Chick Drummer

We live near a large body of water in Chicago and because it is a large mass of water, the city, inevitably, has seagulls. At least, I think they are seagulls. They sure look like them.

When Brian and I ride to the lake and lounge on the concrete steps and watch the water seagulls are a part of the moving landscape. In the city, they can pick at the garbage that floats on the water, and they hover above trash cans. In an urban center, seagulls can seem like the other flying pests which include pigeons. In this environment, it can be hard to appreciate a seagull. It may be hard to see the precision with which they target food. Or, to see how they seem to nod and wink at each other as they flock together in groups on the sands of North Avenue beach. It can also be difficult to see the grace with which they hover above you in one spot, riding the air currents like a sophisticated piece of machinery. It can be hard to see all that when seagulls are one of the many animals (rats, pigeons, roaches) that we in the city try to avoid or exterminate.

This changed for us recently when Brian purchased a new acoustic guitar, called — you guessed it — a Seagull. Actually, we liked the first one so much, we bought a second one the next week (and thank you Bush for that economic stimulus package, for like other loyal Americans, we spent it). seagull guitars are made in Canada of trees that have already fallen, rather then been felled to make guitars. Thus, they are environmentally and economically responsible. Brian likes this a lot. He’s eco-conscious and feels slightly guilty all the time for most of the injustices of the world. Knowing his guitar is not contributing to it helps him sleep better at night (and I’m totally serious).

I, however, like best the little drawing that sits on the headstock. It is a bird in flight. It’s a nice metaphor for a lot of things that have to do with singing, writing, and music. It suggests freedom, possibilities, determination, quickness, wit, smarts, and … balls. Ever see a seagull steal a fish away from a half-witted duck? It’s quite a sight and the duck comes off looking like a twit.

So, we like the new guitars (one six-string, one twelve) and we like the seagull on the headstock. And, of course, where there is new gear there are new songs. So, stayed tuned…Short Punks could be doing Simon and Garfunkel in the near future….

Singing is much much much much harder than drumming. I sang at the last show and while it did not go badly, I felt in my voice a hesitation and in my head I heard a voice that screamed: “OH MY GOD!! YOU’RE SINGING IN PUBLIC! STOP!” I kept singing and the two brief songs I sang were over before I knew it. So, to the voice I said, “Relax, it’ll be over in a second.”

I so admire singers. And not just famous singers, everyday singers. People who sing songs while they do the dishes or go for a walk. I admire people who sing whole choruses and verses of their favorite song. I have favorite songs and singers. I like the way Nat King Cole sings “Mona Lisa” and the way he lingers on the “m” so that it’s sounds like “yummm…”. I like Etta James when she sings “At Last” and the way she sings the “at last” so that you really can feel her exhale a sigh of relief…at last. I like even (or especially) Astrud Gilberto because of how she sings slightly off-pitch, no so badly that it’s unlistenable but just enough so that it’s charming, fetching, as if she were a child lisping. I love that she is singing and she’s not a perfect singer. And I have discovered (re-discovered, really, I’m old enough to have heard her songs on the radio in the 70s) Karen Carpenter and how she sings with a very short range but every note and breath counts. Every time it rains, her song about rainy days and Monday seems to fall with each drop. Rainy days and Mondays always get me down. Sing it, girl. You speak the truth.

So, I am in awe of singers: the great ones, the flawed ones, the affected ones. I admire them because more than any other instrument I have learned to play (piano, violin, drums), the voice is the one that asks you to be vulnerable. When I sing with my voice, I am making music with my own body (flawed, imperfect, limited) and I’m singing (ideally) with my emotions (sad, angry, happy) and there is no object in between me and the sound an audience hears. There is no instrument under my chin or a wall of drums to hide me from the audience. It is just me and my voice. And when I sat on stage singing I felt as naked as I could feel, despite the wall of drums that sat in front of me. God help me the day I walk out from behind the drums to sing in public.

Singing makes me grow. I have to learn how to find intervals with my voice, which is a matter of teaching the muscles in my throat, mouth, chest, diaphragm to recognize an “A” and know how it’s different from a “C.” Needless to say, I’m still teaching myself those things so by the time we played last week, I still couldn’t pitch myself very well, especially when I was drumming. There was one moment in the chorus of “Rosie” that I knew I wouldn’t hit a low note. We had discovered in rehearsal that fell below my range and that I should go an octave or a third up instead. But, because it’s all new to me and a third up might as well be a universe up, I didn’t quite have it down when we went to the show. And during the song, I tried not to anticipate it. I tried to just let the moment come and accept whatever happened when we got to the chorus.

Oddly, when we got there, a solution presented itself. We were singing in unison and as Brian’s voice dropped down to the unreachable note, I could feel that I wouldn’t hit it on key, and my hands and arms with a mind and brain of their own took over. Instead of singing that note, I played two loud hits on the snare. My voice didn’t sing it but my arms did. The result was that it sounded as if I was punctuating on the drums the idea of the word that Brian was singing. Problem solved. Life is awesome.

Last night we rehearsed again and in order to work on vocals we left all the big gear at home. No big amps, no drums: just Brian and his telecaster and small Fender Champ and me and a snare. A thirty-minute set-up with full drums became a five-minute set-up without them, and within minutes of arriving at the rehearsal space we were ready to practice.

We spent the next hour fighting. I wanted him to turn down. He didn’t want to. I wanted to sing it one way; he, another. He felt invalidated; I was angry. For an hour we stopped and started the same song. We fought about line breaks and fell into angry silences. After an hour, I stopped and did something I learned to do at the last buddhist retreat. I put my hands together, plam to palm, and inhaled and slowly, I counted my out-going breaths from five to zero. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Zero.

“Why don’t we just relax and do what we like?” I said.

Brian sat still, not moving, slumped over his yellow guitar like a puppet without a master. “Okay,” he said in a mutter.

We kept playing. Over the hour the angry stillness seemed to lift and as we got out one good rendition of “Twilight. We seemed to lighten up even more and tried another song. Eventually, we both apologized and began talking about other songs to work on.

There’s an idea, a stereotype really, of a temperamental diva-singer in a booth hurling insults at producers and creating tantrums. It’s a cliche, but I have discovered there’s a reason why it happens so often. Singing is hard. Even when you’re good at it. You are vulnerable in a glass booth with groups of people watching you sing. You are there, naked, in front of others while they drink coffee and stare at you with detached disinterest. You are out there — and here’s the kicker — no one else is.

If you’re on the mailing list for the band, then you have already received this notice about our show on Friday. If you’re not on the mailing list, then what are you waiting for? Email me at chickdrummer7@gmail.com and I’ll add you.

So, we’re playing at Hotti Biscotti (see www.shortpunksinlove.com for more info) on Friday, April 11, which means that at end of a week full of teaching and grading exams, I get to be a rock star. The bonus side of having a “hobby” like ours. (I put “hobby” in quotes because Brian hates it when someone calls it our “hobby” as if it were to equate performing music with other hobbies like hummel collecting and bargain shopping. For Brian it’s not a hobby, but a reason to live. And he means it like that: a reason to live. But that’s another story, one I’m saving for a memoir.) Where was I? Oh yes, the up-side of playing out is that when you’re a teacher you spend your days in front of young people being looked at with the same amount of interest one gives a CTA conductor or a McDonald’s employee. You’re there, and yet not there. So, going somewhere to be on stage and have someone (anyone) give you slightly more attention can be a huge boost to one’s sense of existing in the world. Hey, I must exist: you can see me. For those of us who experience existential crises on even-numbered days, this can save quite a bit on therapy.

Meanwhile, the next show will be a challenge for me: for the first time, I’m going to sing. Really sing, not just sing the occasional line. It’s part of an agreement we made after the last show when Brian wouldn’t use his Les Paul Gibson (a great guitar) during the show.

“Why didn’t you use the Les Paul.”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t get it. It’s a 1200 dollar guitar and you never want to play it on stage.”

“Look, it’s a lot of guitar, I’m not sure if I’m ready. Tris and Andy [former bandmates] used to say the same thing about my first Les Paul.”

“Okay, how about this? I’ll make a deal with you. If you play the Les Paul. I’ll sing.”

Brian’s eyes perked open. Sounded like a fair deal to him. We agreed. And I started singing at the next show and at rehearsal yesterday we worked on vocal parts for me. It’s a whole new world, playing drums and singing at the same time. The greatest challenge is not dropping beats while I sing. I have a whole new respect for Levon Helm, Karen Carpenter, and Phil Collins. It’s not as easy as it looks.

So, if you happen to be around and want to see me tackle this next challenge, then stop by Hotti Biscotti on Friday. We’ll save you a seat at the bar!

I have been riding my bike through the streets of Chicago since the early 1990s.  So, I guess it was bound to happen.  Eventually, some day, somewhere, I was going to get hit by a car.   Friday, the car that I knew had my name on its grill, finally found me less than 2 blocks from my house.

Of course, I was in a hurry.  I was supposed to be someplace ten minutes ago and I had been dawdling at home: playing with the rabbit, talking to the cats, wiping a counter.  When it was time to go, I didn’t even notice that it was time to go, and when it was well past the time to go, I grabbed my bike helmet (thank the universe I wear one) and hopped on my bike, very aware now that I was late.

So, the preoccupation with not being where I was supposed to be no doubt kept me from making smart choices when I hit the intersection.  I usually go straight through to the other side of the street and then enter the crosswalk and take a left — you know, like I wasn’t a bicyclist but a pedestrian (it’s cheating, I know, and now I won’t do it anymore, I promise).  But, that day, the street was empty of cars on my side and I thought, “heck, let’s be a car and just take a left in the middle of the intersection.”  So, I stuck my left arm out to signal and gestured to the car facing me that I was turning left.  She was turning left too and waved me forward.

Now, here’s where the problem comes on.  Because I had initially planned to go straight through the intersection and not turn left, I was on the far right edge of the lane.  I was not on the left side of the lane, but the right.  If you’re driving a car that’s three feet wide (okay, I don’t know how wide a car really is, but let’s just say ‘wide enough’), it’s not a big deal because every one can still see you. On a bike, however, you’re pretty invisible even when you’re visible, so as I took that left I was actually crossing across the width of her car and making a left at the same time.  Is it any surprise then, the on-coming car which was coming around the other car that was turning left, didn’t see me?  For him, it must have seemed like I came out of nowhere.

For me, it went like this:

Grunt. Pedal harder. Turn left and then speed up.  Oh shiiiiittttttttttttt.  It’s a car. “UGH!!” [said outloud].  Speed up speed up speed up get out the way get out of the way. Shiiiiiittttttttt!  

My body braced for the impact on  my right side.  My right leg and arm expected to be slammed by a couple tons of car. But, in the eons of years that it took for me to speed up the car also managed to brake and when impact occurred, the car hit my back tire and pushed my bike out from under me sideways.  I managed to stay on  my feet anyway and was still moving.

Traffic came to a stop. But my brain said: keep going don’t stop keep going keep going.

So I did.  I was still on my bike. I just pulled it underneath me more and kept pedaling. The car pulled over and I heard a man get out and shout, “Hey! Are you all right?”

What? Who?   My brain said.

“Hey! You forgot your bag!”  The man shouted.

That’s when I turned around.  Oh yeah, my stuff.  In the impact, the car had pulled off my pannier bag which hangs on the back tire.

The part of my brain that said, “keep going,” slowed down and I and My Brain recognized that I needed to get that pannier bag because it had my bag and wallet in it.  That’s when I got off my bike and slowly, as if nothing had happened, I walked back to the corner.

When I got to bag which was in the middle of the intersection, the man, who looked pretty worried, said, “Are you okay? I didn’t know you were taking that left.”

“That’s okay. I’m fine.  Next time just look for bikes.”

“Sorry — about that.”

“‘Z’okay.” I muttered and got back on my bike.

It was only about 5 hours later when I realized that I had wanted to say that it wasn’t all his fault. That I screwed up too and that I hoped it didn’t wreck his day to think that he could have hurt someone.  He looked upset about it, but I kept going. That part of my brain that said “keep going” was in command and I didn’t find the space in that moment to say, “Hey! Don’t worry about it! Nobody died! Have a great day!”

I think of this now because there was a Dharma Talk today at the Temple about the Infinite that happens in a moment.  “Imagine,” he said, “your breath. There’s a moment at the end of your exhale, right before your inhale, when you’re not exhaling and you’re not inhaling and you’re not rushing to inhale. That moment is infinite.”

I don’t understand all the Dharma Talks, but I got that one.  In that second when I saw that car grille and felt my right side tense to expect impact, it felt like a year or two.  That second was long enough for me to see what’s happening, consider my options, and act.  But despite how quickly my (and the driver’s) brain and body worked to avert a disaster, I still wish I had done more with the time after, those 2-5 minutes afterwards when I could have said, “Hey, it’s okay. We’re all okay.”

But, I missed that moment.  I hope in another future moment, I will see that infinite space and utilize it to say to someone else, “Hey, it’s okay.” Well, I’ve said it here, and maybe, if the guy driving the green SUV ever happens to find this post, then, hopefully, he’ll know it.

“I could eat both.”

“Yeah, but which one is easier to eat?”

“The little one.”

“But that big one looks pretty yummy too.”

“Let’s flip a coin.”

Just kidding, folks. No bunnies were injured yesterday….except that little one. We bit off the head.

We’re doing a last minute fill-in at Hotti Biscotti tomorrow night (Thurs, March 20) at 9:00 PM.

It will be a quiet, acoustic kind of show. Brian will be playing his new Seagull acoustic guitar which he got for “free” because he traded a bunch of pedals for. And I’ll be playing just snare. No kit. This is the kind of show we used to do two years ago when I first started playing.

I used to frequent a coffee shop called Red Eyes Coffee on Lincoln and Balmoral and one day I noticed they had a small stage in the corner. I asked if they do shows and instead of asking me if I have a demo or a press kit, the owner asked: “When do you want to play?”

“Uh…how about this weekend?”

“Okay.”

And that was one of our first gigs. At that little coffee shop I played just snare on Tuesday nights while Brian played guitar. I barely knew what I was doing, but I was up there doing it.

Tomorrow night should be one of those quiet, early nights. When you’ll be home by 11 PM and your ears won’t be ringing. If you feel like a mellow evening, stop by and say ‘hello’!

Life has been intruding in my budding career as a rock star. Immediately after the show I thought I would upload the pics, write pithy comments, and then post it for our adoring fans. A week later I still haven’t charged the batteries in the digital camera and I’ve forgotten all my witty comments. Another lifetime has passed since that show and I’m trying to remember what happened last week.

Memory is a frail thing. What did I wear? Jeans and some sweater, I think. What did we play? The usual set. Brian has written two new songs, folk-like tunes that I’m still learning so I probably played hand-snare. Oh right, hand-snare. I asked the Sound Guy if he was miking the snare because I would be playing hand snare. He said, “I never heard that before. Did you come up with that?”

I said in a voice that I hope wasn’t condescending (but probably sounded like it), “Uh no, John Bonham did … and Max Roach.”

That’s when I realized there was an age gap. This kid didn’t know who I was talking about. I tried not to think about it.

We played second, because one of the bands had people coming later. We were happy to go on second. I should explain now some booking etiquette. Short Punks booked the show and we were the most “well-known” band (ha!) so we were technically the “headliners” (chortle), therefore we should perform last. You know, save the best for last. But here’s the problem with going on late for people like me: if I go on too late, I get tired. And there’s that age thing rearing its head again. Brian and I like playing first or second because we’re brighter, cheerier, and, in general, a lot happier. Then we can enjoy the other performers without worrying about our set.

And the other performers were:

Bill Liggett

and us … oh yeah, and I forgot, I wore a red sweater.

We were pretty happy at this show (and with a few exceptions, we’re happy at most of the shows), but we were especially pleased at the maturity of these bands. Let me put it this way, Brian was the youngest one in the bunch instead of the oldest. And I was — hurray! — one of the other youngest ones. We appreciated that everyone was on-time and eager to play. There were no complaints about the “draw” (band lingo for “audience”), the lack of drink tickets, or the absence of a cover taker (i.e. guy who takes your cash at the door). Everyone was just happy to be out on Sunday night playing for someone. And the turn out was good — thanks to Jungle of Cities and their supporters.

So, that was the show. I may not sound as eager about the shows, but, in many ways, because we have done so many, my feeling about shows has changed. They used to terrify me — feel me with alternating waves of dread and anticipation. But, after two years, they have begun to feel like teaching. I walk on stage now with the casualness that I walk into a classroom several times a week. This ease, this lack of effort or anxiety, could seem like apathy, but, I think, it’s more comfort and confidence. And that, after two years, makes me extremely happy.

Before I go, here’s one more pic. Later that week, Ben fell asleep on Brian (as he does every night and at every nap) and it was too good not to post.

We’re playing this SUNDAY (3/2/0 at Red Line Tap in Rogers Park.

We’re joined by Bill Liggett and Jungle of Cities
They’re both great musicians so come on out and enjoy an evening of music.  And we know it’s Sunday night, so we’ll try to wrap it up earlier so you can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for work!

See you at the show!

Show starts at 9:00 PM.
Cover:  $5:00
at
Red Line Tap
7006 N.Glenwood
Chicago, IL 60626
773-274-5463 or
773-465-8005

I had lunch with a friend the other day whom I had not seen since June. This may not seem like a long time, but in the early 1990s Renate and I sat next to each other Monday to Friday from 9 am to 5 pm. We also ate lunch together every day, and on some Friday nights we would also have dinner. For two years eighteen years ago I saw Renate more than I see my own husband now.

We had about an hour before she had to go to work. In these situations, trying to catch up on months of living in one hour, I often fall back into a default position in which I don’t say much at all about life for me. It would be too much to describe even if we had seven hours together and not just one. In the end, it seemed equally short for Renate, who said, as she was walking to her car later, “I didn’t even tell you half of what I wanted.”

Neither did I.

Time is an illusion. Meaning, a life can change completely in one second or it could not change at all in 80 years. So, what could I tell Renate about my life in the last 7 months? I could say I live lifetimes in a day. And perhaps I could describe the quality of each lifetime. Or, I could just sit and listen and have her tell me about the lifetimes she is living in one day.

I recently attended my first day-long buddhist retreat at the temple. From 3:00 PM to 10:00 PM I sat in meditation with others in the Retreat Center of the temple. We sat in silence in various positions in shifts of 30 minutes each with fifteen minute breaks. These cycles were interspersed with chanting and walking meditation. It is impossible to say what happens in a day like this, just as it seemed impossible to say to Renate what happens in seven months of my life when each day is a lifetime. Even in the days since the retreat, it is hard to say what happened and how it worked (or did not) for me. Nothing happened. And yet, everything is different.

In order to feel less isolated in this experience, I began reading Japanese Zen poets in a book which Brian gave me for Valentine’s Day. My favorite poet is Ikkyu Sojun (1394-1481) and it was one of his poems that came to me most during the retreat.

Six years of piercing cold and hunger!

Shakyamuni’s way demands austerity.

Anyone who thinks buddhahood is easy

is just a rice bag in a monk’s robe.

I like Sojun because he’s cranky and honest. Buddhahood can be be bitch.

I have always liked haiku for its simplicity, but now I understand better why nature and its small elements are so engaging to haiku poets. When one sits still for hours at a time, the world dissolves and condenses until one notices only the frog or the fly or the drop of dew:

Settling, white dew

does not discriminate

each drop its home.

(Soin 1604-1692)

As I sat across from Renate with a plate of eggs and toast and listened as she asked me questions about myself and Brian, this other haiku appeared in my head in place of words.

If pressed to compare

this brief life, I might declare:

It’s like the boat

that crossed this morning’s harbor,

leaving no mark on the world.

(The Priest Mansei, ca. 730)

Haiku has been pacing back and forth across my brain like monks who wander silently back and forth through the temple. In this odd too-real dream state, I have often lost the words to describe what I see or feel now. My own thoughts have been gathering themselves in groups of short lines as if to show me how simple it really could be if I would stop over thinking it.

For the first time in years, I wrote a haiku. Three lines that came to me as I left the temple — less ecological and more decidedly modern than the ancient monks I read, but it seemed at the time (and now) everything I wanted to say about my day at the temple (and after).

Climbing the temple stairs

the sound of velcro

in my knees.

In the recent issue of Roctober, Brian found this short notice about our first CD.

 Short Punks in Love.  Moody indie with a nice balance of resonant guitar and spare percussion.  Far less cutesy than the band name, but just as romantic (actually, more so).

“Spare percussion”!!  Ha. I love that. It was our first CD, my first recording, and “spare” was all I could play.  I only knew the basic rock  beat so that’s what I played.  We get compliments every now and then on the “percussive style” and I’m often embarrassed to admit to the complimenter (although, I do) that my “style” came from not really knowing how to play.  Brian was so supportive, and actually prefers minimal drumming, that it actually worked with the songs he wrote.   Now, we’re having another discussion.  Since I have learned more I want to complicate the drumming patterns and he wants to keep them minimal.  We’re working on that now.

Meanwhile, that debut CD, now 2 years-old, is still our favorite.  And, if you haven’t heard it and want a copy, send an e-mail to shortpunksinlove@sbcglobal.net and we’ll send you a copy for FREE!