Finding My Rhythm Again

When I started playing music, I played drums. I’d sit at our piano for hours on end, and took a few lessons, but I wanted to drum. My sense of rhythm was strong and constant. I was always subdividing, drumming on my desk, my thighs, my kitchen table. As a kid, I was lucky enough to be fully supported in this endeavor. My parents never discouraged me from following my passions. My band teacher let me choose what to march with and didn’t blink when I chose the huge bass drum. The jazz drummer who owned the local ice cream store gifted me a pair of sticks and a practice pad. And the two friends I met in sixth grade, Zach and Derek, formed a band with me as their drummer. 

It never occurred to me to have any doubts about the situation, I was a drummer. No one said, girls don’t play drums. No one said, you’re not good enough. No one said, the flute would be easier to carry. No one said, you’re ahead of or behind the beat (and I often am). 

I don’t know what happened. I mean, I sort of know what happened. I had a lengthy ‘career’ as a young adult, performing with orchestras, pit bands, function bands, and solo shows. But a few people realized I could play piano and mallet instruments, and started asking me to do both. Then a few bands moved someone else onto drums and me onto percussion and keys. Then they asked me to sing backing vocals. I always thought this was hilarious because I had no training as a singer. One night, a bandleader asked me to play melodica, which I had never heard of, but I bought one and learned the parts and played it. You’d think this skill level and flexibility would give me great confidence. But eventually, people stopped asking me to play drums. And because I didn’t lead my own shows, I’m not sure people even knew I was a drummer. I carried an identity within that didn’t match what I was doing on stage. 

And then, sometime in my adult life, being a female musician actually became unpleasant. A musician in town who has led lots of big shows and worked with lots of people hired me, tried to take advantage of me, and retaliated against me when I spoke up. Turns out he’s done that to lots of people- but nobody wanted to speak against him for fear of losing precious gigs. Even the female manager of the largest venue in town admitted that he was a pretty crappy person, but she said hey- that’s the business. 

I was turned off. Obviously. I stopped gigging for awhile, disgusted and distrustful of my colleagues. But I eventually kept playing, I put on a few of my own shows. But the self-doubt that ‘leader’ had instilled in me crept into my psyche, and just expanded throughout my soul. Now, rather than asking, “hey, what about me?” I stayed silent and assumed the worst. When I heard my bandmate saying he needed to find a drummer, I didn’t bother to suggest myself. I watched him hire random dude-friends who hadn’t studied as long as I had, had no finesse, just.. I don’t know. Bro vibes. When a jazz trio mentioned a collaboration on vibes but backed away, I didn’t pursue it. Over and over, I assumed I wasn’t good enough. 

Feeling like crap about yourself or your playing is a spiral. It’s hard to climb back out, especially when no one is sliding you a ladder. And the thing is, the less opportunity you have to play, the less you get to practice, so your playing does sort of get worse. And the spiral digs deeper. 

When the pandemic happened, it was kind of a relief. I’d moved so far away from my musical self, I was playing instruments I was barely familiar with in bands that played music I didn’t feel passionate about. Whenever I played someone’s original music, I loved it and wanted to support them, but that also meant having zero creative say because I was fulfilling a role in someone else’s creative vision. So, suddenly losing all gigging requirements and losing my day job (which is also in music) meant I became acutely aware of who I really am. Who I am is a musician, who loves polyrhythms, and dancing, and playing the drums. 

I’m sure it’s a familiar experience to many other people who lost things during the pandemic, to sit with oneself stripped down to our cores. Some of us made it through, and some of us “lost it” a little bit. I don’t have a gentler phrase for that. I left my relationship, my home, and my band. I was on my own, and I decided there must be some music in me somewhere. I tried to write an album, with sung lyrics and guitar chords- it turned into an improvised solo percussion piece. It was clear who I was, but I didn’t know what to do with it. It had been so long since I’d played my own instruments. I was rusty. 

Then, during one of the darkest weeks of that season, I met Alex Adams- a music teacher, who was helping me run an adaptive choir. He was energetic and creative and inspiring to all of us. I was exhausted, and sad, and trying to motivate myself to work at this choir- which in any other season I’d have been incredibly thrilled about. I don’t know how it came up, but he asked me to sit in with his swing band. They play in a park each week in the summer. Their drummer had just moved away. 

I don’t know how to say this without getting all sappy, but this band- this collective group of musicians- was the thing that saved my musical self. Reformed my spiral into a ladder that I could crawl out of into the sunlight and remember why I started being a musician to begin with. I would trade any night I’ve had on a huge stage with flashing lights to play in this park, with this band and these dancers. 

Music is community. Music is self improvement. Music is connecting. Music is reminding. Music is rhythm. Music is joy. 

If you are not experiencing joy and connection in your music making; if you are experiencing self-doubt and abuse from bandleaders and a lack of support and lack of opportunities…. Quit. Go play in the park. Find people who want to play joyfully and who will let you explore and improve. Be creative. 

Life is too short to put up with anything less. 

This video is of a song we listened to and tried to learn, only having played it twice, because the dancers had learned the steps to it in a dance class. We fumble. They still dance. What more could a musician want?