Dishes are clean, burnt lightbulbs are changed, and the laundry is finished. I may now blog in peace.
My mom always says "find what makes your heart beat fast and the money will follow." I love to sing, I've been singing years longer than I've been playing drums, or slinging drinks, and it makes me happy. Find the right song for the right mood, and it's a recipe for chills. Chills. how many experiences give you regularly repeatable chills? They start before you realize it, creeping up from the base of the spine and in a moment my head is filled like a balloon, my brain lit up and euphoric, and for a brief glimpse, I am in heaven.
I've been doing a lot of talk about goals, and I think it's about time I give myself some homework. I am going to learn a new song every day I have free time and post it online for the sole purpose of critique. I've been wanting to take lessons for singing, but I put those same mental roadblocks up that I rail against. This is the path of a detour.
Here is my first completed assignment. I played Ben Harper's "When She Believes" to cheer Chetta's day up yesterday. Any singing skills I do have are self-taught and gleaned from the music teachers of the venerable Natomas Charter PFAA in Sacramento while I would be busy playing drums.
So, if you have critiques, advice, helpful hints and the like, please feel free to pass them on, they would be much appreciated.
May 29, 2010
I'd estimate about 90% of real life to be imaginary.
Listening: Ken Burns' Jazz
I find it important to name your dreams. I don't see any point in running from what I really want. How often have I dreamed about what I'd really rather be doing, then stopped that thinking in its tracks with mental roadblocks and diversion? Many times is the answer, but I think I'm quite done with that. If the roadblocks are only in my imagination then there's no reason they can't be swept away like a whisp of smoke.
So I'm naming my dream here, if nowhere else. My dream is to work hard, and for it never to feel like work. I want my work to enrich lives and lift up those around me and, in the end, make the world a little better place than I found it.
My dad once said, when I asked him about death and the afterlife, that "If you try to make a heaven of Earth, you'll have nothing to worry about."
That's my ultimate dream: to lift others up with the blessings I've been given. I suppose I'm going to get there in a roundabout way and at a glacial pace (Aaron Standard Time), as I've done everything my whole life, but there you go.
There are only only two jobs I've had that didn't feel like work. The first was playing drums for Runaway Stage, and Artistic Differences - two theater production companies in Sacramento . Even for all the drama that ensues naturally from dramatic companies, Runaway and Artistic Differences and the Baxters, Daniellses and all the other folks involved selflessly endeavor the lift people up to heights they couldn't have imagined. So "pit musician" would be a job that would fit me like an old pair of jeans.
I've got an alright resume, already: Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Nunsense, La Cage Aux Follies, My Fair Lady, Falsettos. And sure, this was all for little theater companies in Sacramento, but it's not like the music I learned will change anytime soon, let alone that I was able to learn it, and that gives me faith that there is nothing separating me from my dreams.
The second job that I've had that didn't felt like work was tending bar in San Francisco. I was blessed enough to have been involved with Bar Drake from its very first day in the Sir Francis Drake hotel, and discovered, with the help of the fabulous Diana Brent, that I had a taste for mad sciencery, patient conversation, and rhythm of tending bar. And you better believe if somebody doesn't tell their problems to their parents, lover, soul mate or dog, they'll tell their bartender. And being there for stranger when they need to say something to somebody, anybody - it's a blessed feeling.
And why shouldn't it be? The two cornerstones of any civilization is the Church and the Tavern. The only two places where people are allowed to speak "easy" - talk with frankness about what ails them, weighs on their minds, and follows like shadows, with no fear of judgment.
This second job would also fit like jazz in the pocket. There is no better stage for me to lift people up, help folks see the better part of themselves, or that they can easily dispense with the worst of themselves. Booze being a lubricant of thought, even if you can "touch" somebody in a real, positive way, they might go right back to disbelieving when they sober up. But that touch leaves a mark that might make somebody think differently in the future. Planting seeds.
I imagine if I'd had a more religious upbringing, I may very well have been a pastor.
But I was making martinis at eight years old every day at 5 o'clock, so I believe it's my calling to dispense wisdom from behind a dark, wooden bar instead of a dark, wooden pulpit. It's the dispensing of hope that defines my Self, not where my piece of wood is located. That doesn't quite read right. Or does it?
I find it important to name your dreams. I don't see any point in running from what I really want. How often have I dreamed about what I'd really rather be doing, then stopped that thinking in its tracks with mental roadblocks and diversion? Many times is the answer, but I think I'm quite done with that. If the roadblocks are only in my imagination then there's no reason they can't be swept away like a whisp of smoke.
So I'm naming my dream here, if nowhere else. My dream is to work hard, and for it never to feel like work. I want my work to enrich lives and lift up those around me and, in the end, make the world a little better place than I found it.
My dad once said, when I asked him about death and the afterlife, that "If you try to make a heaven of Earth, you'll have nothing to worry about."
That's my ultimate dream: to lift others up with the blessings I've been given. I suppose I'm going to get there in a roundabout way and at a glacial pace (Aaron Standard Time), as I've done everything my whole life, but there you go.
There are only only two jobs I've had that didn't feel like work. The first was playing drums for Runaway Stage, and Artistic Differences - two theater production companies in Sacramento . Even for all the drama that ensues naturally from dramatic companies, Runaway and Artistic Differences and the Baxters, Daniellses and all the other folks involved selflessly endeavor the lift people up to heights they couldn't have imagined. So "pit musician" would be a job that would fit me like an old pair of jeans.
I've got an alright resume, already: Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Nunsense, La Cage Aux Follies, My Fair Lady, Falsettos. And sure, this was all for little theater companies in Sacramento, but it's not like the music I learned will change anytime soon, let alone that I was able to learn it, and that gives me faith that there is nothing separating me from my dreams.
The second job that I've had that didn't felt like work was tending bar in San Francisco. I was blessed enough to have been involved with Bar Drake from its very first day in the Sir Francis Drake hotel, and discovered, with the help of the fabulous Diana Brent, that I had a taste for mad sciencery, patient conversation, and rhythm of tending bar. And you better believe if somebody doesn't tell their problems to their parents, lover, soul mate or dog, they'll tell their bartender. And being there for stranger when they need to say something to somebody, anybody - it's a blessed feeling.
And why shouldn't it be? The two cornerstones of any civilization is the Church and the Tavern. The only two places where people are allowed to speak "easy" - talk with frankness about what ails them, weighs on their minds, and follows like shadows, with no fear of judgment.
This second job would also fit like jazz in the pocket. There is no better stage for me to lift people up, help folks see the better part of themselves, or that they can easily dispense with the worst of themselves. Booze being a lubricant of thought, even if you can "touch" somebody in a real, positive way, they might go right back to disbelieving when they sober up. But that touch leaves a mark that might make somebody think differently in the future. Planting seeds.
I imagine if I'd had a more religious upbringing, I may very well have been a pastor.
But I was making martinis at eight years old every day at 5 o'clock, so I believe it's my calling to dispense wisdom from behind a dark, wooden bar instead of a dark, wooden pulpit. It's the dispensing of hope that defines my Self, not where my piece of wood is located. That doesn't quite read right. Or does it?
May 22, 2010
"Exercice, Lucien!"
Listening: Ben Harper
It's a half-heartedly warm, decidedly muggy Saturday in Brooklyn. The streets would be far more abuzz were it not for the shooting this past Wednesday, the tension from which is still palpable.
I'm taking a break from my drum practice on my day off, which feels very good so far. Laundry done, business calls completed, nothing to do but hone the Craft. This is my newest practice system, if anybody is curious:
Not a bad little setup. As you can see, I rested my practice pad in the middle of my snare stand and adjust the hight for comfort. I used to have a neighbor who would practice his putting by aiming for a dime so that when he actually played, the hole looked enormous. This underscores my belief that the lessons learned from any one skill are transferrable to every other skill, with appropriate jargon replace, of course.
I digress. I figure I can aim for the tips of the rubber braces with my sticks as if they were each hi-hat, crash, and ride cymbal. Hopefully that will lead to increased accuracy with my cymbals, if I can't actually have them for practice, that is.
I suppose I will have to invest in a practice set to be able to get the muscle memory for tunes I need to practice. Plopping down in front of a practice pad and tapping away with my head down (thought I try to always remember to "keep your head up!" In the voice of Tom Robinson) does not seem the most effective way to practice something so based in repetition. Speaking of repetition, I think it's about time I get back to practice
It's a half-heartedly warm, decidedly muggy Saturday in Brooklyn. The streets would be far more abuzz were it not for the shooting this past Wednesday, the tension from which is still palpable.
I'm taking a break from my drum practice on my day off, which feels very good so far. Laundry done, business calls completed, nothing to do but hone the Craft. This is my newest practice system, if anybody is curious:
Not a bad little setup. As you can see, I rested my practice pad in the middle of my snare stand and adjust the hight for comfort. I used to have a neighbor who would practice his putting by aiming for a dime so that when he actually played, the hole looked enormous. This underscores my belief that the lessons learned from any one skill are transferrable to every other skill, with appropriate jargon replace, of course.
I digress. I figure I can aim for the tips of the rubber braces with my sticks as if they were each hi-hat, crash, and ride cymbal. Hopefully that will lead to increased accuracy with my cymbals, if I can't actually have them for practice, that is.
I suppose I will have to invest in a practice set to be able to get the muscle memory for tunes I need to practice. Plopping down in front of a practice pad and tapping away with my head down (thought I try to always remember to "keep your head up!" In the voice of Tom Robinson) does not seem the most effective way to practice something so based in repetition. Speaking of repetition, I think it's about time I get back to practice
May 15, 2010
Tipping My Hand or I don't want to be the best, I just want to illuminate.
Listening: Blues Brothers
It's my first day off in a week. I got 2 nights of unexpected silence, which was nice, but otherwise every waking hour has been spent at work, or lugging gear and playing shows. What a drag, right? I know, I know, I could be starving in the street or have that "born without a face" disease. All I'm saying is I had something strenuous to do nearly every hour this week, I finally got some rest, so I feel much better about everything in general. Where do you get off judging?
First off, new business. I joined the American Federation of Musicians AFL-CIO Local 802 this past Monday morning. I have gathered there is a fair amount of polarized opinions about unions, especially around here on the East Coast, where the fight of the Labor Movement is written alongside the history of the country. All's I know is that it's probably a good idea to have a group of (apparently) like-minded individuals behind me for advice or (legal) muscle in an unforgiving and tumultuous market. So there's that.
That very Monday night, after work, J du Breukelen stopped by our place and informed me that somebody "connected" was interested in the cocktails for the Breukelen::Rebuilt art show, and by proxy interested in me.
As my mother would say, "Don't think you have the job until your name is on the voicemail."
Opportunities are prospering on all fronts, it seems. Even the basil in our window is growing. Good spring.
The band business is challenging, and I am constantly rethinking my posture to music. I have always, until this point, put music school out of my mind as a threat to the "fun" of playing, turning it instead to a chore.
Interesting, but I suppose I'll never know unless I try. Perhaps just some Juilard summer courses finished off with a nice cigar and Port. Unless my idea of Juliard is totally skewed, I'm pretty sure cigars and Port are included in the tuition.
I do know I feel like I've hit a wall as a rhythm student, and am having a hard time breaking out of a claustrophobic mold. Maybe that's something the 'boys at my Local can illuminate for me.
Also, I realize there may be a point in my life where I may have to choose (good gosh no!) between a Music Career and a Not Music Career. I daydream of working for a respectable Spirits company which produces a high-caliber drink and all I have to do all day is meet people and talk about cocktails, flavor profiles and processes.
I would also accept guest-mixologist status, perhaps the Jacques Bezuidenhout of my eventual settling.
I have been making Martinis longer than I've been playing drums, so it would be wrong to ignore that I was more-or-less born to tend bar.
So my Music Life and my Food&Beverage Life are growing parallel to each other like our bean sprouts. Yes, I may have to choose between them someday soon, but in my most bleary-eyed pipe dreams I envision a career in which success at either of my skill sets resonates and magnifies the inertia of both. So we shall see.
So in the meantime, the plan is to get better at both, or at least get better results from either. I see the commoditisation of my skills and self - not usually a positive thing, but necessary to insert oneself into a market where skill is bought and sold. I just have to ensure that I have better Product than my competitors.
I see resurgence of the dreaded Drum Lesson, I see dance classes to connect to rhythm in a more all-body, dare I say spiritual, way. I see first attempts to lead in situations where I know what to do, exploration of untapped or stagnant aspects of my personality, and a whole bushel fulla who KNOWS what else?!
25 is going to be a good year.
It's my first day off in a week. I got 2 nights of unexpected silence, which was nice, but otherwise every waking hour has been spent at work, or lugging gear and playing shows. What a drag, right? I know, I know, I could be starving in the street or have that "born without a face" disease. All I'm saying is I had something strenuous to do nearly every hour this week, I finally got some rest, so I feel much better about everything in general. Where do you get off judging?
First off, new business. I joined the American Federation of Musicians AFL-CIO Local 802 this past Monday morning. I have gathered there is a fair amount of polarized opinions about unions, especially around here on the East Coast, where the fight of the Labor Movement is written alongside the history of the country. All's I know is that it's probably a good idea to have a group of (apparently) like-minded individuals behind me for advice or (legal) muscle in an unforgiving and tumultuous market. So there's that.
That very Monday night, after work, J du Breukelen stopped by our place and informed me that somebody "connected" was interested in the cocktails for the Breukelen::Rebuilt art show, and by proxy interested in me.
As my mother would say, "Don't think you have the job until your name is on the voicemail."
Opportunities are prospering on all fronts, it seems. Even the basil in our window is growing. Good spring.
The band business is challenging, and I am constantly rethinking my posture to music. I have always, until this point, put music school out of my mind as a threat to the "fun" of playing, turning it instead to a chore.
Interesting, but I suppose I'll never know unless I try. Perhaps just some Juilard summer courses finished off with a nice cigar and Port. Unless my idea of Juliard is totally skewed, I'm pretty sure cigars and Port are included in the tuition.
I do know I feel like I've hit a wall as a rhythm student, and am having a hard time breaking out of a claustrophobic mold. Maybe that's something the 'boys at my Local can illuminate for me.
Also, I realize there may be a point in my life where I may have to choose (good gosh no!) between a Music Career and a Not Music Career. I daydream of working for a respectable Spirits company which produces a high-caliber drink and all I have to do all day is meet people and talk about cocktails, flavor profiles and processes.
I would also accept guest-mixologist status, perhaps the Jacques Bezuidenhout of my eventual settling.
I have been making Martinis longer than I've been playing drums, so it would be wrong to ignore that I was more-or-less born to tend bar.
So my Music Life and my Food&Beverage Life are growing parallel to each other like our bean sprouts. Yes, I may have to choose between them someday soon, but in my most bleary-eyed pipe dreams I envision a career in which success at either of my skill sets resonates and magnifies the inertia of both. So we shall see.
So in the meantime, the plan is to get better at both, or at least get better results from either. I see the commoditisation of my skills and self - not usually a positive thing, but necessary to insert oneself into a market where skill is bought and sold. I just have to ensure that I have better Product than my competitors.
I see resurgence of the dreaded Drum Lesson, I see dance classes to connect to rhythm in a more all-body, dare I say spiritual, way. I see first attempts to lead in situations where I know what to do, exploration of untapped or stagnant aspects of my personality, and a whole bushel fulla who KNOWS what else?!
25 is going to be a good year.
May 14, 2010
Last night a sound guy saved my life.
OK, we captured a great show last night - I take back damn near everything I said in my emotional funk. I do feel like we're not moving as fast as we could, but I am generally an impatient man when it comes to art and artistic growth. Rilke assures me that "being an artist does not mean counting and numbering but ripening, like a tree," and he's absolutely right.
I was also wrong about the tunes being stale. I don't know if it was the little help from my friends, drink tickets, the light show from the awesome sound guy at Ace of Clubs, but I was feeling "in the pocket" last night, and I can't wait to get back to that nexus, it's a beautiful place. In the mean time, enjoy the ride.
I was also wrong about the tunes being stale. I don't know if it was the little help from my friends, drink tickets, the light show from the awesome sound guy at Ace of Clubs, but I was feeling "in the pocket" last night, and I can't wait to get back to that nexus, it's a beautiful place. In the mean time, enjoy the ride.
May 13, 2010
Neurology makes me want to rock out..
Listening to: Art Brut
Today's pretty rough. I did have last night off, unexpectedly. Bittersweet, as I never really feel good about canceling rehearsal, but it did afford me a more-or-less full night of sleep.
So I have no excuse for being an absolute shit at work this morning. But I was anyway. I've got a gig tonight that I should definitely be excited about. So I have no excuse for being 100% nonplussed. But I am anyway.
Dissatisfaction with playing show after show of stale tunes is setting in. It's hard to want to spend the hours we could be polishing much more awesome riffs together instead going through the motions with songs we should have moved past months ago when we found our incredible bassist.
So that's my pissed off drummer rant. Next step - step up, speak up.
Today's pretty rough. I did have last night off, unexpectedly. Bittersweet, as I never really feel good about canceling rehearsal, but it did afford me a more-or-less full night of sleep.
So I have no excuse for being an absolute shit at work this morning. But I was anyway. I've got a gig tonight that I should definitely be excited about. So I have no excuse for being 100% nonplussed. But I am anyway.
Dissatisfaction with playing show after show of stale tunes is setting in. It's hard to want to spend the hours we could be polishing much more awesome riffs together instead going through the motions with songs we should have moved past months ago when we found our incredible bassist.
So that's my pissed off drummer rant. Next step - step up, speak up.
May 8, 2010
Non-Sequitorial
I'm having a glorious time here.
I'm in one of those lately rare places where I can step outside of everything with which I'm unsatisfied and see that, in the scope of things, I'm having quite an amazing time here.
We made it through our first year, and it was a da-hoozy of a year, which it would have been had we not moved to New York. But, upon passing this first year mark: I have taken my drum to the street, my first gigging band played its 6th gig together, my incredible girlfriend, Candice Chetta has embraced and raised up burgeoning artists and has shown her own art in Brooklyn.
Sure, I'm not behind a bar yet. Sure I don't have my absolute ideal cymbals for the drum kit. Sure, it's about to get hot, humid, and muggy (probably record-settingly high levels of each). Sure, there's bombs misfiring, or whatever down the street from my work a massive depression on the horizon. I sound like my father.
But none of that stuff really matters because it'll all be fixed eventually. With patience, faith, luck, and foolhardiness, everything will be solved if you keep your compass trained on what it is you want and let it wander when you aren't sure.
I apparently didn't really pick up my father's pessimism. And between Coelho's absolute faith in trusting your "Personal Legend," Rilke's assurance that "being an artists does not mean counting in numbers and years, but ripening like a tree, who stands confidently through the storms of winter that spring will come," and Lennon's "there's nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time," I'm feeling pretty positive about eventually discovering what I'm meant to be doing here. Maybe it's just learning how to search.
Tomorrow is my day off. I am going to sleep like a log baby tonight. To Brooklyn.
I'm in one of those lately rare places where I can step outside of everything with which I'm unsatisfied and see that, in the scope of things, I'm having quite an amazing time here.
We made it through our first year, and it was a da-hoozy of a year, which it would have been had we not moved to New York. But, upon passing this first year mark: I have taken my drum to the street, my first gigging band played its 6th gig together, my incredible girlfriend, Candice Chetta has embraced and raised up burgeoning artists and has shown her own art in Brooklyn.
Sure, I'm not behind a bar yet. Sure I don't have my absolute ideal cymbals for the drum kit. Sure, it's about to get hot, humid, and muggy (probably record-settingly high levels of each). Sure, there's bombs misfiring, or whatever down the street from my work a massive depression on the horizon. I sound like my father.
But none of that stuff really matters because it'll all be fixed eventually. With patience, faith, luck, and foolhardiness, everything will be solved if you keep your compass trained on what it is you want and let it wander when you aren't sure.
I apparently didn't really pick up my father's pessimism. And between Coelho's absolute faith in trusting your "Personal Legend," Rilke's assurance that "being an artists does not mean counting in numbers and years, but ripening like a tree, who stands confidently through the storms of winter that spring will come," and Lennon's "there's nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time," I'm feeling pretty positive about eventually discovering what I'm meant to be doing here. Maybe it's just learning how to search.
Tomorrow is my day off. I am going to sleep like a log baby tonight. To Brooklyn.
May 2, 2010
A Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins With a Single Step.
The sun reaches its apogee on the first of many muggy, muggy days in Brooklyn. I find myself with an hour an a half to tap out this electronic update.
Yesterday I finished my chores before noon and spent a few hours psyching myself up to bring my drumset, Maggie to the New York streets. Here she is, bungee'd up and ready for love:
So I wheeled this little beast down the stairs, out the door, down the subway steps, onto a Saturday afternoon 4 train. I did not realize how many effing steps exist between my apartment and the subway.
Sore, sweaty and suffering a few disgruntled looks, I schlepped to Union Square - a nice bustling spot to settle in with the rest of the Saturday crazies and lose myself in some rhythm. Or so I thought.
I started setting Maggie up in a nice shady spot outside the Square, Children International canvassers and the pedestrians who avoid them my only company. As I was finishing my set up and mentally preparing myself for the inevitable "Drummer Butt" byproduct of hours-long practices, a young NYPD officer approached me.
"You're not going to be happy," she said honestly.
Apparently the Arizona Immigration protest taking place trumped any other busking or gathering. I realize I should have just said,
"And what makes you think I'm NOT involved with this protest? I'm drumming for REFORM!", or some other bullshit.
But I didn't. What I did say is "OK, how about Washington Square? How do you get there?"
I know NYPD officers are not GPS devices, but this one couldn't even begin to tell me how to get to Washington Square Park. Come on, get your act together, public servants. I know the pay isn't good, but know your Manhattan landmarks? Maybe I ask too much.
The next officer I ask for directions thinks we're already IN Washington Square Park. False. Once he pulls his iPhone out of his ass, he sends me to Washington Square Park. Or so I thought.
I followed the very simple directions to Washington Square, only to realize the well-meaning, if disconnected officer has sent me to Madison Square Park.
I grab a hot dog and reconnoiter, deciding Madison Square seems like a good place to bust one's busking cherry. I apologize for the crass analogy, but it seems the first time playing music in public begins pretty much the same way as cardinal sexual experiences - sweaty palms, elevated heartbeat, mountains of expectations, spinning equilibrium, and so on.
So I set up in an shady out-of-the-way corner of Madison Square park, facing the street, confusing public art installations and the Metlife building.
In the top left you can see a group of people assembled for a private Kentucky Derby party. I played along with their Bluegrass band, prompting more than one person to ask if I was with them. "I wish," I'd say, "..then I'd be getting paid!"
Now, full disclosure, I've busked before, but never drums, and never in New York. So I was ready for the barrage of people who assume that because I'm practicing in public, I'm someone to come up to and talk to at length about Gene Krupa, drugs, slippers, oatmeal, and anything else that immediately comes to mind.
That's not to say I don't enjoy the subjects of ramblings or momentary connections that busking affords. My favorite part (at least until I start taking money) are the kids who can't look away as their parents lead them by the hand through the City East.
It's not that I'm a pedophile, though I do love pedaling, or anything resembling one. But I remember when my parents took my to New York when I was eight years old. I whined, I'm sure. I'm almost positive my nose was pressed against my Gameboy for a week, because I don't remember much from the experience. But, I do remember the street performers.
I'm trying to fulfill a dream. I don't know where these experiments will gain me anything, but one never knows until one tries. I hope that the kids who walked by me yesterday, eyes wide as if seeing something they've never seen before, carry that memory with them. Look back on that moment as a spring of inspiration - if there's people out there who take their instrument to the streets, who can fight through their insecurity in order to simply do what they want to do, then it can be done.
And if it can be done by one, why can't anybody and everybody create their own life in their own image? Why can't we all be happy?
Liberal idealist naivete, maybe. But I have a feeling I'm not the only one.
Yesterday I finished my chores before noon and spent a few hours psyching myself up to bring my drumset, Maggie to the New York streets. Here she is, bungee'd up and ready for love:
So I wheeled this little beast down the stairs, out the door, down the subway steps, onto a Saturday afternoon 4 train. I did not realize how many effing steps exist between my apartment and the subway.
Sore, sweaty and suffering a few disgruntled looks, I schlepped to Union Square - a nice bustling spot to settle in with the rest of the Saturday crazies and lose myself in some rhythm. Or so I thought.
I started setting Maggie up in a nice shady spot outside the Square, Children International canvassers and the pedestrians who avoid them my only company. As I was finishing my set up and mentally preparing myself for the inevitable "Drummer Butt" byproduct of hours-long practices, a young NYPD officer approached me.
"You're not going to be happy," she said honestly.
Apparently the Arizona Immigration protest taking place trumped any other busking or gathering. I realize I should have just said,
"And what makes you think I'm NOT involved with this protest? I'm drumming for REFORM!", or some other bullshit.
But I didn't. What I did say is "OK, how about Washington Square? How do you get there?"
I know NYPD officers are not GPS devices, but this one couldn't even begin to tell me how to get to Washington Square Park. Come on, get your act together, public servants. I know the pay isn't good, but know your Manhattan landmarks? Maybe I ask too much.
The next officer I ask for directions thinks we're already IN Washington Square Park. False. Once he pulls his iPhone out of his ass, he sends me to Washington Square Park. Or so I thought.
I followed the very simple directions to Washington Square, only to realize the well-meaning, if disconnected officer has sent me to Madison Square Park.
I grab a hot dog and reconnoiter, deciding Madison Square seems like a good place to bust one's busking cherry. I apologize for the crass analogy, but it seems the first time playing music in public begins pretty much the same way as cardinal sexual experiences - sweaty palms, elevated heartbeat, mountains of expectations, spinning equilibrium, and so on.
So I set up in an shady out-of-the-way corner of Madison Square park, facing the street, confusing public art installations and the Metlife building.
Now, full disclosure, I've busked before, but never drums, and never in New York. So I was ready for the barrage of people who assume that because I'm practicing in public, I'm someone to come up to and talk to at length about Gene Krupa, drugs, slippers, oatmeal, and anything else that immediately comes to mind.
That's not to say I don't enjoy the subjects of ramblings or momentary connections that busking affords. My favorite part (at least until I start taking money) are the kids who can't look away as their parents lead them by the hand through the City East.
It's not that I'm a pedophile, though I do love pedaling, or anything resembling one. But I remember when my parents took my to New York when I was eight years old. I whined, I'm sure. I'm almost positive my nose was pressed against my Gameboy for a week, because I don't remember much from the experience. But, I do remember the street performers.
I'm trying to fulfill a dream. I don't know where these experiments will gain me anything, but one never knows until one tries. I hope that the kids who walked by me yesterday, eyes wide as if seeing something they've never seen before, carry that memory with them. Look back on that moment as a spring of inspiration - if there's people out there who take their instrument to the streets, who can fight through their insecurity in order to simply do what they want to do, then it can be done.
And if it can be done by one, why can't anybody and everybody create their own life in their own image? Why can't we all be happy?
Liberal idealist naivete, maybe. But I have a feeling I'm not the only one.
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