I need to jam. Note, please, that I did not say I want to jam. Wanting is a weak shadow of true need. Like land-bound Ishmael gazing at the sea, I feel it in my bones, the unrequited longing to get the guys together and make some music, for better or for worse. I need it the way you need a cool glass of water after mowing the lawn, or a steak when the meal is shared by men, or to see her and only her because you have gone empty and only her eyes will restore you. Need brings with it the certainty that unless you fill that space, something inside could be gone forever.
From that you may get the impression that I am a musician. I am not. I am—and I say this without undue pride—a drummer. Musicians have sheet music and talk about key signatures and know chord progressions and transpose on the fly. Drummers thump and bump along, flailing and sweating. Musicians ask who will sing the harmony, and how do we get out of the bridge. Drummers ask if we can play a song now. That’s one reason you seldom see a skinny drummer. While the rest of the band is discussing whether the bass can provide the seventh to the minor, the drummer is eating.
Understand, too, that the matter up for discussion is jamming, not playing some club in front of a bunch of edamame-scarfing strangers. Playing for people is gigging. Playing for yourself is jamming. Jamming is getting into a song everyone more or less knows, wandering around, turning it over, and maybe ending at the same time. Just playing. Gigging means rehearsals, set lists, sound checks, and a litany of other headaches that the money never really covers. When you make a mistake while jamming, you note it for the future. Make a mistake at a gig and the guitar player gives you one of his looks, followed by ominous threats.
I have both gigged and jammed with the same gang for the past few years, including the most cliche booking possible for any band: a bar mitzvah. You have to look pretty hard to get a bar mitzvah gig in Honolulu, but we pulled one off. About half the band is composed of professional-grade musicians who have actually made a living off their music. The keyboard player has a real live didn’t-buy-it-on-eBay platinum record. The Girl Singer is just as good. The other half—and this includes me—really has no business foisting their meager skills onto the unsuspecting public. They say that in tennis, the only way to improve is to play with someone who is better than you. That is probably also true in music, but in both cases it’s not so much fun for the guy who’s already got skills; he spends most of his time waiting for you to demonstrate a scintilla of talent or ability.
It’s time to face the sad reality that I may have worn out the patience of the good musicians, who are perfectly capable of finding someone to keep the beat, thank you, since you can’t throw a stone in this town without hitting a wannabe drummer. So instead I play complex rhythms with my fingers on the steering wheel, or tap out bass drum parts with my right foot while I type. The latter serves Ketta B’s endless amusement as she doesn’t understand that I am playing along to some private music in my head, and thus thinks I am spastic. And maybe I am, because I need to jam.
Filed under: General
