The Backbone of Music —or, How it Feels to Play Drums
As of right now, I consider myself both a bass and a drum player. That is because I know enough about the two instruments to make full compositions, and play covers of most anything out there. Both of them, as within a musical environment, relate to a supportive role, as the backbone of any piece, for they are the base upon which anything else is constructed. I, myself, enjoy this function; of being the skeleton of a body, keeping the whole thing standing and being the form of what any muscle and organ will replicate and morph from.
I also believe that people are born to specific roles in music. Some are "leady", others supportive, others just want to do their thing and not properly care about their weight in a band, and that's why and how bands are formed; different people are attracted to one another for a common suit: being bearers of the music spirit, like how JoJo managed to have 9 parts.
What makes it not so cut and dry, though, is the same idea that allows us to understand and consider the millions of different colors that exist. Red, yellow and blue are not the only ones, not even if adding the group of secondaries. Chartreuse exists, and so does cyan and somehow cyan is not the same as turquoise, and teal is neither blue nor green, but something somewhere in between both. That way, hues are a thing and so are genres of music, and a band can be anything from a single person playing 10 instruments, to 10 people playing one instrument, and anything in between and beyond that.
Looking at myself, the instruments I play and the style I can't run away from —because it's me and mine and I can't avoid being myself—, I found something interesting. You see, I'm really not like my peers. Though dreading guitars and high pitches, preferring to keep my presence as low and fundamental, rather than loud and superficial, most often than not I come to find myself filling a leading role in musical projects. I be the bizarro, juggalo made-up in a Dracula cape jumping up and down screaming that I’ll kill the first pig I see, on stage; jumping in the mosh pit in the solo, and being the one breaking strings and sticks because of how aggressively my body feels the need to play. I am the person everybody is looking at, but that’s not at all what I actually want. As in, I’m the face if needed, but I don’t need to be because that’s not who I am. Behind the scenes, I’m building the low end, but totally suck at making a guitar sound good; and within the complexity of my musical work, it hardly comes out as diverse for that reason. Musically, my mind works monotonously, though performance comes as utmost colorful. As a person, though a natural-born leader, I’m always behind a flag. And this is how I see me as being different, because nowhere around there’s anybody remotely like me.
The bass has been part of my life since forever, and I have written about the discovery of my musical soul here before, and at this moment it is a big part of who I am. Me, Annie Bonny, am a bassist. For all senses and purposes, you won’t find me going against it, and when it comes to bass, people come to me. The thing is, though, that I’m not completely a bassist. And this realization has come very recently, with the discovery of drums.
In December of last year, with the release of “Wayne and Me”, a story of mine was published, labeled “Sophie”. It is about this low-life punk drummer that lives through, with and as music; having virtually nothing else to live for. Finding in drums her true purpose and the remedy for reality’s issues, she exists insalubrious in a dirty apartment, in a dirty circle, in a dirty world. Well, it turns out that’s literally me, kinda.
Unbeknownst to me, I pretty much predicted then how I would turn out now: broke, dirty, and in perpetual crucifixion. And Sophie wasn’t at all based off of anyone (objectively), so it’s pretty fun to look back and see the parallels between fiction and reality. [Addendum: you should read the story to make sense of the next.] From the duality of drummer/bassist within the first paragraph (“The two fingers hit the thigh like a bassist’s”), to the not having money for even painkillers in the second, and living in pain with "Every movement after sudden movement is a nail to the nail in indecent crucifixion", relating to the carpal tunnel I developed; and even the state of the drums I play: busted because I can’t help playing too hard; Sophie is a pretty good reflection of my immediate reality and, more than that, she and I are, to me, what drummers[crazy people*] actually look like.
If bass represents who I am mentally, and presents who I am mind-wise; drums represent who I am physically, and present my self “body-wise”. Having that soul is the force behind mind and body, the duality of my pure being is absurdly claire within music.
My bass is slow, somber and meaningful. My drums are fast, wild and soulful. With that, I stay as a living-contradiction. Robin Rodenberg in Bohren is a good example of the former, Zach Hill of the latter, in how I am with the two instruments.
I can't care for techniques or reading sheets, and the music that comes out of me is mine only — what is played and how it's played. Having a background in classical turned me hateful towards theory, specially with a heart that aches for the imperfect nature of true art. So, finding and understanding me in a musical environment can only be expected, but what can I even get out of this realization? What even is the point of writing this, after all?
You know, when I break a drumstick or a pop bass string, when I’m crying because my wrists hurt too much, or I break another piece of the kit; I feel peace. I look at my bleeding fingertips and feel accomplished. Inside and outside of me there’s art, for I am, in moments like these, living-art. Pride is me, proud of me — is this the artist’s existence? Do I do good doing what I do? Yes, I’d say so. There isn’t always bread on the table, but I can show a smile when needed. I don’t care for stages, but I like drawing stickers to glue on my bass, Goo. And I like painting pictures that look childish and gifting them to my friends. I also like spending weeks making a film that I won’t tell anyone I produced, collecting a couple of views in a full year. Have I found real life? Is my existence truthful? Is this the simplicity I so talk about? No, maybe not. But I won’t fret about showing what my insides look like if you call me to break bones behind a drum set.
chilling with the cat
bumping domi & jd beck
late afternoon cloudy sky
outside, faint light through the window
drum on a furry belly
my foot goes tap, tap, tap
not hungry, not at all
looking at my bass standing there
wondering if I'll ever go back to jazz
you're the one putting yourself in dilemmas
beauty in life is what you see
I'll drop everything and play drums
vow of silence, no one will hear of me again
if simplicity is all I need
to achieve this happiness I seek
should I live for the rhythm
will I ever go back to jazz?
—from THE LOST TAPES Vol.49: ruination in foreign terror
Did I make sense of myself here? The older I get, the least I can tell.