Music and Drumming

In Praise of Drum Center Portsmouth

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Son Nathaniel has become quite a decent drummer, with very little help from his dad. He’s got a set set up downstairs that he purchased with his own money. Cymbals? Well, he helps himself from dear old dad’s stash of brass. And he’s chosen my own personal favorite, a 16″ A Zildjian crash cymbal. (I think it’s the first ever cymbal I ever bought.) But that leaves my practice set without a small crash, so I’ve been watching for a deal.

After many months of searching, the Drum Center of Portsmouth had a 16″ paper thin Zilldjian crash on Reverb. It was the right price, so I bought it. I watched the tracking # with anticipation. It was slated to come on a Monday, but since I’m located so close to them I assumed USPS would probably get it to me faster than that. And sure enough, when it finally got into the system the delivery date got moved up two days. It would actually come on Friday. Cool.

Friday comes along, and I checked the tracking. The tracking has now moved backed to Monday. Uh, ok, I can live with that.

Monday comes. Package is delivered. I ask Nathaniel to grab the package, open it, take the cymbal and smash it, see if it sounds good, and report back to me. He tells me there’s no package. I check the tracking, and USPS says they delivered the package. Uh oh! Have porch pirates pilfered my package? Nathaniel says he didn’t look hard, but it wasn’t on the ground at the mailbox.

When I arrived home, I looked on the ground at the mailbox. No package. Uh. I open the mailbox for the rest of the mail, and there’s a package. It’s in an vinyl envelope, far too small to be a 16″ cymbal. It appears the drum shop has re-used the packaging, as there’s a label under my label. Odd, but maybe they’re trying to reduce-reuse-recycle. Thinking they made a mistake and sent me a t-shirt or something, I open the package. It’s a tens unit! I’m fairly certain a drum shop isn’t selling a muscle stimulation machine.

As I look things over, I notice the address label under mine. It’s from Togus, the VA hospital here in Maine. Now they might be sending a tens unit. I found the name on the address label on Facebook, and sent the fellow a message. He confirms he was expecting a package that day! Apparently what happened is the Drum Center of Portsmouth sent me a cymbal. Togus sent a soldier a tens unit. At the Scarborough USPS distribution center here in Maine (the spot where both packages would end up before going to the customer) the label from my cymbal somehow (ahem) ended up on someone else’s package. (I think an employee took my package, ripped the label off, and stuck it on some random package.) Since my label was on top, the package was delivered to me.

Whew! That was a lot! Now here’s where the praise of DCP comes in. I contacted them, and spoke with Crow. He quickly refunded my money. He opened a claim with USPS. He asked me to forward a photo of the package to him. And then… He provided me with a mailing label so I could mail the tens unit to the soldier who was expecting it! DCP had no responsibility to him. It was not their fault his package came to me. In reality, it should’ve been Togus’s responsibility to re-send a tens unit to their patient. But instead, DCP bought him a label so he could get his medical device more quickly. Thank you DCP for taking care of me, and for taking care of soldier who needed medical equipment. This is excellent customer service (to me) and gracious generosity to a non-customer. I’m happy to tell people about my experience.

Barry the Tympani Player

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In last night’s dream I was playing timpani for some orchestra. I had just purchased my own set of three tymps: one worked correctly, one couldn’t be tuned properly and was stuck on one note, and one was rectangular (!!!) and looked like a farmer’s sink. Barry Baudanza was playing the xylophone. He said to me “This piece really needs the sound of calfskin; do you have a skin head you could use?” Then he said “Let’s go over this section where we play the same theme.” I looked at the music, and I was supposed to play this descending chromatic melody which would have been difficult on three WORKING timpani, let alone the crazy set I had. I handed my mallets to Barry and said “I’m a drum set player. I played tymps in high school, but I’m not cut out for this orchestra.” Barry scoffed, but I could tell he was annoyed. Then another player came up and showed us his new stick bag, so the conversation turned to Reunion Blues bags, and I woke up.

Dreaming of Windows and Rats

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In the first dream I am inside a house. I am in a room, and there’s a window looking into another room, apparently a bedroom. As I look through the window I see my dad in the other room, and he’s getting dressed. On the other side of the window there is a shelf that I can see through the window, and on the shelf are tchotchkes, a wicker basket filled with some socks, some flowers, and other things. All the way at the end of this shelf there are three large rats. I tried to get my father‘s attention to tell him about the rats, but I’m unsuccessful. I go into the room, and as I do I look off to my left and the rats scatter. Then proceeded to a dresser, which I open, and there among my shirts and socks I find two or three pairs of sneakers in a drawer. I think to myself “I had completely forgotten I had bought some shoes and put them in a dresser drawer.” Then I woke up

Two nights after that I have a dream that I am helping rid the neighborhood of rats! I am sitting over on Gilbert and Evelyn Post’s lawn, looking across the street at my grandparents old property. We turn on some lights, looking to spot some rats over in their yard. I think we’re going to see lots and lots, but I only see one lone rat, who is on the roof of this wishing-well that my grandparents used to have. I go across the street, and I am one side of the wishing-well. The rat is on the roof of the wishing well, and I am waiting for him to show enough of his body that I can get a clear shot of him with my air gun. I can’t really see a lot of him, but I can see shows that he is wet and greasy, covered in weeds and pieces of yarn or string. Then I woke up

And last night’s dream I’m playing a jazz gig with Wayne Delano at the Jackson Memorial Library in Tenants Harbor. Though I know it’s in the Jackson Memorial Library, it’s not the library we know today. It’s not even the former Jackson Memorial Library. This is some large Victorian house or law office or something that has been converted to a library. There are lots of rooms that are all connected together, and my drum set is in one room, and Wayne is in another room, and I can see him through a window/pass through in the wall. Wayne begins to give a speech in which she says something like “This is our drummer Bill Batty. Bill is having a hard day today.“ And I said to him “In what way am I having a hard day Wayne?“ And he said “Doesn’t your back hurt or something? Didn’t you hurt yourself somehow?“ And I said to him “No, that was last week. I’m just feeling a little gloomy.” And then he said “Bill, I want you to do me a favor. I want you to come out here and discuss the difference between tainted love and grace.“ and I said to him “You want me to talk about tainted love and grace?“ And he said “I do.“ Because Wayne was a good friend, and because Wayne had a way of challenging me for my betterment, I decided I would do what he asked. So I got up from the drum set, and walked to a more centrally located room – – the room that Wayne happened to be in. And then I proceeded to give, essentially, a sermon on the difference between tainted love and grace. It included me using an illustration of the old schtick about the boy who has two dates to the prom, and I use that to demonstrate tainted love. Then I retold a lesson I learned at a youth group about the definition of the word “grace,” and I likened that lesson to the purity of God‘s love and grace, which I then related towards the purity that you might find in gold, or in a beautiful gemstone. About then a preteen boy raised his hand and asked if I might comment on my previous teaching about the three points of communism! I told him to see me later and I would clarify that for him. And then I woke up.

In Memory of Wayne Delano

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I woke up at 4:30 this morning. I laid in bed until 4:45, but then just couldn’t take it. I sat up, tired. For just coming off a weekend, I sure wasn’t feeling great. I grabbed my phone, and headed for the bathroom, for the scale, and for my walking gear with the dog. Oh, and for my morning Facebook check in.

And that’s when I got the news Wayne Delano had died unexpectedly.

So much of what Wayne Delano means to me can be found in this one minute clip. Allow me to elabortate.

First, listen to Wayne’s solo. Many serious Jazz players are intent on moving the art form forward. Jazz looks back, yes, but it’s never content; it is always wanting to have the boundaries pushed. Wayne Delano was that kind of player. Harmonically, he was the best midcoast Maine had to offer. His choice of notes was all about pushing, pushing, challenging, changing. Wayne wasn’t going to play a beautiful melody for the sake of nostalgia. Instead he was going to take that melody and flat the ninth and turn it inside out and shove it back in your face, flauntingly asking “How you feel about that Bub? You dig?”

Wayne was also great at pushing my boundaries. He truly made me a better player. He forced me to be. He found out I could read a bit, and so would include me when he wrote a chart. (Yes, Wayne would write his own charts, and even write his own tunes.) He would write a typical melody/chord change chart, and include the drum kicks in specific places he would want me to hit. In the clip, you’ll see I’ve got a music stand. You’d never know when Wayne would pull something out and have you play it right there on the bandstand.

I remember one Friday at work I got a call from Wayne. We would be playing this little pizza/seafood joint that evening. The Elm Street Grille had great pizza, a dedicated Friday night jazz crowd, and you played for food and almost no money. Anyway, Wayne called and said “I feel like playing “Spain” tonight.” I was all like “Oh no you aren’t.” But he did. It really didn’t go well, but he had enough faith in me to at lease give it a try. I can’t tell you how many songs I added to my repertoire through Wayne.

He’d make me play openings too. “OK, let’s play (insert some uptempo song here). Sixteen bars of drums upfront. One, two, one two three four.” And like that, it was up to me to kick the band off.

Aaron Clarke is the son of David Clarke, fellow bandmate with me in the Wayne Delano Quartet. Thanks to Aaron I have this clip I’ve shared. Aaron also said that attending a concert of Wayne’s was like “having a three hour masterclass five feet in front of you.” That’s so true. This clip shows that as well. Wayne would push me to do things I didn’t think I could do. I learned so much playing with him.

Rest in peace, God speed Wayne. I hope I’ll be seeing you again.

Another Drums and Theology Post?

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I was listening to an “Ask NT Wright Anything” podcast yesterday, and he mentioned he used only one Bible. In an effort to become really familiar with “the text” he has chosen to use one Bible, and so in that one Bible are all his notes, and that’s the one Bible he uses all the time. A former pastor of mine also had one Bible that he always used. It was falling apart so badly his small group bought him a new Bible. They knew how much he loved his old Bible, so they bought him the exact same kind of Bible that he had–so it was the same Bible, only a new version of it. He didn’t use it; he continued to use the old falling apart Bible.

As a musician, I’ve always wanted to have a relationship with one instrument. I see it a lot with guitar players. Eric Clapton had Blackie, and Eric Johnson has Virginia, Stevie Ray Vaughan had Number 1. Stewart Copeland had his Pearl Jupiter snare that was used on all The Police recordings, and Ringo had his Jazz Festival. I’m not that way. I have a whole bunch of drums, and I use whatever drum fits the music and my mood. A drum I use to record a folk record won’t be the same drum I use to record a funk tune. I pick the drum that’s right for the job. It’s a tool.

I’m the same way with Bible translations. My “study” translation is the New American Standard. My current devotion Bible is the ESV. If I were called to read scripture out loud to a group, I’d probably grab the New Living Bible. It’s a tool, and I pick the right tool for the job.

Still though, I wish I was “a person of one book” (from my Ortberg reading this morning). I wish I was the kind of guy like Mr. Wright or Pastor Jason that had just one Bible. There’s a romance about it. I have one wife, can’t I have just one Bible? 😉