Tag Archives: drums

Hafner at El Rio

20170318 Hafner Continue reading

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All Delighted People

patterns, coincidences, joy, and passion? now i’m just making shit up. Continue reading

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Danksagung Fodderstompf

we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved.

last night i hosted a vinyl listening party, and it was one of the very best. Adam and Natalie whipped up caramelized onions, polenta, ground beef, and salad for pretty much everybody at the party. good beer flowed, weak beer flowed, bourbon flowed, water flowed. we all got down to “Dreams” like a bunch of middle-aged adults, a man and woman twerked their behinds together with the help of hip hop, and, past midnight, a Brit just repeatedly blunted us all.

and the music… oh, the music. from CCR to PiL to RJD2, Kanye to Crimson to Kendrick, my friends’ collective taste in music never ceased to amaze me. i felt grateful to easily trust Nick, Mark, and Dan on the wheels of steel… keeping good beats flowing all night long.-

in fact, this was one of my favorite weekends in a long while, thanks to all the love i shared with family and friends.

things kicked off wednesday night with a hell of a drinking session at bermuda with Madison and then, later on, Steve. we kicked backed beers while spotify-djing, and watched Pharrell’s homies get down to our tracks on Chris’ big screen. it synced up perfectly! Madison crashed, we danced with the devil, then the world traded us Sophia for Steve. i grew listless as the night grew long, so i bounced on my bike and journeyed into the night.

on the one day a year where we’re supposed to give thanks, i awoke with an achy thankfulness for medicinal herbs. i just lay in bed breathing support for my temples while reading everything i could about Bitcoin. it’s truly fascinating. the economy, in general, is a topic that intrigues me endlessly. like breathing oxygen or drinking h-two-oh, we support and base our entire lives around the ability to trade green bills and digital credits for pleasant things like donuts and warm bedrooms. and yet, to a far greater degree than respiration and hydration, economics appears to work like magic. its mysteries evade my grasp.

perfect recipe for a high me to fall in love with this shiny new “cryptocurrency,” and to arbitrarily decide to convert $1000 of my own savings into BTC. i haven’t done it yet, but i’ve downloaded software. this might actually happen.

eventually, after pulling myself from bed, i made the drive down to Daly City. i almost had a hissy fit because all the boys had decided they’d rather listen to football and an hour of commercials then hear music. the compromise was supposed to be music over the muted game, but the compromise became music over the non-muted game. oh, but i repeatedly begged for and was sometimes granted muted ads in between. how complicated.

in any case, my family was fun, my mom’s food was fantastic, and my Adam was a joy to have again.

oh, Adam. guest of guests. he reminds me of Cameron in that he explodes what it is to be a guest. you can’t feel burdened by a best friend. we made music, we went on walks, we fed on feasts, we stared at skies and evening stars, and we made music. he did, perhaps, make my Tina puke from too much fancy feast and also, perhaps, fuck up my bass guitar to the point where it’s now out of commission for 1-2 weeks and $75… but maybe those things would’ve happened anyway. and even if not, it was all worth it anyway.

i mean, Christ, on friday afternoon, Adam on drums, Chris on electric, and myself on bass… the house shook. we rocked and rocked and rocked as knickknacks rolled off tables and everything vibrated on edge. an empty champagne glass tipped over and ricocheted across a chair, shattering against the carpet. thinking i heard something, i looked over and laughed, “fuck!,” making sure Chris knew not to step there. we were mid-song and couldn’t stop. we wouldn’t stop.

in the evening, after a walk to Glen Park and picnic overlooking the canyon, Adam started drifting asleep to the warm tape recording of Caroline Rose. so i went downtown alone. three gin tonics for Steve’s birthday, one hot dog and two gin tonics for Tania’s. Alan, Chris, Chaz, Sophia, Zoe, Matt, Elise, Luca, Billy, Danny, Abe, Erika, Nina, Mared… hella people. and Natalie!

oh.. if i could say the fun Natalie and i have. maybe i should have a private blog. maybe i should write “cryptopoetry” that bares all behind a veil.

space is limited in heaven, but once
you arrive you learn how the walls
always sweat hot, wet “yes.” at sunset,
trace a line across the big december
sky, then dip your molten star behind her
perfect earth, sigh an eight minute bliss,
and love.

yes, she’s lying next to me right now. yes, she’s clicking around aimlessly on her computer. yes, her skin is the same perfect brown i love to kiss. yes, her flowery pajama pants sag to display her little plumber’s butt. no, i can’t do anything about how much she means.

so fortunate for my stunning, loving sweetheart. so fortunate for the man, Adam, my old best friend. so fortunate for my family–healthy, happy, wealthy in life and love. so fortunate for my friends, disciples of the world.

moondaze tomorrow? let’s do this. Continue reading

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Burning Man

in which the )'( burns. Continue reading

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Dorian mode

when i was around 13 years old, my parents gifted me a drum set for Christmas. even today, i can confidently say it was the single greatest physical present i’ve ever received from anyone. it officially made me a musician.

a decade later, a man now bound for Boulder urged me in the moment to strum guitar with him. though it may have been a bit premature, it (within a few months time) urged me down the path to the bass guitar, the more carefully footed step up from drums. so now, over a decade into my drumming career and only a couple years into my bass, i wonder whether i’ll pick up guitar when i turn 33 and then eventually drop all material things and simply croon when i’m 43.

one can dream. even in linear mathematical dimensions. but let’s be honest, exponential probably makes more sense, so i’ll probably play guitar when i’m 36 and sing when i’m 53. not too different. what the hell am i talking about? well, i can’t explain the math stuff, because i’m no Randall Munroe, but i will explain this theory i’ve been thinking about in regards to music and the body.

consider dance. in its simplest form, dance is simply the act of feet striking the earth. indeed, in truly transcendent dance, the mind is shut off entirely, and the human hops and heaves and swings and swirls like a dizzy flower, often to the rhythm of a beat… but this last part is unnecessary. all that is required for dance are feet striking the earth. that is, percussion. drums. by virtue of this, i consider drums not only the root of rhythm but also the thing that roots us to the earth–our feet and legs.

next comes the sister of percussion, harmony. that is, bass. and what comes after our legs but before our vitals? the genitals. consider: striking of the snares and booming of the kick raise us from our seats and urge us to stamp the ground beneath our feet, but what is that part, that irresistible, sinewy part that prevents our hips from staying still? the bassline curves through the air like a fire-breathing dragon, charring the asses of those who are free.

sidling up the human body, we next reach all those vitals but the brain. among others, this includes stomach, lungs, and, most importantly, heart. here we find melody, for is it not in our heart where we feel the joyous springing of the major scale as much as the miserable lament of the minor? heartbreak can kill a man, and it feels like suffocation… perfectly conscious suffocation. so too, love can induce the growth of wings, and so too can the guitar.

finally, we come to the head. inside one’s skull, chemical electrical thunderstorms rage producing the most unmusical and yet most human aspect of all: lyric. with the aid of a thinking brain and a humming nose, singers let leak through their gaping mouths their words of confusion, fear, and wonder, striving to know and for others to know… themselves.

just because you just read over a hundred pages of criticism on Sophocles Oedipus Rex doesn’t mean you know a goddamn thing about writing criticism yourself. you’re out practice. go to bed, you’re drunk.

truthfully enough, i’ve been reading some heavy shit. besides aforementioned criticism and the single perfect play upon which said criticism is based, i’ve also recently devoured John Locke’s Second Treatise of Government and almost all the works of Oscar Wilde. (i’ve yet to tackle his poetry. in general, i’ve been reading poetry more slowly because i can’t read it on muni because i refuse to read poetry without reading it aloud and i don’t think people on morning/evening commutes to and from the city would necessarily enjoy my twice daily poetry readings.) next up on the list? The Ananga-Ranga, “an Indian sex manual written in the 15th or 16th century,” according to Wikipedia. maybe i’ll learn something.

maybe, by the time saturday comes, i’ll be able to put into practice whatever reading i get in tomorrow, friday. i can probably knock out a good chunk in tomorrow’s two hours, sleep on it, and then awaken in the weekend yellow sun streaming through my bedroom window and flag, rise to shower, dress in cool clothes, descend the stairs to the gray pantyflasher–back in action–to speed just a bit north to scoop my half-Indian love to speed even further north to spill our completely exploding hearts.

i’m not actually drunk. i’m completely sober. i’m listening to my body.

check out my melody: my thorax and abdomen as of late have been complaining of acid. ’twas a sensation i had only felt momentarily on a couple occasions in the past, but lately it’s been an ever-present pang, heightened especially by my partaking in the most pleasantest of life’s servings: alcohol and spice. so, for as much of the month of may as possible, i am, as much is possible, cutting the two lifeless loves out entirely. i’m a couple days sober and i’m feeling good. it’s hard to avoid acid in food (tonight i made up some sloppy joe), but i think cutting out two intense variables should suffice.

what a mysterious wholesome. abstaining from alcohol. learning to cook. taking bass lessons. riding public transportation, hardly driving. consuming literature like a lava. and i’m about to sleep before midnight.

peace and love to you, universe. Continue reading

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tidal vision tunnel

as in another recent nightmare of mine, i woke up astonished and fulfilled. Continue reading

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twelve-bar blues

i’m in a really good mood right now, and it feels like a comet. that is, this ain’t no flash in the pan but rather something with a tail extending many, many days into the past. here are reasons why:

— i am.
— i am currently listening to the nearly 30 minute version of “Dazed and Confused” found on Led Zeppelin’s The Song Remains the Same.
— i’ve been playing music regularly, be it drum, bass, or vinyl.
— Chris and i can cook a damn good breakfast.
— i’ve been reading a little bit, splitting my time between Joseph Conrad’s Lord Jim and the Qur’an.
— i experienced Thee Oh Sees live twice this weekend.
— girls seem to like me.
— i love Tina.
— work isn’t getting me down.
— American rye whiskey and bourbon.
— Big Sur, specifically Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park and the Pacific Ocean it kisses.
— 100 MPH on the PCH. Continue reading

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the perfect situation

two mondays in a row, i begun Isis w my bass in the east bay, cueing Brendan to start his cawing, Ariyele to piano her underpinnings, and Jeff to wank his electric lady. and we’re off. through folk desire, furnace room lullaby, stranger blues, and motorcycle chain growls, we found our musical way from happiness to new happiness.

two sundays in a row, i banged my drums in the east bay in beat to the heavy psychedelia emanating from Chris and Cameron’s guitars. a ten minute roar, each and every thing we do, whether desert, rock, or sand. we as silent waterfalls will one day be.

two saturdays in a row, i belonged in mind and body to an east bay girl. four on the floor, a breath. four on the floor, a sip. four on the floor, a glance. four on the floor, embrace. around the world becomes us, we press. Continue reading

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i breathe music

The boy stared at the record. It was Bob Dylan’s second album—he wanted it. For four dollars and fifty cents, the brand new vinyl was his. And it would provide him with years of countless enjoyment. Thousand of miles away, a girl also received a record. Led Zeppelin’s fourth album was given to her from a good friend. This record would also be overplayed. About 15 years later, these two people would have a child. The child, a boy, would grow up to be more obsessed with music (everything from Bob Dylan to Rhapsody in Blue) than both of his parents combined. I am that boy, and this is why I love music.

My love for music is rooted in my parents’ love for music. They were lucky enough to follow music as it through different types of technology. From the * to the record player to the cassette player to the CD player (and even to this day) to the mp3 player—my dad invested in each one. Though they do not purchase music as often these days, hundreds of records and CDs are still scattered about the house from when they did.

So, as one can infer, I listened to all of their music. On the fifteen minute drive to my elementary school, my mom would play oldies on 99.7 KFRC. I still love The Supremes. Or on Saturday mornings, while my mom was cooking breakfast, my dad would play some “Thriller” or “Billie Jean.” I wish I could still remember the first time I heard those brilliant pop songs.

As the years went on, an even more significant factor began to influence me: my older brother, Billy. Billy was a lot like teenagers in the 90s. He loved alternative rock or grunge, you know, the rebellious stuff purposely made to irritate your parents. Nirvana or Green Day would spill out of the speakers as he and his friends played air guitar; sometimes, I was even let in on the fun. So, approaching the huge milestone of ten-years old, I had already grown a fondness for catchy lyrics, ripping guitars, and smashing drums.

In fact, around age 7, I began begging for a drum set; be it Christmas or my birthday, that was what I wanted. My parents finally granted me my wish about five years later. Also, my older brother received an electric guitar (complete with amplifier) and my younger brother received a keyboard. In addition, we would all receive lessons. After six weeks, while my brothers, beginning to favor rap over rock, had gotten bored of their instruments, I was still going strong; I continued my drum lessons for about a year, joined band at school, and actually used my instrument. I tried learning songs I had been listening to for years and even played with my cousins sometimes. Though there would be a long period of time where the drums simply collected dust, like the guitar and keyboard had, it would be used extensively once again, just a few years later. My cousins and I shared very similar tastes in music, and formed bands based on those interests. I am still in a band, Wronger, with my older cousin, Chris.

This is where I am now. I love music. Just a few months ago, I dug up all of my parents’ old vinyl and took everything I liked: The Beatles, Bob Dylan, etc. The records sit in my bookcase, next to CDs and tapes alike, not collecting dust—I play them all the time. The record player is under my bed. The CD changer is on my dresser. My headphones, portable CD player, portable tape player, and iPod are all situated on my bookcase. Ridiculous amounts of music are stored in my computer. My weekends revolve around shopping for music or going to concerts or just plain sitting and listening to music. My love for music evolved past a simple enjoyment of it, like my parents had. Music is what I dream about. Music is not just what I hear, but what I see, taste, smell, and feel too. I breathe music. Continue reading

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Arrival at Elmira

in which the Hero goes to Oregon! Continue reading

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