What is classic music?

You know those pants/haircut/shoes/glasses you rocked in junior high? You thought you were the bomb-dot-com, and now you try to burn every single picture from that part of your life. Well, music can be the same. Not everything that you think is amazing now will still be cool in five plus years.

Here's one example.

Growing up, I went through all of the normal emotional storms, including breaking up with girlfriends and getting grounded by my parents. Music - more often than not - got me through. As a result, it has always amazed me how fast I can go back to certain events or time periods in my life just by hearing a few notes or words from a certain song.

One such song was a blues tune that shall not be named (for reasons which I will explain). It was my Senior year of high school, and I had been dumped by the girl of my dreams (yeah....about that). This is really pathetic, but I laid down on the floor next to the speakers, put the aforementioned track on repeat, and wallowed in self pity for the next couple of hours.

Fast forward to college, and I was exploring some music with a new girl of my dreams, and came across a dusty old CD that I hadn't listened to since high school.

"Sweet!" I said. "This song is so awesome! You've gotta check it out." Without reconsidering, I put the disc in the player, skipped to the appropriate track and waited for the magic.

The song was awful.

It became immediately apparent that my memory of the song was much better than the song itself. It was actually kind of embarrassing, and I had to quickly kill the music, as it were, and make some stupid excuse about how maybe it wasn't that great or I had been thinking of another song. I looked really dumb, to say the least.

This got me thinking, "So, what makes a song great? Not just great now, but great over time. Why is music from certain artists - like Mozart or the Beatles - still relevant, while other, more recent artists are already outdated and old?"

Understand, I'm not talking about immediate popularity, or even album sales. (Does it make anybody else sick that Katy Perry is outselling the Beatles, for crying out loud?) I'm talking about music that doesn't outlive its popularity, its ability to connect with an audience - its soul, for lack of a better term.

As a high school music teacher, one of the assignments I gave was for students to bring in one of their favorite tunes, explain it to the class, and justify its existence. One question they had to answer was, "Will this song still be relevant in five to ten years? Why or why not?" It was fun to hear certain kids flat out admit that their tune was cool for now, but probably wouldn't be in the near future. 

I'd encourage you to try this out. No, this is not school, but give it a go:

Take your favorite song (for me, this changes weekly, if not daily). Print out the lyrics. Read them to yourself slowly, taking care to decode the overt meaning and look for any subtle meanings and symbolism. Even better, read them out loud to some one who isn't familiar with the song, and ask them to summarize the meaning of the song in one sentence, two at most.

For the sake of music and art, I challenge myself - and you! - to be a more discriminating listener and consumer of music.


Happy interpreting/listening/discerning!

"Spirit Houses"

Just a warning. I know I've written some pretty whack stuff before, but this might be the most whacked out yet. So, read with a grain of salt handy. 

Several years ago I attended a workshop by Wally "Gator" Watson. There's much more to it than this, but he talked about how all of our instruments - especially drums - were once living things. Since he's a drummer, he talked especially about drums being made from trees.

Wally believed strongly that all living things have spirits, trees included. And since they were once living, they retain the ability to "house" a spirit. Specifically, yours when you play. Wally talked about playing with your whole heart and soul, putting your spirit into the drums when you play them. He called his drums, "Spirit Houses."


Beyond the instrument, too, Wally talked a lot about putting your soul into your music. As an example, he brought a teenage girl up in front of the group and asked her to do a little singing. He quieted the audience while he spoke to the girl, and she sheepishly began to sing, "Happy Birthday" to the audience.

Honestly, it was pretty embarrassing for all of us. She turned red, giggled her way through it, and looked around awkwardly the entire time. The audience didn't do much better. It couldn't get over fast enough! Wally smiled kindly, quieted the audience again, and whispered something quickly in the girl's ear.

She closed her eyes and began to sing the same song again, but in a completely different way. As the first notes poured out, the entire room changed. The air itself seemed to be made of a heavier substance. The once giggling teenager stood calmly, eyes closed, beautiful voice clear and true. As she got to the third line of the tune (sing along, everybody), she choked slightly as she sang, "Happy birthday, dear Mom, happy birthday to you." It was breathtakingly beautiful, and I was completely stunned.

The young woman finished the song and opened her eyes, and the audience applauded, almost in awe. As she stood there, Wally asked her to repeat what he had asked her to do. The first time, she said, he just asked her to, "Sing 'Happy Birthday.'" The second time? "He told me to sing it to somebody that I love, so I sang to my mom. She died of cancer a few years ago."

I don't exactly know how to put into words just how much that experience changed me, but it did change me. Since then, no matter what I play, be it complex and crazy or simple backbeats, I try to play it with every ounce of my soul. I try to fill my drums with as much of my soul as I can.

Not gonna lie. It takes a great deal of effort to play like that, but it's immensely rewarding. It's that whole, "What can I give to my music, the other musicians and the audience?" mentality, and I've come to love it, depend on it, and expect it of myself.

And if that's not weird enough for you, I've got one more. One night after a particularly amazing and enjoyable gig, I started doing something I've made a habit of - I put my hand on one of my drums and just said, "Thank you." I know it sounds really crazy, but I thank my instruments for allowing me to make music with them. It's humbling, and it reminds me that playing is a privilege, a team effort, and that I should never take it for granted.

Weirder yet? About a week ago, walking out of the gym, I looked up at the basketball hoop and softly said, "Thank you," and hoped nobody heard me. Because without the hoop, you can't, you know, uh.......never mind.

Happy drumming!