This is an article I wrote for Modern Drummer magazine, which they turned downed. Hope you enjoy it!

On Drumming and Boxing

Drumming and boxing are traditions that on the surface may seem unrelated but with further inspection share qualities both primal and sublime. Each can be traced to the beginnings of civilization, boxing being one of the first Olympic games and the drum being the first musical instrument fashioned by human hands. Comparisons can be traced to as early as 1820 with this quote from Pierce Egan's classic "Boxiana": "Drummers and boxers to acquire excellence must begin young. There is a peculiar nimbleness of wrist and exercise of the shoulder required, that is only obtained from growth and practice." Both traditions are generally regarded as primitive except by practitioners and aficionados. Surely we've all heard the joke "four musicians and a drummer" and likewise boxers have been looked upon as the barbarians of the sporting world. With the business of boxing being on a similar level of corruption as the music biz, some of our most noble athletes have lived in the shadow of more popular sports figures. It's hard to believe that boxing was once rivaled only by baseball as America's most popular sport. Just prior to World War II Joe Louis's bout with Germany's Max Schmeling defined the feelings of the nation. Today the media would rather report on the antics of Mike Tyson than the accomplishments of Roy Jones, Jr. Likewise the offstage exploits of Keith Moon or Tommy Lee are better known among the public than the artistic achievements of Elvin Jones or Tony Williams.

I've always been a fight fan. Growing up outside Washington, D.C. Sugar Ray Leonard was one of my heroes. A few years ago my interest turned into an obsession. I began collecting fight films and studying boxer's styles. Here are some things I learned about the art of drumming by watching these master athletes at work.

The mechanics of drumming are similar to the boxers form. Playing the ride cymbal or riding the hi-hat is akin to a boxer's footwork. They set up the flow and feel for both the drummer and boxer and are significant to the style of both. When I watch the footwork of Sugar Ray Robinson I can't help but think of Philly Joe Jones. Ray was probably the slickest boxer ever to enter a ring and Philly Joe defined hip not just for drummers but for all Jazz musicians. Ray's dazzling footwork and smooth combinations are much like the way Philly Joe combined rudiments into seamless musical statements. Philly's impeccable ride was as effortless as Ray's footwork, making everything on the bandstand poetry in motion. Among the heavyweights, the determined, ominous stride of Joe Louis is like the greasy, medium swing of Elvin Jones. Both Joe and Elvin are superhuman forces in their fields with Louis's punching power much like Elvin's "bashing" at peak level.

When a drummer plays accents or drops bombs I view this like a boxer's jab. The jab is the boxer's staple and must be timed perfectly to be effective. A drummer's accents also must be timed correctly and placed in just the right spot. Also the boxer doesn't want to be too predictable with his jab. If he bobs his head or drops his shoulders before he jabs his opponent will pick up this signal and be able to retaliate with a well-timed counter punch. Consequently if a drummer drops bombs or resolves fills in the same place the music will become dry and predictable. In other words don't always jab on "one".

Combinations lead off the boxer's jab as a drummer's fills lead off his ride. Boxing combinations should be a fluid motion not merely a series of disconnected punches. In drumming fills should be organic, integrated with the groove not a static event. Jack DeJohnette is a master of this concept. Jack doesn't play "fills" but a constant wave of rhythmic ideas. To me Joe Frazier is the Jack DeJohnette of the ring. In perpetual motion, Smokin' Joe's combinations flow seamlessly out of constant upper body movement.

Pacing is another important factor in both drumming and boxing. If a fighter comes out with all he's got in the first couple of rounds and doesn't land a lucky haymaker he'll most likely run out of steam if he has to go the distance. Likewise, if a drummer plays everything he knows in the first tune not only will this be unmusical but also he will have nothing left to say and will most likely be spent by the end of the set. In boxing, featherweight Willie Pep took pacing to an unprecedented level winning a round throwing no punches. Years before Ali began boasting (1946) he even predicted in which round he would do it (the 3rd). His longevity is a testament in pacing a career. Pep fought 242 bouts over a twenty-six year period winning 230 times with one draw!

Another aspect of the boxer's style is "inside" and "outside" fighting. The inside fighter prefers being close to his opponent working the body and seeking out uppercuts. I find this much like Tony Williams style; playing on top of the beat, always pushing the music with unexpected flurries and tempo changes. The outside fighter boxes more behind the beat; using his reach, pacing himself and seeking the right punch at the right time, as would a groove master like Bernard Purdie. Two great fighters with these respective styles are Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali. Seek out any of their three fights together and watch these rivals push each other to their maximum abilities.

Boxing is one of the few sports that is played one on one. The boxer must be determined, focused and in top condition. In the fight game a boxers determination and guts are regarded as "heart". It is essential for a sport hinged on the individual. In music, the gig similarly revolves around the drummer. No matter who is the leader on a date the man behind the drums ultimately leads the band. He determines the tempo, feel and direction of the music. If the drummer isn't focused it can lead to a lackluster performance. If he's at the top of his game it can lead to moments of greatness. Check out Billy Higgins on any of his later recordings. Though gravely ill, he still played with the perpetual bounce and inventiveness that defined Smilin' Billy. In the boxing world an aging Alexis Arguello twice fought Aaron Pryor in his prime. Though losing both fights, Arguello showed great heart and in defeat I see still him as the winner. In short, when making the gig show up with heart.

Training in boxing requires not only sparring but also many solitary hours running and working the bags. Any accomplished drummer knows the value of solitary practice but it's also important to spar! Get out to jam sessions; going toe to toe with other musicians is not only inspirational but also essential. It can also be an eye opener sending you back to the woodshed. The boxer's woodshed (the gym) is in itself a world of rhythm. The sounds of a boxing club in full swing are intoxicating. The heavy bag's bass sound and rat-a-tat snare of the speed bag heard together create a meditative polyrhythm. Sonny Liston new well the rhythms of the gym and used to skip rope to a recording of James Brown's "Night Train". In the hands of an experienced puncher the speed bag plays a stream of up-tempo triplets, the perfect workout for any drummer!

So next time you swing the band think of Sugar Ray Robinson. As you drop a bomb remember Joe Louis. When you play a flurry around the toms visualize Joe Frazier. Think of Ali as you lock into a deep pocket. Try to catch a current fight on HBO or Classic Boxing on ESPN. Vintage fight films are shown weekly and you can see the masters at work. Better yet get some hands on experience at the gym or for a small investment set one up at home. You'll notice a change in your reflexes, focus and concepts on drumming.

Snapshot of West Angeleno

It was a one room apartment, yet stood alone, on the second floor above a storage room. Beige, stucco, surrounded by asphalt, warped wooden steps with green peeling paint. Once inside, a small kitchen to the right, to the left a closet filled with weeks of dirty laundry. Ahead in the main room, a view of the street, furnished with a davenport, drums and guitars. On the wall, shelves of paperbacks from the used bookstore. In the far right corner a walk in closet, with a thin shaded window and a beat up mattress. Last a small bathroom, the only room with a door.

These were our humble digs.

We were three young men: naive, enthusiastic (the coveted emotions of youth) exiled in L.A. while attending Musician's Institute. Standing on smog shrouded bus stops to reach the corner of Hollywierd and Vine -- stepping of the RTD into dry heat and exhaust, winos prostrating on the Walk of Fame, passing transvestites, pimps and bums, then climbing the steps above the Wax Museum. In these hallowed halls, studio veterans with skinny ties teach the perfect feel for the perfect note, according to coked-out producers. The noble M.I. creed is: "Good time, in the pocket, Slick and sassy for all".

We opted for self-education.

Piling into Randy's Toyota we climbed the San Gabriel foothills, on a pilgrimage to our own university: Brand Library of the Arts. Once the home of old money aristocrats, now a sanctuary for starving artists. The tuition: one library card. With wide eyed enthusiasm we flipped through the bins of LP's turning up riches in sound. Discovering the mad scientists of the twentieth century: Varese, Cage, Boulez, Stockhausen; we also dug deep into Africa, Indonesia and E.C.M. Our private stock had Trane, Miles (we loved the electric stuff), Blue Notes and Weather Report. For comic relief there was Horton, the Art Ensemble and Chick Corea's Scientology Symphony. After checkout we flew down Olive Avenue beneath clouds of smog, crossing the bridge over the Southern Pacific, smoking cigarettes with anticipation until thudding up the steps to our door.

Let the ritual begin! Out comes the bag of Thousand Oaks skunk, a Cheshire Cat grin on Larry's face. Sitting in the breakfast nook, three shamans at the holy altar, passing the bong in contemplative silence.

Randy shuffles through the albums and stops at a picture of Stockhausen with wild hair and bulging eyes, fingers fixed at the klangregie. "Hey let's check this out", he says nonchalantly.

He carefully takes the record from sleeve, places it on the turntable and with steady hand guides the needle to the edge of the vinyl. What in the hell?!!

This ain't no be-bop rhythm change or jazz fusion chops-fest, symphony of old or Afro-Cuban fantasy. Ain't no show tune, pop tune, rock n' roll blues, movie theme, aria, Irish reel. No folk tune, chant or TV jingle.

This music ain't of this earth.

We sat in rapture, three disciples before the burning bush. At times laughing, then looking at each other with bloodshot eyes in disbelief and after a barrage of electronic mayhem Randy's solemn cry: "Whoa!" It was true this was music like none we'd ever heard -- beyond genre, devoid of cliche, an open door to free expression.

The needle finally reached the end of the vinyl, crackling between the label and grooves. There was nothing more to hear it had all been said. In twenty minute of sine waves and spliced tape we had glimpsed the edge of the universe from our shabby one room apartment. There was only one thing left to do -- Frank's! Eventually as the initiated know, after the ritual hunger sets in. We stumbled down the steps and onto the sidewalk, the neighborhood pleasantly surreal. Distant car horns, the blast of a jack hammer, a white noise jet overhead. Water spilling from a hose, the chirping of birds. I heard these sounds for what they had always been -- music. Muse-ic. James Joyce was right: God is a noise in the street.

Ah, Frank how you fill me with longing. For a beef dip sandwich with fries on the side, a Greek with blue and a dishwater coffee all for under four bucks with tip. And hey! I'm still half-stoned, so a slice of apple pie ala mode. Frank's was the home of the L.A. exiles: artists, musicians, out of work actors, hustlers and those who lost their way to the American dream. I pulled open the door to the familiar aroma of grease, cigarette smoke and coffee and we entered our think tank, a naugahyde booth. Fueled by caffeine we rattled on in the pseudo-intellect of the TV generation:
"Hey someone should write a thesis on Gilligan's Island as a Freudian archetype".
"Yeah, check it out, the Howell's represent greed".
"The professor intellect".
"Ginger lust".
"Mary Anne a sexual mother figure".
"And Gilligan and the Skipper two repressed homosexuals".

Brown linoleum, clanking busboys, hanging lamps with muted glow. Shuffling waitresses, sizzling grill, the din of conversation. Alone one evening Randy sat at the counter stirring cream in his coffee. A leather faced trucker leaned over, stubbed out his cigarette in disgust and said: "That's COFFEE your drinking boy not warm milk".

In a plume of smoke sat the prince of Frank's, a man we only new as Ace. You could always find him holding court with a booth of clean-shaven young men. Looking like Hunter S. Thompson in boots, vest and bolo tie he smoked a thin brown cigarette with the gestures of an aristocrat. He claimed to know all the fringe Hollywood types and you could hear him riffing at his table:

"You know Jay North was a damn good actor and a personal friend. It's a shame how the industry threw him into the gutter after "Dennis The Menace". I could have been an actor but I prefer to write exposee".

After having our fill of coffee and cigarettes we paid our check and walked into the Santa Ana winds. We ran into Rene, a Bronx born Puerto Rican who had initiated us into the rhythms of Afro-Cuban music and the ins and outs of the music biz:

"Bro, I got a steady over at the Beverly Hills Hotel, man, they treat you like the help. I saw Jane Fonda on the elevator; if I look her in the eye I get fired."

In a threadbare tuxedo, loading his timbales into his car for his evening gig, he gave us a solemn look and said: "I'm tired of being exploited". As he drove into the distance I noticed how the smog over San Fernando gives off brilliant sunsets. I contemplated my future.
And the evening star
Blazed triumphant
Against a dying sun.

Something about the night stirs creativity; maybe it's the quiet city that heightens the senses. But since the afternoons revelations our instruments almost seemed useless. Slouching on the davenport, I picked up an album cover and began slowly reading the liner notes.

I sat behind the drum set and thought about the elements of wood, skin, chrome and brass. I picked up the sticks and began caressing the cymbals allowing space to hear the overtones. I listened to the rhythms of the overtones and filled in with random accents. Flurries of hi-hat, stabs of snare, I began hearing waves rolling in from the ocean, floor tom earthquakes, glaciers of brass. But it was Randy and Larry who were really making it happen. Randy with cigarette in mouth, eyes closed (always eyes closed) guitar plugged into the diabolical Turtle, harmonizing notes with a primal scream. Larry with roach clips on the strings of his bass, sputtering harmonics with Harpo Marx deadpan. We purged ourselves of all we had learned, hoping for a glimpse of the truth. It was love and war as it should be and we cast sly smiles of recognition. Then raising an eyebrow in epiphany, I flew open the doors that hid the Murphy bed and flailed the bedsprings with eager drumsticks. It was either Looney Tunes or sublime yearning and we burst with laughter at the audacity of it all. Calming the storm, we settled into a meditation, the sounds dissolving into space -- no grand finale or pompous ending, it was the rise and fall of the wind, a distant moan of a train at dawn.

We were drained from our journey, only enough energy to lay and read: Alan Watts, Kerouac, Musician magazine. The ashtray filled, the coffee cups emptied, the street lights shadowed on the torn yellow shade. We heard the sound of flipping pages, a clearing throat, a fart and chorus of laughter, the creaking of the Murphy bed as it folded from the wall, the rustling of blankets as we finally retired -- Randy on the Murphy bed, me on the davenport, Larry in the walk in closet.

This was our life for one year. Three young men in a one room apartment with only our music and friendship.

He gave me directions to a rowhouse in Northwest D.C.
When I arrived I was greeted by an older black gentleman just leaving for his shift as a cab driver.
"You need to go around back to the alley. They're in the basement".

I drove down the narrow alley which was dimly lit and ominously quiet. Was this a set up? I inched down the concrete, gravel crunching under my tires, and finally heard some keyboards and bass spilling out from a basement door. I made my way to the top of the stairs and descended the wooden steps into the darkness of the basement.

I was met by E.J., extending his hand in greeting. "Glad you could make it."
"Good to meet you."
"Let me introduce you to everybody. This is Archie and Benny. We call them the Twins."
We shook hands. Archie and Benny were from Austin, Texas, where they had their own group, Silky Smooth Band and Show. They had replaced two of the original vocalists. They weren't twins by birth but were thick as thieves and dressed the same, mainly both sporting Mr. T starter kits. They also had their own valet called "Dootie" who sat in the corner reading the sports page.

"Here's my cousin Jake. We started the group back in the '50's. We own the name and have been doing it ever since."

Jake put his pipe in his mouth so he could shake my hand. He was probably pushing seventy and had the grizzled look that only 30 years of road gigs can give you. He gave me a jaded look that said to me: "Can this white motherfucker play?"

"Here's the rest of the rhythm section: Glenn and David." I was relieved that they were around my age, two journeymen musicians hired as sidemen. I'd later find out trouble had a way of following David around but Glenn was all about music and was one of D.C's hottest keyboard players. He later told me he only took the gig because it was steady and he was trying to pay off his car note.

After I set up my drums E.J. counted off one of the numerous doo-wop tunes in their band book. It was an easy audition. Mostly the 12/8 groove that accompanies almost all '50's doo-wop numbers. They did do some Motown and some more current soul tunes but it wasn't anything I hadn't already encountered on club dates in L.A. Glenn and David looked relieved that I locked fairly easily.

Jake wasn't as easily convinced.
"When I do "Blueberry Hill" you need to break it down like Bumpy did."
Glenn gave me a wink that said: "Ignore him", but I new I couldn't possibly be as soulful as a guy named Bumpy. I later found out to "break it down" you need to crack the snare on "one" and bring the dynamics way down (a staple of playing R&B). After a few more tunes E.J. pulled me to the side.
"Okay kid you got the gig. We pay $100 a night and cover travel and rooms. We don't go for heavy drinkin' and druggin'. Are you in?"
$100 a night wasn't great for a road gig but neither was waking up at 3:00 in the morning to go to UPS.
"Sounds good. I'm in".
"All right we leave Friday morning. We meet at my place in Springfield and take the van. We'll be playing a club in Brooklyn and then a couple of oldies shows in upstate New York".

We hit the road on a fine spring morning headed to a club Brooklyn and then on to New Paltz, New York. We were set to play a couple of shows with The Orioles, The Clovers and a few other acts that were still riding off the one or two hits they had had twenty odd years ago. It was just me, Glenn and E.J. and Jake. The twins always drove themselves, and David would somehow materialize right before the gig. E.J.'s ride was a conversion van from the mid-seventies which anyone with even a passing knowledge of cars would have guessed by its appearance: brown with tan pin stripes, the interior naugahyde with orange shag carpeting.

Despite its appearance, the van was comfortable and ran in tip top shape. One thing a road veteran knows is to take of regular maintenance.

E.J. eased on to 95, taking his time up the onramp since he was pulling our gear and clothes behind us in a U-Haul. Jake lit up his pipe and was kind enough to crack his window but the smell of burning tobacco still made its way to the back of the van. I didn't mind. I've always liked the smell of pipe smoke and it took me back to the days when my father lit up after a long day's work. E.J. fumbled with a cassette and slid it into the tape deck. I anticipated some classic R&B, maybe James Brown or Marvin Gaye, or maybe E.J.'s really a closet jazz fan or likes old school blues or gospel. The speakers vibrated with the slick production of Jam & Lewis.

"Yeah, that Janet Jackson is BAD", said E.J. looking over his shoulder for a split second.
"This is the kind of sound I want to bring into the band."
I thought he was kidding but to my horror he would later buy a drum machine that Glenn had to learn how to program and I had to play along with. I loved the sound of some of The Flamingos' old records, that wide open Rudy Van Gelder sound, the sound of one mike in a room that really puts you into a certain time and place. I admired E.J. for wanting to keep up with the times but I was hoping to get schooled in the ways of classic R&B. "Hey E.J., check this out", I said handing him a cassette over his shoulder.
"This better be good if I gotta take off Janet."
He slid in the tape and we heard the drummer kick in with a fat, laid back 12/8 groove and a tuba playing a familiar bass line. The trumpets stood in for back up singers: "doo-wop shoo-bop". The lead trumpet then laid down a greasy version of the melody to "I Only Have Eyes For You".
"Who the fuck is this"? asked E.J.
"Lester Bowie, he's a trumpet player from St. Louis."
We listened as the Brass Fantasy did a verbatim version of The Flamingos arrangement. Lester played the melody slyly and irreverently and Jake laughed when he did one of his patented flutter blasts. It was soulful and comical at the same time, the musicians pushing the arrangement to its furthest limits.
"Wow, ain't that a bitch."
I thought maybe E.J. didn't appreciate Lester's take on their tune but the tone in his voice expressed wonder that someone had taken their music to a completely different place.

Baltimore soon appeared in the distance and I thought of Cal Ripken and Billie Holiday. Unlike D.C., Baltimore feels like a real city. Ethnic neighborhoods, blue collar ambition, even a skyline. The hum of the van soon lulled me to sleep, my head occasionally rocking up and down when E.J. hit a bump in the road or worked the brakes. By the time I awoke we had stopped for a piss break on the Jersey Turnpike (Probably at Walt Whitman or James Fennimore Cooper. Isn't Kerouac deserving of a rest stop named after him? How about Ginsberg -- he's from Jersey). Glenn and I hopped outside, the glare of the sun momentarily slowing us down. Jake stood by the side of the van scraping the bowl of his pipe and knocking it on the van's bumper. We walked among the weary travelers, red eyed from too much coffee and lack of sleep, some backed up from too much junk food.

After a visit to a restroom with a wall length trough-like urinal, we made our way to get some grease. Glenn hit McDonalds, his favorite. He told me he'd worked at one when he was down and out in Frisco; I think he worked there to get free food. I got some sausage and peppers from Sbarros. My grandmother would have been horrified at the thought of Italian fast food but it worked in a pinch.

When we got back to the van, Jake and E.J. had stocked up on junk food from the vending machine, cheese and crackers, candy bars. I don't know how they did it, but I rarely saw them sit down to a hot meal.

"Hey Glenn, I should have had you get me some fries", said E.J. "What have you got there, Merella?"

"Sausage and peppers."
"Good God, you're eatin' that squeal?" E.J. replied in disgust.

I was dumbfounded. Weren't black Americans the kings of the pig? Cooking ribs to perfection, frying up porkchops, even cleaning out the guts for chitterlings and boiling the feet with sauerkraut. I thought maybe E.J. was a black Muslim."
"Me and Jake don't mess with that squeal. We're black Jews, came up in the Black Jewish Church in Chicago. We're descended from Ethiopians; we didn't come out of slavery."

I wondered where the got the name Carey. It didn't sound Ethiopian to me. "That's where we got our concept of harmony from the Hebrew songs we learned in church."
It was true their vocals had the minor blues-like quality of a chanting cantor. "The Black Jews are descended from the Queen of Sheba and we've spread out across the world, some of us here in the U.S., the Rastafarians in Jamaica, and a group of us in Israel. That's our goal to get back to the motherland."
The only black Jew I'd heard of was Sammy Davis, Jr.

Later I thought they were living up to Jewish stereotypes when I tried to press them for a raise, but I soon learned they were tight with their money after years of being ripped off by music industry scoundrels.

Jake was the paymaster of the band and he was as old school as they came, paying in cash from a huge roll of bills he kept stuffed in his sock. His bookkeeping consisted of signing your name next to an amount he had scribbled in a beat up notebook. As primitive as it was I received a 1099 at the end of the year. E.J. was back in stride on the Pike, the bass note hum of the engine filling the seats with a relaxing vibration. As a veteran of the turnpike, E.J. measured his progress not by mile markers or city names but by the numbered exits.
"Exit 12, yeah I had me freak in Rahway, girl used to send her daughter out to spy on me at gigs. Exit 14. Hey Jake, remember Chuck Wepner, 'The Bleeder from Bayonne'"? That tomato can that fought Ali in Cleveland? He got lucky and knocked the champ on his ass but he paid for it later."

E.J. was a big fight fan and loved the fact that I knew boxing. This was during Mike Tyson's prime and after I had eased into the band we all took a "field trip" to see Tyson knock out Michael Spinks in 90 seconds on closed circuit television.

We were now on Rt. 278, heading east for Brooklyn. Our gig was at Bilotta's Villa, a restaurant-showroom on Flatbush Avenue. Frank Bilotta was an "entrepreneur" who was also a crooner in the style of a young Frank Sinatra. He was a huge fan of doo wop and treated E.J. and Jake like they were gods.
"I got my first piece of ass in the back of a Cadillac with these guys on the radio and I swore if I ever got my own joint, The Flamingos would play it."
We crossed the fabled Brooklyn Bridge with its spider web cables, spanning out from mammoth Arch-De-Triumph-like towers. Here, Walt Whitman took the ferry to Manhattan, before the bridge laid way to the industrial dynamo of the American night. Henry Miller saw the forlorn span from the Fourteenth Ward and thought of Paris and Rimbaud, though never really escaped Brooklyn, and Sonny Rollins shed on his saxophone to the Zen like hum of passing traffic.

Up Flatbush Ave., passing brownstones and walkups we pulled into the alley alongside the Villa. Walking into the darkness of club we saw the Twins and Dottie sitting at a table over a large pizza.
"Dig in fellas; it's on the house."

We passed, and then from the kitchen saw Frank emerge in sharkskin suit, toupee and twinkling pinkie ring.

"E.J., Jake, good to see you, been too long. Hey, who's the new guy?" he said looking me over.
"That's Mark our new drummer".
"You a paisan?"
"Yeah, half, the half with the name."
"I can spot one a mile away. What's the other half?"
"Irish".
"Jesus Christ. Whaddya like to do get drunk and then beat the shit out of yourself!"

He let out a huge laugh and grabbed me around the shoulders.
"Hey, these fuckin' moulies will take good care but if they don't, you just come to me", he said flashing a smile at E.J.
"Hey from this moulie to a fucking greaseball, FUCK YOU!"

They both grabbed each with a big hug and laughed together.
"You know who loves doo-wop more than blacks? Italians! We put the WOP in doo-wop", Frank said, cracking himself up.
"Hey, youse guys need anything before showtime, just let me know it's all on the house, but Marco no 'buca before showtime", he said laughing as he left the room, "or should I say whiskey?"

Glenn and I made our way out to the van and started humping in our gear. The club had a nice size stage with lights and a decent sound system. We got set up and went into an impromptu sound check, Glenn and I ripping into "Cherokee".

Glenn stopped to make a few adjustments when we heard Jake say from a corner table: "Stop playing that devil shit."

Our opening set was the only time the band really got to play. We never took it too out. It was usually instrumental versions of R&B tunes -- Marvin Gaye's "What's Goin' On", maybe a Stevie Wonder tune or the underated Donny Hathaway's "Valdez in the Country". We were a different band at sound check.

Evening came and the club began to fill with couples who had come of age when the sounds of doo wop could be heard on street corners, not from boom boxes, but from fledgling a capella groups with their eyes on the big time. Frankie Valli, Dion, Danny and the Juniors, sounds of blackness in the white boroughs of the city.

We got ready for show time. Opening our suit bags, I was greeted by an off-white tux (slightly yellowing) with huge lapels and black satin borders. It had probably been rented to a pimply faced kid to wear to the prom in 1955.

"You shoulda seen the shit we used to wear", said Glenn looking over the top of his glasses, "This is the new stuff".

We dressed in the "executive lounge" (the stall of the men's room), staying behind as the old timers had gone to the motel to get ready.

David materialized on cue already dressed, bass in hand, a new mystery woman at his side. Jake, E.J. and the Twins entered through alley entrance, waitin "backstage" until they made their grand entrance to the stage from the kitchen door. Glenn, David and I hit the bandstand for our opening set, basically killing time. That's how it was night after night: two or three tunes up front from the band, then it was all about the vocals and rightfully so: Jake, E.J. and the Twins could hold the room spellbound, their haunting harmonies taking people back to an era where in a time of innocence, the soundtrack was safe yet mysterious. Jake held the bass; E.J. sang lead, and the Twins harmonized like they had been there from the beginning. More than once I got the chills listening to them work their magic. It was an all-encompassing sound: the emotion of gospel, the harmonies of jazz, the soul of R&B. Whether in a bar in Brooklyn, a casino in Vegas, or at the county fairgrounds, they had the aura of neon, art deco, drive-thrus, sleek automobiles and the early days of television... when all was well with the world, or so we thought.

To be continued...

My rite of passage
Is psilocybin visions
Of suburban backyards
Garage band ecstasies
On a humid Bowie night
The smell of wet leaves
And marijuana smoke
Hungover
Hot walking
Horses
The flash of a deer
In Patuxant woods
Clumsy fondling
After all night keg parties
Black light bong hits
Of summer afternoons
The sound of jazz
In Big Meadows firelight
Reading Kerouac
On a flight to L.A.

All have led me here.

I hadn't seen you in years
Or at least since the days
Of my wild youth,
I remember your son
On a Chicago night
Beckoned by inner voices
Ran naked through quiet snowflakes
In the halo
Of a street light.

I asked how he was doing
You told me:
"Still in St. Elizabeth's."
You had visited him that weekend
And asked him how he spends his days
He told you: "I listen to the birds"

On that anxious corner
With a nervous smile
You looked me in the eye
And said:
"I put on a suit and tie everyday
maybe I'm the one that's crazy."

Traveling the salt flats
On Nevada 93
Emptiness is familiar
Defines determination

No neon here
Just vacant horizon
Where headlights burn
Through a void of darkness
As stars are milked
From Venus's breast

I think of the countless miles
Where footsteps
Have broken no ground
Where man has left his mark
Through the scourge
Of splitting atoms

Here
The moan of a train
Speaks not isolation
But feels warm
Like this coffee
And soft glow
Of dash lights

They call me on the phone:
"Hey Merella what's happenin'?"
"Nothin' same old stuff."
"You done any gigs lately?"
"A few things here and there."
"Yeah? Well I did a session with the Jazz Gods
and a wedding for 350 bucks and a showcase
with Johnny Starfire whose got a deal with
Hollywood Records."

This is what it's turned into:
A circle jerk of politics
A ballet of public relations
A charade of insecurity
With no fire
No urgency

We've become deaf to our calling

The phone rings again:
"Hey Merella you busy on the 22nd?"
"No I'm open."
"Well I've got a private party at the Old Money Club,
you interested?"

I'll be whoring once again

Naima
Tilting your head
Off to one side
Creating worlds in crayon
Where trees grow
From the sky
Cats have wings
And mountains have faces

These words are searching for that spark

Crusaders without cause
We are the prism
That reflects humanity,
Some see us without purpose
As we ourselves
Cast a shadow of doubt

The suspicious gaze
Of those
Who see our work
As insignificant
They have become the illusion
And worse
They believe in it

We need not justify
Heed the inner calling
Strip away lies
To bear naked truth
Cry with courage
Your revelation

We stand at the forge
Of creativity
Fueled by sweat and sacrifice
With a reward of crumbs
And alienation

Stoke the fire
And sweat on

Home     Bio     Projects     Schedule     Sounds     Photos     Reviews     Schedule     Writing     Contact