tang of yogurt and the sweetness of honey. And then I remember. Greece. The first time I ever really listened to Paul Simon I was on Crete on holiday from school in England.

The trip to Crete was a last minute thought right before term ended in March. We had a month off. The other Americans were going to Morocco to get high and sing endless rounds of “Marrakesh Express” in second class train cars. I wanted to go elsewhere and I wanted to be warm. The cloudy damp of Northern England had depressed me and given me my first taste of seasonal depression. Everywhere I went the air was heavy with cold and damp. So I was a ripe target for the advertising of a Thomas Cook Travel Agency. I was hunched under an umbrella walking down the High Street when I saw a poster of a beach and an island. On impulse I walked in and asked for a brochure. In my room, I looked at a map of Europe and found the southernmost point – Greece – and then, the southernmost island – Crete.

In less than a month, I landed in Heraklion, sleepy and dazed from the early flight from Gatwick and the traveling I had done to Wales the week before. I wanted to lie down, but there was still a two hour bus ride to get to the town where I had rented a flat for two weeks. From inside the bus, I watched the rocky, dry terrain pass and the goats that stepped lightly over the arid rock.

I was traveling light and in those days one couldn’t bring 200 songs with them on an mp3 player. On those days, we had a tape cassette player and we had to choose the tapes we would bring. How many tapes could I pack before it took up too much space in my small backpack? For me, I think, it must have been three or four. I can’t remember two, but I do remember the other two: Paul Simon’s Greatest Hits and The Eagles. I spent years after denying those two choices, but at that moment in Greece they were inspired. It may only be in other countries that we begin to appreciate how American we really are, and it was only through these two tapes that I understood I was, for better or worse, an American. It was on a beach on Crete, as I watched a boat float into the harbor, its white sail a stark contrast to the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean, that I could picture the New York street where he meets the old lover and the playground where Julio plays or the evening in its lateness. Even the much-maligned Eagles seemed special on that island. Laying on small beaches I pictured driving endless highways, blacktop striped with yellow that extended into orange horizons.

Years later, I’m sitting with Paul Simon again, but instead of picturing the flatness of an American prairie or the skyscrapers of New York, I’m picturing an island ripe with oranges. Memory is an odd thing. I think that’s why music is so fascinating. A song is so flexible – it means for us not just what the lyrics say – but the feelings that memory imprints upon the song. “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover” isn’t just about relationship’s end, but, for me, it’s about a time when I was young and traveling looking for the very things that Paul Simon is singing about – the friends, the lovers, the bars, the cities, the memories.

And underneath it all – that beat – that chik-chik-chikity-chik-boom.

God, how does he play it?

Marital Dischord

Brian and I had a fight. One of those marital fights with words in it like “you always” and “why don’t you.” One of those kinds of fights. I may be wrong but it may only be married couples who can have a fight like that. Why married couples? Because married couples vowed, somewhere, sometime, whether in front of a judge or a priest, whether they meant it or not, to love and honor their spouse. When Brian and I fight I start to wonder what percentage of “love and honor” I meant. A hundred percent until he pisses me off? Fifty percent if I don’t understand what he’s doing? Twenty-five percent if he tells me he’ll be home at one time and comes home at another?

What makes this particular fight interesting is that we were fighting about music. Making music. Making our music. We don’t have children but I wonder if it’s like fighting about the kids. One parent wants to child to go to public school, the other, private. One parent wants to take them to the grandparents, the other wants to go to the zoo. Is it like that I wonder?

For us, fighting about a song is like fighting about its (our) future.

Brian’s laying on the floor, as usual, the remote on his chest. Ben sits beside him curled into the crook of his arm. We’re talking about a new song.

“I thought you were going to play brushes on that?” He asks.
“No, sticks.”
“Why?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I changed my mind.”

“I think it sounds good with brushes.”

I’m reading a book on the couch. I shrug my shoulders.

“I like playing it with sticks.”

Brian says nothing but from the corner of my eye I see his mouth set slightly. That tensing of the jaw muscle is as good as a sentence.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“What??”

“You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always change your mind about the song after we decided upon it.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I just wanted to play with sticks. That’s all.”

“You could have told me. That means I need to change the way I play it.”

“What are you taking about? You always change the way you play it. It’s never the same way. I figured if I changed it wouldn’t matter to you.”

Brian’s jaw tenses again. Now, he’s not going to say anything at all. At least for a minute or two. This is where he builds steam, like the little engine that could, ready to puff it’s way up the hill. Even in these tense moments, I occasionally have the urge to laugh – to laugh at us. Ha-ha, we’re fighting! I hear in my head. Isn’t it funny?

But we keep fighting.
You do this.
You do that.
I do not.
That’s not true.
It is.
Well, if that’s how you feel.
You can just go.
You go.
No, you.
I’m not going anywhere.
Neither am I.

It goes on like that for awhile until someone breaks through and we discover what the fight is really about.

I’m worried about work.
I’m worried about school.
Why didn’t you say so?
Why didn’t you?
You’ll be fine.
So will you.
I’m sorry.
Me too.
I’ll play the sticks.
No, play brushes.
No, I can play sticks.
I won’t change the song.
I like the song.
Thanks.
I’m hungry.
Me too.
What do you feel like?
Indian.
How about Thai?
That’ll work.
I’ll get the car.