When I was growing up in France, some music were better rated than others. On top of that, no matter what, you had Classical Music. That was not only revered, but the official music promoted and taught by all the Conservatories of the land. I went to one of them. I studied with someone who was teaching Napoleonian snare drum technique. To this day, I still hold my sticks in the traditional way.
Then, as you go down the ladder, you got a few very respected French singer/songwriters. The holy Trinity is Brassens, Brel and Ferre, in that order. There was one female that was excellent: Barbara. The genre is basically right between music and poetry. You get a man and his guitar fighting against the world, Woody Guthrie style. In the case of Barbara, a little difference, she plays the piano. That was my favorite kind of music. Then we approached Pop music. In that you’ve got the rest, from the easy teenage Pop band to Leonard Cohen or Bob Dylan. Anything English. Oh, by the way, French people listen to music without the subtitles. It means that we do not understand the lyrics. As such, I had Hotel California pinned for a love song, when it’s Stanley Kubrick’s “The shining” in there.
Anyway.
My instrument, the drum set belonged heavily in that third category: Pop, Blues, Funk, Rock, Reggae. And it felt weird. I always resonated strongly with the drums. I felt that it was a little more than the butt of many a joke I heard throughout the years. I felt it, but it never really sank in. All of the music calling for it was not as highly considered as the Classical music or the French Folk one.
The drums were something strong and primal, simple and sophisticated. It resonated in a particular way that no other instrument did. I’ll give you an example, but I’m not sure I’ll explain it any better than at the beginning of this paragraph.
We lived on the eastern side of France, close to Switzerland (We didn’t like the Swiss because they crossed the border to steal our snails and mushrooms!). My father was a fisherman. We were nowhere near an ocean. So we moved to Brittany, a piece of land directly facing New-York. The trip took about 10 hours on the account that we had dingy cars as slow as a continent drift. At the time both my mum and my father smoked. If we were traveling in the cold season, windows were shut. I don’t recommend it, but that’s what it was. At the end of the trip, my father would open the windows and, sure enough, the stink of tobacco would escape the car to be replaced by the smell of our destination: the sea. The perfume of the sea is of salt, yes, for sure, but it’s much more than that. It’s has the hint of space, strength and tranquility. Yes, even when the weather was bad and the water was a washing machine, it still smelled of something calm. I won’t describe all the components, because, as the scent was enveloping us, there was much more nuances and subtleties that were revealed. Probably, the more powerful effect was that we recognized the ocean. Even if you never smelled it, you’ll know immediately what it is. You’ll resonate.
That, in a nutshell, is what I feel about the drums. It doesn’t just go “Boom!”, it takes you, it make you move, helps you breath and react. In Classical music, very little drums. They even give it another name: percussion. In French Folk, like I said, your main weapon is a guitar, or in some rare instances the piano. But in that town, oh boy! Drums are everything. What town? You’ll discover that in part 2. This blog is already long enough.
