05/27/2022
Lynn Murphy Mark
That old time rock and roll
This morning as I scroll through the news postings, I decide I simply can’t do it anymore right now. I realize that is a luxury that is not available in Uvalde, Texas, today and for the foreseeable future. There is no place to put the heartbreak of murdered children and teachers. My heart is so heavy when I think about a small town that now will have a place in the lexicon of mass murders in the United States of America.
The last bit of information that I took in was that in 1994 when the ban on assault weapons was overturned, there were approximately 400,000 assault rifles in the USA. Today that number is somewhere around 20,000,000. And millions more bullets are manufactured in magazines holding 30 or more rounds. The numbers are too staggering for me.
Where do I go when I’m feeling grim like this? I go to my music library, put in my headphones, choose the folder with the most drumming and rhythm, and crank up the volume. I have quite a collection of rock and roll music that features the best drummers. I don’t know all their names, but I do understand the passion that goes into making a drum beat.
When I was in my early 40’s I decided to explore the world of rock and roll drum lessons. I marched into Drum Headquarters in Maplewood and announced that I was interested in such lessons. The guys behind the counter looked at me, their brows wrinkled in confusion. “For your son?”, one of them asked. I tried not to sound too indignant as I answered that I would be the student. “Oh.” was the best the guy could do under the circumstances.
Anyway, I signed up for a fixed number of lessons with a young man named Brian. I bought a pair of drumsticks and loved the way they felt in my hands. Rule number one: I would not take them in the car with me lest I decided to start using them on the steering wheel while driving. It’s bad enough that I use the steering wheel as a set of bongo drums played with the flats of my hands…
I found a second hand drum kit and set it upstairs in the little room outside of my bedroom. Then I went off to Maplewood for my first lesson. Apparently the guys had decided that Brian should be caught off guard when a forty-something white woman entered his studio. And he was. When he came out to get me he looked around as if I should have brought a young person with me.
To make a long story short, I took lessons for about six months. It was an exercise in counting while performing different movements with each limb. I have a character flaw that has limited me in many ways – if I’m not Ringo Starr after a few months of lessons, I quit. True to fashion I did just that. As much as I loved the idea, I didn’t discipline myself to keep working towards a certain level of competence. But I did learn just how much percussive patterns mean to me, and how readily my mood can be lightened by listening for the drumbeats and riffs. My whole body starts to sway and move in time to the rhythm.
So this morning I am blasting spunky tunes into my brain and body. There is a temporary relief from the sadness and seriousness of life. My feet tap, my fingers keep time, and I remember that there is a cadence that runs the Universe, and that sometimes I can feel it.