The Visuals of Sound

When I was an adolescent, I yearned to play the drums; I begged my parents to buy me a kit and clear out the garage to all me a space to create and launch my career. The latter part of that wish was total fantasy as we were one of the only families in our neighborhood who did this weird thing: we parked our cars in the garage. Having a piano already in the home, mom and pops made me a deal: take one year of piano to learn to read music and show my commitment, and they would buy a drum set for me. Four grueling months into piano lessons, I gave up my dream - long on yearning, woefully short on commitment. They were grueling for my teacher (my future sister-in-law) and slightly discomforting for the rest of the family who had to listen to me practice. 

While the drums are the heartbeat of most of the music I like, being a member of the first generation of MTV kids, I am equally fascinated watching that member of the band who is usually pushed to the back of the stage. As I’ve had this fascination for 40+ years, I’ve come to put drummers in one of four groups:

1. The Cheshire Cat: whatever the rest of the band is doing, this drummer is always in the background with a wry, lopsided grin, and nothing is affecting them. They blissfully play on, perhaps mug at the camera, and give you the sense they’re just happy to be there whether the gig is a sold-out stadium or an intimate club not exactly filled to capacity. In this group I place the likes of Ringo Starr, Jon Farriss, and Charlie Watts. 
2. The Professor: their dedication to the craft, the art, the religion of percussion is serious and sober. With their painstakingly arranged kits, they compose and deliver an eloquent lecture of sound to all around them by arranging beats that enthrall everyone listening and causing some to look at them as if they’re gods. Neil Peart and Stewart Copeland are two such professors. 
3. The Storm: this group is what most people picture when they think of drummers - a force of nature whose energy would frighten you if their rhythms and soul-thumping sounds didn’t pick you up and deliver you to another place. Every part of their body is a blur; you’re equally energized and enervated just watching them. The National Weather Service should use the names of John Bonham, Keith Moon, Alex Van Halen, and Tommy Lee to designate hurricanes. 
4. The Calm: equally powerful as the storm, these musicians subdue it. They sit among their kit upright and slightly rigid, letting the power of the storm only manifest itself in controlled but relaxed movements coming from their arms and hands, tattooing a beat you not only hear but feel in your soul. You invariably wonder how the fierce tempos and seismic rhythms can be created by an individual who looks so serene and untroubled. With great pleasure, I watch artists like Larry Mullen, Jr. and Roger Taylor let percussion take center stage.  

Who are your favorites, and in what category would you put them?

PACK ANIMALS, THE LOT OF US

Air travelers fall into a number of different categories as far as how they pack is concerned. Your business travelers are easy to pick out: they have a roller bag that is well maintained with a valise/satchel/soft-sided briefcase or a SWAG backpack affixed atop said roller bag (by “SWAG backpack” I mean it’s a name-brand bag like Ogio, Under Armor, or Eddie Bauer with a logo embroidered in a conspicuous place - they got it as SWAG at a golf tournament or a conference). 

Another pack style is the roller bag with another bag that is clearly not going to fit under the seat in front of them. Nine times out of ten, the roller bag has been expanded to fit as much crap in it as possible. They likely have had shampoo bottles or something else WELL OVER 3.4 ounces confiscated by TSA. If you watch closely, and you’re lucky, you’ll see a gate agent approach them before boarding and instruct them to compress their roller bag so that expanding/minimizing zipper can be locked down and the bag can fit within the parameters set by the FAA. If they’ve already had their fill from their TSA experience, they’re going to lose their minds, and the sounds they make while exerting every bit of energy they have to zip down their bag will sound feral if not too high pitched to be heard with human ears. 

This next group really fits into one general category with two subsets: the travelers who know the size requirements for bags and the carry-on-bag policy (one personal item to go under the seat in front of you, one larger bag that fits in the overhead bin) - they’re the backbone, really, of air travel. The subsets I mentioned aren’t that different from one another, but the slight difference makes me chuckle, if I’m being honest: (1) those who “fly under the radar” by sticking to the basics; (2) those who are returning from a vacation, and they’ve acquired an odd-sized object that won’t fit in either their personal item or their roller bag - 99 times out of 100, the item can slip above the bags in the overhead bin (like a long tube with a poster or print), and it’s no biggie, but looking at the worry that knits across their forehead as they’re boarding is a tad comical. I entertain easily. That said, though, the ones who fall into this second group in the subset who have a sense of entitlement cause me to conjure up scenarios in which they trip on this additional item and get sufficiently injured that they can’t board the flight. It’s equally satisfying to see a flight attendant crush that sense of entitlement by insisting they have to check it. Right on!

Here’s the small group of travelers, pack wise, that inspired this post: those who have safari/expedition/hiking gear just dripping from toggles and hooks on their carry-on bags. They give me the impression that they believe there’s a 50/50 chance the plane’s not going to make it to its intended destination, and we’ll be going down in the wild OR they’re going to ask the pilot if she/he will give them the chance to parachute from the plane when it passes over their favorite hiking/camping spot. Failing either of those two options materializing, I’m picturing them walking out the double doors that lead out to the curb full of taxis, shuttle buses, and cars awaiting their loved ones, and seeing them cross the traffic and disappear into the trees and other flora that surround the airport. Why? Put simply, their “fit” doesn’t match the reality that they’re going to land in beautiful but urban Charlotte, NC, take a shuttle to the rental cars, and climb into an SUV that has about a 3% chance it will go off road because its first destination will be a Courtyard by Marriott. All the while, their wide-brimmed hats, built-in-filtration metal water bottles that cost more than a full-size vending machine, and binoculars that are strong enough to detect skin cancer on a mosquito all dangle from their Cotopaxi backpacks, and their feet are shod in hiking boots to protect their feet as they traverse the grueling terrain of a parking lot. 

The next time you find yourself at the airport sitting in the boarding area, play this little game with yourself or with your travel companions. You’ll laugh at the accuracy, I promise. And if you find yourself about to board the with Mr. & Mrs. Safari, stay close to them in case the plane does experience an unplanned landing; they’ll be sure to have something in their bags of tricks to keep you safe from the middle-aged woman who is now acting like one of those gorillas from that old Samsonite commercial because she’s still angry at the flight attendant for making her zip down her suitcase.