Drums of Lust I:
People stop me on the street all the time. Some want money. Others, directions. But usually, advice is what they're looking for. The kind people fly in to get all the time, like special favors from an upscale dominatrix. Just yesterday, at Target, in front of the mouthwash, the Pope came up to me and said (in German):
"I beseech thee, wise master, to save my holy ass. What should be a trivial matter has me wasting away. I haven't slept in three weeks. I'm possessed. I can't even keep communion wafers down. Look at me. I'm not afraid to die. It's just that I'm not ready. You're my only hope. So here's my problem: I've been working on an album secretly for years. (I'd known since shortly after he started. -R.S.) My album is finished except for one track, a big, expansive instrumental, with strings, sampled cherubim, field recordings, and a melodica. I've already dropped some lighter percussion here and there. Still, something feels missing, drum-wise. I know what I don't want. I don't want an old-fashioned drum kit, I don't want loops, and congas are out of the question. What I'm wondering is, do you know anything I can use?"
Ten years ago, I'd have been shocked by what I was about to tell him. Or maybe not. I've loved a certain kind of drum like a cousin since well before puberty struck. A big drum, tunable. Played 'em in junior high and high school, loving resonating mallet strike. But what I loved most of all was the sound, deep and rich, with the power to cut through an orchestra.
I still haven't gotten over it. "Little brother," I said. "What you need are tympani. Try something orgiastic. Or maybe rolls. Or both. You might want to throw in a gong, too. But only once. If you need it, you'll know when."
The ecstatic look on his face didn't fade as he slipped me a hotel key. "Hyatt, room 326," he whispered. "Black attache in the closet. Pope outfit's yours, too. Thanks."
The hotel was only a few blocks away. I walked fast, sailed through the revolving door, nearly ran to the elevator. It wasn't the money I cared about so much. Somehow, I knew the vestements were going to be purple. I opened the door, scanning the sun-drenched room. He'd forgotten to mention one thing.
"I beseech thee, wise master, to save my holy ass. What should be a trivial matter has me wasting away. I haven't slept in three weeks. I'm possessed. I can't even keep communion wafers down. Look at me. I'm not afraid to die. It's just that I'm not ready. You're my only hope. So here's my problem: I've been working on an album secretly for years. (I'd known since shortly after he started. -R.S.) My album is finished except for one track, a big, expansive instrumental, with strings, sampled cherubim, field recordings, and a melodica. I've already dropped some lighter percussion here and there. Still, something feels missing, drum-wise. I know what I don't want. I don't want an old-fashioned drum kit, I don't want loops, and congas are out of the question. What I'm wondering is, do you know anything I can use?"
Ten years ago, I'd have been shocked by what I was about to tell him. Or maybe not. I've loved a certain kind of drum like a cousin since well before puberty struck. A big drum, tunable. Played 'em in junior high and high school, loving resonating mallet strike. But what I loved most of all was the sound, deep and rich, with the power to cut through an orchestra.
I still haven't gotten over it. "Little brother," I said. "What you need are tympani. Try something orgiastic. Or maybe rolls. Or both. You might want to throw in a gong, too. But only once. If you need it, you'll know when."
The ecstatic look on his face didn't fade as he slipped me a hotel key. "Hyatt, room 326," he whispered. "Black attache in the closet. Pope outfit's yours, too. Thanks."
The hotel was only a few blocks away. I walked fast, sailed through the revolving door, nearly ran to the elevator. It wasn't the money I cared about so much. Somehow, I knew the vestements were going to be purple. I opened the door, scanning the sun-drenched room. He'd forgotten to mention one thing.
posted by Rod Smith at 12:36 AM
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