Deep in the drummer's cups

The first memory I have of Bill Foreman is helping my friend Jack to record the “Hey Rumba Head, Its Bill & Pete!” album. I was in a band with Jack at the he was going to record his friend Bill’s band over the course of a weekend or two. So I stopped by not knowing what to expect and subsequently had my head completely blown off by how groovy they were.

Bill & Pete were nothing at all akin to anything else I was used to at the time. Being a “professional” (I hate that term) musician, I was accustomed to playing with formally trained players for the most part. Unfortunately that meant they were usually pretty stiff and unwilling to take risks. In other words they were the complete polar opposite of Bill Foreman.

After the sessions, in which they gleefully allowed me to play tambourine, I asked Jack to make me copies of everything he had with Bill’s playing on it. The thing that blew my mind the most was that not only did Bill play amazing drums; he wrote some of the best songs I had ever heard. To this day I still play “The Little Band That Could” disk I have at least once a week.

I had written music while I was in college, but mostly Jazz and Orchestral pieces. So I understood the challenges and prejudices that needed to be overcome to be a drummer who composed music as well. At the time I was just beginning to write rock songs for my band on the guitar and Bill was definitely my biggest influence. I would write a song and then listen to “Trace of a Cat’s Eye” or “Can’t Wait To Be Free” and send myself back to the drawing board. I held him up to as high a standard as Dylan or Lennon and McCartney. His songs were that heavy to me.

Over time he would come and see us play shows, we would go to see him perform and eventually I was lucky enough to get to play a few shows with Bill. I remember feeling intimidated and elated at the time to be sitting behind the kit while he played guitar and sang. We had a lot of great talks about music and philosophy over a few beers and maybe some whiskey. Nothing like getting a couple of drummers deep into their cups and getting them started on the merits of Art Blakey.

Bill is a very modest guy. He does not take compliments about his playing very well. But having been around a lot of musicians in my day, he really is one of the best drummers I have ever heard. He mentioned that one of his biggest influences is Elvin Jones and I can definitely hear that in his playing. He has a tremendously deep pocket that propels you naturally where he wants you to go. Not many drummers can do that effectively. Bill does it instinctively.

If you’re looking for “perfection” buy a drum machine. He plays the instrument the way it should be played. He plays the drums like a musical instrument and not like a metronome. All of the bands that let him go obviously didn’t get it. They obviously did not have the capacity to swing along with him. They probably couldn’t even swing from a rope in a hurricane.

Think about all of the music that you love. The music that makes you move and shake. If James Brown played along to a metronome it would be stiff and the Godfather would have no soul. The Levee would have never broken for Led Zeppelin. Revolver would have stopped spinning for the Beatles. This is what we are talking about here. Feel. Groove. Soul. They are all one and the same. Bill Foreman has them all in spades.

Over the years we have maybe seen each other a handful of times, but I am always in awe of what a kind and generous soul he has. This most definitely comes through in his musicianship. You can take lessons for decades and study every pedagogical philosophy ever created for your chosen instrument. You can work in all the top sessions with all the top name players and even go on tour with the biggest names in the business and still not have the one quality that Bill has in everything musical that he does. Love.

Bill means every note that he plays and every word that he sings. He means it with every single cell in his being and every last ounce of soul that he has. Bill truly loves making music and he plays straight from his heart. That may mean that he doesn’t live up to the standards of musical perfection that rule today’s airwaves, but so be it!

His music may not be heard by the huddled masses of Lady Ga Ga and Maroon 5 fans, but they wouldn’t get it anyway. They don’t have open enough hearts and ears to hear it. But his music is there for those of us that are open. His music is there to reach down and pull us up from the dirt when we need it. I for one am grateful every day for that.

Please go to http://www.generalludd.com and take a listen to some wonderful music. He even gives all his albums away for free so you have no excuse! Enjoy!

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he went that-a-way

I can feel the landmass that is America pulling its gravity to the wrong side of me. I spent over thirty years with the ocean to the West and the rest of my country on the opposite side. I can’t even tell which way North is anymore. It’s a mental disorientation as well as an emotional one.

As difficult events occur in life, there is always some comfort that can be provided by the knowledge of ones location. I always knew where the beach was. I could tell you where the Santa Ana Mountains were with my eyes closed. I could be on any freeway and point directly to where the house I grew up in was located. It was reassuring. It was soothing.

Now I even get confused by where the sun rises and sets. Don’t get me wrong, Rhode Island is beautiful. I loved the snow when it was here. So far everyone tells me that’s just because I’m lucky enough to not have to drive in it. The spring has provided lush trees with a deep green hue that my eyes have ever before witnessed. I literally just have no idea where I am.

My wife and children are here, and I know that is what’s really important. But my loss of magnetic North still digs at me. It reminds me of getting off of a plane on vacation. You walk through the tunnel and step out into a strange terminal. You follow the helpful arrows down to baggage claim, and hail a cab to get to your hotel. You follow the rising and falling of the strange landscapes as you move down the unfamiliar roads to your destination. Then hesitantly peek out your hotel room window trying to figure out where the hell you’ve just ended up.

Even after a few days or even a week of sightseeing and traveling around your host city, the only landmarks that stand out as familiar are your hotel and if your lucky, some other random buildings or other bright and flashy touristy novelty destinations. Then, you fly home and instantly walking down the tunnel to get off of the plane you know where you are. You don’t even need to glance at the arrows pointing you towards your bags. You walk straight to the lot where you left your car without even blinking. The familiar if not inviting roads steer you to your doorstep without even the need for a first thought, let alone a second.

I remember my Dad always had a compass on the dashboard of his car when we were growing up. It fascinated me how this little magnet with markings on it could tell us where we were going just by spinning around in its little water filled dome. I never really understood why he had it though. I knew where East was. I could feel the pull downward of South and the warmth of West from deep inside my gut.

Maybe that was it. He wasn’t from L.A. He grew up in Chicago. So maybe he needed the compass to reassure him like I need the one my wife just gave me. L.A. eventually became his home, but he would never feel the instinctive pull of direction that Chicago would greet him with every time he went back for a visit. He would never be able to tell which way North was just by the color of light in the sky. Or he did in fact grow that spinning arrow shaped limb inside of his mind over time. Perhaps the compass became a redundancy that he eventually just didn’t need any more. I’ll ask him the next time he refers to the GPS system that came pre-installed in his Prius.

I want to feel comfortable here. I really do. Maybe it’s because I don’t drive these days that I am so easily lost. I am beginning to recognize a few of the streets and turns we take when we head out to one of my son’s baseball games. Little league is different around here too! They don’t just play in one location. Nope. There are three different fields we have to go to depending on the day, time and opponents that they face. And trust me the trio of locations are gorgeous. With lush towering trees surrounding the fields and playgrounds for the siblings not on the teams, it’s very relaxing. Relaxing if you can tell what direction center field is facing that is!

Some might say that I need to lighten up and roll with the changes here. Honestly, I wish that I could. I wish I could hop into the passenger seat and simply not care that I have no idea where we are going. The forests rolling by on one side with pristinely manicured farms on the other. Sure it’s beautiful to watch. But I can’t enjoy it. My insides are churning around and I feel tightness like I am just about to walk into a sweaty old basketball gym and sit down for my SAT’s!

I have never been one of those guys who will refuse to pull over and ask for directions mind you. There is almost nothing I hate more than being lost. (Being late trumps it by a little bit.) I simply need to know in which direction I am headed. Perhaps that is why the stereotype of not asking for directions exists. Men could be so deeply in need of knowing where they are at all times, that they will pretend to not be lost even when they are. It might not even be a gender thing. I’ll have to look into that one.

Since that stereotype has been around for so long, I don’t think that I am the only one who feels this way. If I was, there would be no market for GPS systems. There would be no tiny plastic compasses tacked to dashboards with strips of double sided tape. There would be no angry couples arguing at highway rest stops around the globe about turning left at Exit 23 instead of veering right onto Maple Highway sixteen miles ago. We just knew it had to be a shortcut right fellas?

I just want to feel at home again. That’s what I am talking about I guess. Maybe one day this beautiful countryside will provide the comfort and the security I have been missing since we got here. I want to be able to close my eyes, and point to where Providence is. If you blindfold me and spin me around three times I would love to be able to tell you that Boston is over there. New York is that way. Turn left to get into downtown Scituate. Heck, the beach (or “ocean” as they refer to it out here) is just over that ridge. Hopefully that will all come in time. For now, I’ll refer to the GPS on my phone and my shiny new trusty compass! Spin arrow spin! I’ll call when we get there.

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