A Lesson in Humility
One of the things I was dreading most about moving to Sweden was the fact that I would have to sell my beloved drum kit. I had no place to put it, and I realized that storing it would be prohibitively expensive. So when I got here, I was understandably jazzed ugh! to discover not one but two clubs within walking distance of my place that had weekly open jams.
Music has always been one of the few constants in my life, a creative outlet totally unlike any part of my day job and a great stress reliever. Percussion is such a visceral, kinetic thing that I've never really had a bad day at the drums, and it's probably as responsible as anything else for preserving what little sanity I had left toward the end of graduate school. When I found out about these open sessions, I resolved to give them a shot as soon as I could.
I went to the first place last Saturday afternoon, and it was great. The band leader was quite friendly and trusting (remarkably so, in fact, given that he didn't know me from a hole in the wall at that point), and after listening for an hour to get a sense of what the band was doing, I even got up and played a few songs. I certainly didn't light anyone's hair on fire, but I got through the pieces without any major screw-ups, kept decent time, and managed to avoid bringing the band to a grinding halt. The vibe onstage was friendly and laid-back, and I felt like I would be welcome if I came back the following week. So far, so good.
This past Tuesday I went to the other place. Right from the start it was a little unusual: I couldn't hear any music at all from the street, and as I made my way past the tangle of people at the tiny bar I began to wonder whether I'd walked into the wrong pub. Finally I found the spiral stairs in the back, which led to a warren of low, stone-walled rooms in the basement; the musicians were set up in the largest one, just at the bottom of the staircase.
As it happened, my timing appeared to be perfect: the house band had been playing for about an hour, and just as I arrived the band leader was asking if there were any people in the audience who wanted to sit and jam with the band.
So I wander over to the drum kit, squeeze past the amps and chairs and tables to the drum throne, and sit down to play a few songs. It feels a bit sloppy and disjointed, but I chug through a couple of numbers anyway, trying to underplay and stay the hell out of everyone's way. The whole time we're playing, I notice this heavyset guy sitting just across from the kit who keeps looking at me with an odd expression on his face. Certainly he's not admiring my playing—I'm not that good—but for the life of me I can't figure out why he would have any particular interest in what I'm doing.
It isn't until I finish that I realize this guy is apparently the house drummer. As I maneuver my way out from behind the kit and he gets up to take my place, I get a better look at him. He's rather less than svelte, unshaven, and wearing a ratty t-shirt that could charitably be described as "vintage"—but only if you're intoxicated. The phrase "UNIX sysadmin" comes to immediately to mind.
So the guy sits down... stretches a bit... picks up the sticks...
... and proceeds to unleash a blistering array of jazz pyrotechnics, the likes of which I couldn't touch even if I had a dozen years of one-on-one lessons from Tony Williams, several pounds of cocaine, and ten limbs.
Hrmph.
The visual effect of all this is rather difficult to describe; at the risk of being a bit unkind, from where I'm sitting it looks something like a cross between Durga and Jabba the Hutt.
Or maybe a hirsute combination of Animal and Buddy Rich.* [Warning: large Quicktime clip; broadband recommended.]
Now, normally I'm not all that self-conscious about my playing, but all of this just makes me want to disappear, or at least get far enough away from the drum set so that no one notices it was me playing earlier. Not wanting to fight my way across the room through the crowd—which is now about ten deep and understandably transfixed by this display—I find the only free seat in sight... which is right next to the drum kit.
At which point the band proceeds to go into an extended fifteen-minute jam.
When it's over, I ask him: "Wow, you sound great. How long have you been playing?"
"Since 1977."
"Oh."
I manage to refrain from saying "1977? Gee, aren't your arms tired by now?" or some such smartass remark—though it does cross my mind—and I'm still trying to figure out how to get out of there without any further embarrassment as the band launches into the next song.
Which is right about when I notice that I've left my jacket behind the drum set.
Some days, you get served a slice of humble pie. Other days, you get the whole pie in your face.
* The exasperated expression on Animal's face about two-thirds of the way through the clip sums up the situation nicely, except that Animal is a much better drummer than I am.
Music has always been one of the few constants in my life, a creative outlet totally unlike any part of my day job and a great stress reliever. Percussion is such a visceral, kinetic thing that I've never really had a bad day at the drums, and it's probably as responsible as anything else for preserving what little sanity I had left toward the end of graduate school. When I found out about these open sessions, I resolved to give them a shot as soon as I could.
I went to the first place last Saturday afternoon, and it was great. The band leader was quite friendly and trusting (remarkably so, in fact, given that he didn't know me from a hole in the wall at that point), and after listening for an hour to get a sense of what the band was doing, I even got up and played a few songs. I certainly didn't light anyone's hair on fire, but I got through the pieces without any major screw-ups, kept decent time, and managed to avoid bringing the band to a grinding halt. The vibe onstage was friendly and laid-back, and I felt like I would be welcome if I came back the following week. So far, so good.
This past Tuesday I went to the other place. Right from the start it was a little unusual: I couldn't hear any music at all from the street, and as I made my way past the tangle of people at the tiny bar I began to wonder whether I'd walked into the wrong pub. Finally I found the spiral stairs in the back, which led to a warren of low, stone-walled rooms in the basement; the musicians were set up in the largest one, just at the bottom of the staircase.
As it happened, my timing appeared to be perfect: the house band had been playing for about an hour, and just as I arrived the band leader was asking if there were any people in the audience who wanted to sit and jam with the band.
So I wander over to the drum kit, squeeze past the amps and chairs and tables to the drum throne, and sit down to play a few songs. It feels a bit sloppy and disjointed, but I chug through a couple of numbers anyway, trying to underplay and stay the hell out of everyone's way. The whole time we're playing, I notice this heavyset guy sitting just across from the kit who keeps looking at me with an odd expression on his face. Certainly he's not admiring my playing—I'm not that good—but for the life of me I can't figure out why he would have any particular interest in what I'm doing.
It isn't until I finish that I realize this guy is apparently the house drummer. As I maneuver my way out from behind the kit and he gets up to take my place, I get a better look at him. He's rather less than svelte, unshaven, and wearing a ratty t-shirt that could charitably be described as "vintage"—but only if you're intoxicated. The phrase "UNIX sysadmin" comes to immediately to mind.
So the guy sits down... stretches a bit... picks up the sticks...
... and proceeds to unleash a blistering array of jazz pyrotechnics, the likes of which I couldn't touch even if I had a dozen years of one-on-one lessons from Tony Williams, several pounds of cocaine, and ten limbs.
Hrmph.
The visual effect of all this is rather difficult to describe; at the risk of being a bit unkind, from where I'm sitting it looks something like a cross between Durga and Jabba the Hutt.
 | + |  |
Or maybe a hirsute combination of Animal and Buddy Rich.* [Warning: large Quicktime clip; broadband recommended.]
Now, normally I'm not all that self-conscious about my playing, but all of this just makes me want to disappear, or at least get far enough away from the drum set so that no one notices it was me playing earlier. Not wanting to fight my way across the room through the crowd—which is now about ten deep and understandably transfixed by this display—I find the only free seat in sight... which is right next to the drum kit.
At which point the band proceeds to go into an extended fifteen-minute jam.
When it's over, I ask him: "Wow, you sound great. How long have you been playing?"
"Since 1977."
"Oh."
I manage to refrain from saying "1977? Gee, aren't your arms tired by now?" or some such smartass remark—though it does cross my mind—and I'm still trying to figure out how to get out of there without any further embarrassment as the band launches into the next song.
Which is right about when I notice that I've left my jacket behind the drum set.
Some days, you get served a slice of humble pie. Other days, you get the whole pie in your face.
* The exasperated expression on Animal's face about two-thirds of the way through the clip sums up the situation nicely, except that Animal is a much better drummer than I am.
posted by Biff at 18:59
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