Our March ministry theme is trust. This morning I want to share lessons about trust I learned playing in rock bands from age 12 to age 35 (with the occasional reunion show up until about age 40). As many of you know, I was a drummer (still am I suppose, but I play rather infrequently). As a drummer I was always part of the rhythm section. Although I had to endure many drummer jokes over the years, I came to love being part of the rhythm section. It became a point of pride for me. The rhythm section doesn’t–or at least shouldn’t–occupy the limelight. The rhythm section isn’t the front-person, isn’t the lead singer, the lead guitarist or any other soloists. The rhythm section isn’t the star of the show. Music critics typically don’t write about the rhythm section. But the rhythm section matters. The bass, drums and guitar (and sometimes the keyboard) provide the foundation that allows the star, or stars, to shine. If you can’t trust the rhythm section to provide that foundation, the music falls apart. In this week’s announcement for this service, I asked, “What does it mean to be part of a trustworthy rhythm section? What does it mean to trust the rhythm section? And more to the point, how’s your rhythm section? I offer the rhythm section as a potent metaphor for reflecting on the quality and depth of our spiritual lives, individually and collectively. How’s your rhythm section?
I started taking drums lessons at the Neighborhood Music School (NMS) in New Haven at age 9. My parents bought me my first drum set at age 11–hat drum set is set up in my basement to this day. I organized my first jam session with friends from the music school at age 12. At that time we were enamored with blazing guitar solos, like Eddie Van Halen’s 1978 masterpiece, “Eruption.” We were enthralled with male heavy metal singers who could reach amazingly high notes yet still sounded ragged, raw and, well, manly (Ozzy Osborne of Black Sabbath, Steve Tyler of Aerosmith, Freddy Mercury of Queen, Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin, and Ronnie James Dio who bounced around from band to band all come to mind). We were captivated by the out-of-this-world drum solos like John Bonham on Led Zeppelin’s performance of the song “Moby Dick,” Keith Moon’s iconic live drum solos on the Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” and anything Neal Peart of Rush ever did. We were drawn to the grand, bombastic musical statements. My father kept suggesting the Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel, but we were drawn to what we thought was virtuosity–the unbelievably complicated patterns–how do they do that?--the lightning fast double picking, sometimes with two guitars playing in harmony. We were drawn to the glitz and the glam, the over-the-top outfits–eventually the spandex pants and the big, puffy hair of the 1980s. It all blew our young minds.
It was always the big solo or the singer that caught our attention. Never once did we wonder what the rhythm section was doing. Never once did we identify with, let alone idolize the rhythm section. When we played as kids, we always tried to do what we thought made rock ‘n’ roll great. So, on every song we learned, we added big drum fills and long guitar solos and even bass solos. I can still remember my mother, trying to be supportive, but wondering, ‘which part of this is the actual song?’ All she heard was a wall of bombastic, unrelenting sound, no part of it really connected to any other part of it. We were livin’ the late 1970s suburban middle school white boy rock ‘n’ roll dream!
Eventually I grew out of it. I kept playing. I played in orchestras and wind ensembles. I played in folk groups and a steel drum band. I played bebop, swing, and fusion jazz (never well). I listened to Motown, funk, blues and R&B. I went through a gospel phase. I studied with a variety of teachers over the years, and attended a few master classes with famous drummers. In college I took ethnomusicology and world music classes. I took a class on the history of African American music with the trumpet player Donald Byrd who was a visiting faculty member during my junior year. But I never lost my first musical love which was rock music. After college I moved to Boston with my brother and a close friend we’d been playing with since high school to pursue our dream of becoming rock stars.
I worked at it for ten years. I can’t say I loved every minute of it, but I don’t regret it for a minute either. We had some of what it takes to be a successful band, but we didn’t have all of what it takes, and we eventually moved on to other pursuits. What was different in those later music-making years, compared to my teenage music-making years, was the lack of drum solos and big fills and complicated, fancy beats. In those later years, what mattered to me was the rhythm section–bass, drums, guitar. Virtuosity had nothing to do with it. The point was to lay down a solid foundation so the singer could sing the song. The point was to keep the back-beat simple and solid–2 & 4, 2 & 4, 2 & 4; not to fill up all the space with splashy drum licks–but to leave space so the music could breathe, so the singer, the melody, the words, the other instruments had room to improvise, to create, to emote, to shine. Are the bass and drums in sync? That was our question. Are they playing just a notch behind the beat – in the pocket, as they say – so the tempo doesn’t rush, so the music feels tight and solid, but also relaxed and flowing? If the rhythm isn’t solid, if it doesn’t feel right, the rest of the band finds it difficult to play well. A good rhythm section is the bedrock, the ground, the root, the base, the footing, the support, the source.
Over the years, it became a point of pride for me to be the kind of drummer who understood that ultimately the music wasn’t about me and how impressive my drum skills were. Instead, I had a role to play in support of the music, Distinct from the people we idolized as kids, I learned musical humility. I learned to literally lay it back. I learned to get out of the way, because a busy drummer can really clog up a song. I learned to focus on how the music felt. I learned to listen–really listen–to the other players in the rhythm section. We learned to listen to each other, to feel the music together, so that whatever song we were playing would sound as compelling as possible, so that the song itself would shine.
And all along–though we never described it this way–we were learning to trust each other. If the band trusts the drummer – that is, if they’re not worried about the drummer speeding up or slowing down, or the drummer playing too loudly or too softly, or the drummer just being off in their own world and not deeply listening to the other players– if they’re not worried, they will play better. They will be more spontaneous, more creative. During those years I would get calls to do shows or recording sessions with other bands. I would learn their music, then go to the rehearsal before the show or the session. At the beginning of the rehearsal there was always a moment when I could tell the band was wondering, can this guy do what we need him to do? I would lay down that solid foundation. I would lock in with the bass player. And very soon I would sense the other players starting to relax, starting to groove, starting to soar, starting to trust. You have to trust your rhythm section.
The rhythm section makes the song shine. For a moment, I invite you to contemplate your life’s song, the melody your heart sings. By that I mean a number of things:
your identity–who you are in the world, the various roles you play;
your passions–the work you love, the activities that feed you, the causes and communities that call to you;
all the ways in which you are creative;
all the ways in which you are physically active.
Contemplate for a moment the song your life sings.
It’s a beautiful song, yes?
Now, as you contemplate that song, let me ask you, how’s your rhythm section? How’s your foundation–your bedrock, your grounding, your sense of rootedness, your footing, your sources of support, your sources of stability and resilience?
Beneath your life’s song, are the bass and drums in sync? Are they listening to each other? Are they laying it back, just behind the beat, so you can relax, so you can sink and settle into the music and sing your life’s song however you feel compelled to sing at any given moment? Do you trust your rhythm section?
When I think of my rhythm section, I think of my relationships and connections. My connections to family and friends who support me and on whom I can count when I’m feeling down or not quite sure of myself. I think of my connections to colleagues–both Unitarian Universalist and those of other faiths–who support me in my professional life and with whom I work for a more just community. I think of this Unitarian Universalist congregation, this beloved community, that has given so much to me over so many years, has supported me, has trusted me. I hope and trust this congregation is in your rhythm section! I also think of my connections to the natural world, to the earth, to the changing seasons that ground me, that root me, that remind me it’s usually not about me, that remind me to listen, to leave space, to stay steady, to feel, to relax, to sink down, to settle in. I think of my connections to spirit, which moves and flows within us and among us, and offers its own beautiful rhythms.
When I began my seminary studies I was still playing in bands. I remember the professors and teaching assistants were always inviting us to engage in theological reflection. How is God acting in this moment? What is God doing in this moment? How is God moving in this moment? Having always considered myself an atheist, these questions were unfamiliar to me. At first I didn’t know how to answer them, which became the reason–which many people report in seminary–I felt like a fraud, like I really didn’t belong there. How is God moving in this moment? How would I know? But I stayed with the questions, and eventually had the insight to turn to what I knew. And I knew that when the rhythm section is humming, when the bass and drums are in sync, when the players are listening to each other, when they leave sufficient space, the music shines. I decided that’s how God shows up in my life: in the rhythm section.
Indeed, all life is rhythm: movement following rest, following movement; sound following silence following sound; beating heart, pumping blood, breath in and out, in and out, in and out.
There’s a reason the first instruments were drums. All life is rhythm: Day into night, winter into spring into summer into fall; the cycling of planets, stars, galaxies and the universe itself.
How’s your rhythm section? Are your bass and drums in sync? Are they listening to each other, lining up a little behind the beat? Are they so solid your melody can soar?
How’s your rhythm section, that endless pulsation, that steady foundation? Can you trust it enough to let go and belt out your song, create your art, live your life?
All life is rhythm. Let us learn to trust the rhythm.
Amen and blessed be.
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