SHAKE: Rock and Roll’s Secret Sauce

The thing that makes your ass shake, your arm thump, your leg pulse, your head bob and weave to a great rock and roll song isn’t just the heavy hammering 1-2-3-4 of kick and snare drums, it’s not the grindy guitar riff (though that might be the thing you can’t get out of your fuckin’ head days later), and it’s not even that funky ass bass line, though that helps-- as long as our secret ingredient is in the mix. The real secret sauce, the specific kind of sound that presses the Primal Button in the base of the skull is some kind of 8^th, 16^th, or 32^nd note swishy rattly thing made by a maraca, shaker, high hat, brushed snare, tambourine, etc.  The sound hearkens through what Jung referred to as the collective unconscious to memories evoking tribal dances, trances, and rituals.   Given rock and roll’s roots in African-descended, African-American musical traditions, the pervasive presence of “shaking”-type sounds certainly isn’t surprising—their lineage traces back to Africa, cradle of Lucy’s homo sapiens, Mother to us all, originally.  But because those big, heavy 1-2-3-4s, grindy guitar riffs, and funky ass bass lines are usually more prominent in overall band presentations than the swishing and shaking sounds buried farther back in the mix, taking a moment to notice and consider said swishing and shaking is worthwhile.

And so: a brief, off-the-cuff, probably full of shit at some points, and certainly woefully, pathetically, inexcusably incomplete sampling / survey of important early chefs in the history of the Secret Sauce in Rock and Roll:

BO DIDDLEY: other early rock and rollers—from Elvis to Chick Berry— had plenty of hard, bawdy punch, and the Bo Diddley beat featured those same pelvis pounding thrusts upfront in the mix, but behind them were those maracas, fast and even, like heavy breathin’.  Oh man.  Enough said.

CHARLIE WATTS: Keef Richards’ll be the first one to tell ya’ that we all owe more to this man’s wrists than we could ever repay.  Swirling swinging jazz sensibilities in with those elemental primal thumps, Mr. Watts (Keef can call him Charlie, but I think Mr. Watts is more respectful from you n me) manages to do all of that while somehow also simultaneously coaxing shake out of a high hat which your whole body or some part of it is ultimately powerless to deny.  Vastly underappreciated Steve Gorman of the Black Crowes, inspired by Watts. works in similarly rich, thick ways.

JIM KELTNER: dunno exactly where he appeared first, but the rock and roll rhythmic vision this man lays down on Mad Dogs and Englishmen with Joe Cocker was a template which set the bar high for rock and roll rhythms which made you not simply wanna fuck, but spend an evening singing and drinking and dancing and talking and making out with the one ya love before doing so. Hell, beyond that, Mr. Keltner (same deal here) also established the drummer as a legit contributor to musical conversations, rather than as simply a timekeeper or bump-and-grinder.  Keltner often shocked other session players by asking to see lyrics for songs on which he was playing.  A studio rat for decades, Keltner’s work appears on hundreds, probably thousands, of records.  Tom Petty thinks he’s on Damn the Torpedoes because, even though Keltner’s name isn’t on the credits anywhere, Petty recalls him running over repeatedly from a studio down the hall while TP and Co. were recording to say and demonstrate how “you just need to add some shakers to this tune!”  As with the Stones’ Watts to the Crowes’ Gorman, Keltner’s influence turned Petty’s drummer Stan Lynch into a guy with some formidable shake of his own.

THE ALLMAN BROTHERS: first off, the ABB rhythm section features no one named Allman.  Rather, Jaimoe and Butch Trucks have served the ABB as the first and best double drum combination in rock and roll history.  Both of these guys are not merely drummers on kits but percussion virtuosos, and the layers of shake they provide drive and explode the rest of the band’s intricate jammery.  Kreutzman and Hart of the Grateful Dead work in similar ways, but the ABB’s Trucks and Jaimoe combo has been a breathtaking miracle to behold for the band’s entire career (spanning over 40 years) and, with all due respect to the Dead guys, are the Best. Period.

Once you’re on the lookout for it, you notice it everywhere.  Zeppelin’s Bonham’s foot-pedaled high-hat shake was actually more important to the band than his legendary thunder.  Brady Blades shake, with a bit of help from the echoey atmospherics of Daniel Lanois guitar, morphed longtime country star Emmylou Harris and her band into real rock and rollers with World Beat influences.  Meg White didn’t have no shake which is why the White Stripes sometimes never quite took off like you felt they might (and I still think this is why Jack ultimately closed that show down), but Jack White—well, whoa: that dude shakes like a motherfucker on the drums with The Dead Weather.  “Poets” by the Tragically Hip is driven from the opening by the shake...

You also miss it when it’s not there: dry drumming can suck life from a great band or record.  Petty’s Wildflowers is a pretty fucking good record, but would be great if Stan Lynch were back with Tom, ‘cuz new guy  Steve Ferrone ain’t got no shake.  Uncle Tupelo lost steam fast when the very shaky Mike Heidorn was replaced by the very clean, very dry Ken Coomer.  UFO might've been a great band but gawd their drummer was shakeless and dry as a bone (well, actually, thinking about it, no they couldn't have been a great band anyway, but the drummer- Andy Parker- was particularly lame).

It’s a funny little thing, but it’s primacy is undeniable. Humming or tapping a toe to a tune is nice, but if your head is bobbing, your fist is pounding, your leg is twitching, your butt is swaying, well then that’s something more powerful and it’s all in the Shake—the Secret Sauce of Rock and Roll.

That’s brief and crude and incomplete and I’ll think of a dozen more examples of great shakers and shakeless fops in the next few days, but I’d rather hear examples from you all.  Where and wo do you hear and dig with that primal shake?

The Local Opener: The Difference Between Professionals And Amateurs, And The Sublime Joys Of This Sweet Spot On The Bill

We learned 2 lessons the hard way one evening about 12 years ago at the Red Line Tap:  playing as an opening band there, we’d drawn a pretty respectable crowd of friends and relations, and so were asked to headline next time.  A newly formed bluegrass outfit—Tangleweed— was slated to open for us.  We had a nice little acoustic band going—The Hacksaw Three we were called—and did a fine job playing a wide range of covers with a handful originals tossed in for good measure.  We mixed up guitars, piano, bass, and even occasionally mandolin or snare drum and covered everything from the Rolling Stones and Tom Waits to Schoolhouse Rock and Monty Python. We were, by no means, however, professionals— neither the band nor anyone in it supported themselves or made a dime really, apart from a few free drinks at the bar, from making music.  No one had blazing chops, we rehearsed once a week for a couple of hours at most, and no one was a great singer: we were (and still are) advanced amateurs.  Tangleweed were pros, however: highly skilled and schooled virtuosic musicians who were good enough to and DID support themselves by playing in a variety of settings around town, and what they were coming together to play in this setting was bare white knuckle, lightspeed bluegrass.  They not only were virtuoso players, but sang in harmony, tossed a few killer ballads into their set to make you weep, wrote terrific songs, and, if that weren't bad enough, they were also kind, funny, humble, gracious, and appreciative.  They played an intense, high-energy, tight, flawless, jam packed 50 minute set that left people slackjawed with awe and / or screaming for more.  Then we came on with our moderate tempo covers and satisfactory but definitely amateur level chops, plain old voices, and sometimes rattly arrangements and, well… let’s just say we learned in a deep way:

1.    that a chasm of difference yawns between professionals and us (and other advanced amateurs) even on our best night, and

2.    that, in simplest terms, you never, ever wanna have a band that’s better than you open for you.

Still, sometimes my head gets swelled because I’m fortunate to have many opportunities to play these days and I get to thinking I’m better than I am.  I have a weekly gig playing bass with a jam band at a bar, am in an acoustic band who rehearses weekly and gigs every so often, and I live in a house filled with instruments and have many other chances to jam with friends and interact musically often with my very musical family— most of whom are, in fact, professional musicians.  After a week or two that’s gone particularly well musically in these various settings, I can start to lose perspective of where I stand on the spectrum (at advanced amateur, and no farther along-- period), and start to think that I'm pretty hot shit.  Then something happens which sets me straight-- the lessons of the Tangleweed debacle have taken deep enough root in my musical psyche to pay some benefits.  First: no matter how swelled my head gets, my bandmates and I are always very careful to make sure no one whose chops will blow ours away plays before us on a gig.  This usually means we try to play first on a multi-band bill, which is also good because our crowd (older now, like us) are not generally late-nighters.  This has also put us in the role of the Local Opener several times recently, and this, I have come to realize, is a role with a sublime and powerful beauty.

What do I mean by a “Local Opener?”  Simply: we are a local band who opens for a band or musician from out of town who is touring.  Our role is to set the musical table for the evening (usually openers work in similar musical styles or genres as the touring musicians) and to add some additional local folks to the audience who might stick around and enjoy the national performer…

I walk in to the bar about 6:15 on Thursday evening this week schlepping my guitar cases and Aldi bag full of cords, stands, and other crap, excited though a bit flustered to have an extra weeknight gig.  We’re the opener, starting at 8. The national headlining band— The Appleseed Collective, 4 guys— is onstage holding their instruments, already set up: an acoustic guitar, a mandolin, and stand bass, and a washboard with cymbals and a few other percussive odds and ends.  We introduce ourselves, shake hands, and the Appleseed guys ask if they can have the stage for another 20 or 30 minutes to rehearse some stuff.  No problem for us, we reply— we’ll just get a drink, start to unpack and tune up and set up out front, and then just carry our stuff—tuned and set up— on to the stage when they’re finished.  Some banter and noodling between the Appleseed guys onstage, then… layers of rich tenor harmonies, intertwining fiddle, vocal, and guitar lines, shaking grooves from that washboard and standup bass all come rolling off the stage in waves… and then… whoa… I’m weeping.  They’d spent the afternoon working out the harmonies as they drove, and now were adding the instrumental parts to the chorus of a new song, and.. well holy crap the voice of God was pouring out of these 4 guys out on the road making music together and it was a joyful and breathtaking sound to hear.  These fellows were not amateurs.  They spent dozens of hours every week honing their craft, had devoted and given over their lives to the pursuit of beauty, had chops and vision and battle-hardened stage savvy, and executed with skill and precision and clarity that clearly demarcated the difference between the pros and the amateurs.  I grinned, happy and honored to be in the role of the Local Opener, and thus privileged to be able to witness the Real Deal at work firsthand.   “And so basically you just drive around every day, and then do that at night?” I asked from the floor as they put their stuff away.  A smile, a chuckle, “Um yeah, basically.”  Wiping my eyes, I drop to one knee, bow my head, and doff my hat.

On The Passing Of Rock Stars

Neither David Bowie nor Glenn Frey / the Eagles nor Lemmy Kilmister have made a great or important record in years.  Some good ones, perhaps, but no one in their right mind would argue that any of these musicians were anywhere near their creative prime when they departed.  I never knew any of these people personally, never met them.  So why was I weeping over the news of Frey's passing on Monday evening when I picked up daughter from her dance class?  Why are so many of us so genuinely and deeply saddened when a rock star dies?  Listening back through the Bowie and Eagles catalogs (both of them vast-- on the Bowie side make sure to get past Ziggy Stardust to get to Scary Monsters, and on the Eagles side make sure to get past Hotel California to the Long Run and Deperado), I've concluded that 2 things drive the very real sense of mourning that music people feel at moments like these.

First, we feel, in simplest terms, like we've lost a friend.  Dictionary.com defines a friends as:

-a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard

-a person who gives assistance

-a person who is on good terms with another; a person who is not hostile

-a member of the same nation, party, etc.

-(initial capital letter) a member of the Religious Society of Friends; a Quaker.

-a person associated with another as a contact on a social-media website

I might also add something along the lines of "a person who enjoys spending time and shares interests in common with another person."  In any case, all of this sounds precisely like my relationship with musicians and their work-- right down to my sense that music functions as a religion for some folks, and to the fact that many people connect and "follow" musicians via social media.   Over my 4 dozen plus years here on this earth, I have spent thousands of hours, in every life situation imaginable, with these people.  Music is playing at almost all times in my home, car, classroom, bar, restaurant, grocery store, street, sidewalk-- absolutely everywhere.  And when it's not being played out loud, it's ALWAYS playing in my head.  Though never there in corporeal terms, of course, Mr. Bowie, Mr. Frey, Mr. Kilmister and all of these artists have, in a very authentic way, been through everything with me: when I was being bullied (indeed my love of Elton John in Middle School made me a target), when I finally found some actual friends in high school (indeed, our connection over music often defined our friendship, was the foundation upon which it was built), when I went to class, when my kids were born, when I fucked up, when I was happy, when I was sad, when I was confused, when I was pissed off, when I had been dumped, when I was horny, when I ws broke... Music has been an active participant in every significant moment of my life, and most of the insignificant ones, too.  It has provided me solace, counsel, therapy, strength, empathy, reassurance, celebration, confidence, ecstasy...  And so, from very early on, I not only felt that the recordings-- the music itself-- functioned as my friend, but by unconscious extension, that the people creating the music were also my friends-- that they knew and understood me, my feelings, my situations-- and that I could always rely on them to get me through good times and bad.  And, unlike the friends who I did know personally, these folks never, ever let me down.  When things are shitty, I can put on "Sweet Virginia" and Keith and Mick always come through, every time.  Well I know that many rock stars-- including every one named so far in this little post-- have been and / or are insufferable assholes, or at the very least mighty difficult to live with in literal terms, to the people in their own lives.  As a mere consumer of their work, however, they have been the most reliable friends I've ever had.  And so, when they pass-- especially in bunches as seems to be the case right now-- I think many of us feel, quite authentically, like we have lost close friends.

The second reason people feel the loss of these musicians so acutely, I think, relates weirdly to a bumper sticker I saw awhile back that set me thinking.  The bumper sticker reads "Be the person your dog thinks you are."  I'm not a dog person (at all), but the line to me simply suggests that people should try to live up to their own ideals.  I have sometimes translated it as "Be the kind of person you wanted to be when you were young."  Rock and Roll, as an ethos, has always valued a youthful spirit.  The art form is driven forward, most often, by performers between the ages of 18 and 30.  While a growing number of artists have continued to make strong contributions at later ages, proving that rock and roll is not just kids stuff, the truth of the matter is that these records rarely change the face of the genre or our culture in the same way as records by more youthful musicians.  This is largely because people in that age range are old enough to see what's wrong with the world and have clear ideas about how it should look which they can articulate through their art, and young enough not to have been deterred by the harsh financial, cultural, medical, political, familial, and other realities of life that can grind away idealism as one gets older.  Indeed, records by more mature rock and rollers often point to the difficulty of staying true to youthful ideals as one ages.  Whatever creative decline afflicts most rock and rollers as they age, the recordings they've made and the songs they've written don't change and thus serve as reminders to us of the people we'd hoped to be.  The term "Classic Rock" points to this reality-- it's only a classic if many people have enjoyed it for a long time.  These records and the people who made them remind us of what we want, in our hearts, the world to look like, and so when they pass, we feel that a bit of our soul, our dream, our vision for the future has also died.  In an almost literal sense, we've lost some hope.

And so, like so many of us, I've been spinning a lot of Bowie and Eagles records (Lemmy's Motorhead records, too, but not as much 'cuz those are harder for my family members to take, even if I am in mourning).  For my regular Tuesday night gig at the bar, I threw together covers of Bowie's "Moonage Daydream" (yes, from Ziggy-- the Scary Monsters songs are too fuckin hard for me to play solo acoustic) and the Frey-Jackson Browne penned Eagles classic "Take It Easy."  Glorious singalongs ensued, more Bowie and Frey tunes were called, and tears flowed like at a good, sad but also celebratory funeral.  The trite but wonderful immortal miracle of our age is that while David and Glenn have departed, their records and the songs they wrote have not and will not.  Ever.