Paradiddles & Whiskey

I have two things on my mind. Leaving and whiskey. The party's so loud the only thing I can hear is my heart pounding. The only thing I can focus on is not having a panic attack on the way to the kitchen.  

I promised Serena I’d come tonight. We had a show the other night and she timed the invitation just right-- I was three sheets to the wind and feeling loose having just kicked ass on my kit for 3 hours straight. So of course I said yes to her Christmas party. 

Outside of playing our shows and recording in the studio I can’t (or choose not to, my shrink suggests I ‘flip the script’) leave my place. Some call it social anxiety, I call it inner anarchy against almost everything. My own bullshit aside, I’d say it’s fear plain and simple. Been there as long as I can remember. Fear of people, crowds, social anything.

But music, music, the great liberator, it feels like a freedom, like superhero strength, the drums set me free. When I play I don’t feel anything and everything. I don’t think anything but complete nirvana. Relief and release from inhibition and hang-ups, self-loathing and overthinking.  

It’s just fearless fluid movement, rhythm and beat, time and heat. Sweat and speed. Better than drugs, sex, any fix. To be in the pocket, to provide the pulse, the sway, the tonic for a group of musicians to sink into and a room full of strangers to sip and get drunk on-- this is the power of music. The beat begins the debauchery of sound. There’s nothing like it. My kick drum the foreplay, the rise, Serena’s raspy sweet voice, Jon’s bass that gives you goosebumps and make the grumpiest soul groove, the bridge, the slowing, speeding up, almost tantric- the drums the guide and ambience to reach the climax, a song’s end, and finally a show’s end. If it’s been a good one, everyone can still feel the vibrations and hum of the instruments, the melodies, the vibe from room and the tunes. It’s magic I tell you. Magic. 

Yet walking into a room full of people sipping beverages chatting it up, with their perfectly balanced classy/messy looks and patchouli mixture smells, is terrifying beyond comprehension. There’s no escape. Nothing to hold on to. Or hide behind. Or pulse to hear. Except the damned overactive heart rate in my ear, I feel like I’m about to pass out. 

I see her standing there. 

I can’t see anything else, hear anything else. She’s holding Serena’s kitten that she rescued the other day and sitting on the ottoman by the window, like no one else is around her, like she and the kitten are having a conversation. I’m totally transfixed by this girl. 

The panic in my eardrum changes to a weird heat and all I can think about now is the whiskey. 

I’ve got to get to the kitchen. 

The kitchen. The original goal. I hear the familiar ringing in my ear. 

The audiologist said it’s tinnitus and probably the beginning of hearing loss in my right ear and to stop playing live shows. But of course screw that, not even an option, so the ringing has become a strange normal thing that comes and goes, comes more than goes. It’s rather off putting but nothing that a little nightly whiskey neat can’t remedy.

After a few awkward encounters with acquaintances of Serena’s I make it to the kitchen to follow suit as everyone is already imbibed around the apartment with their holiday spirit of choice. I drink a sizeable amount in the kitchen for some liquid courage and top it off before heading over (however punch-drunk from the sea of strangers and sounds around me) to the alluring dark haired girl across the room with the kitten and as I’m getting closer, I notice she is humming and singing a familiar tune.  

“Cute cat.” I don't know what else to say. It just comes out.

She didn’t see me approach, I think I might have startled her. 

“Oh yeah, super cute. Serena’s the best with rescues. Have you ever heard the Weakerthans song ‘Virtute the Cat Explains Everything?’”

Her eyes and the mention of the Weakerthans make me feel like a teenager all over again. I’m sure I’m blushing but the room’s too dark and crowded for it to matter like it did in neon high school hallways. 

“One of their best songs ever. Reconstruction Site is one of my favorite albums.”

The kitten jumps skittishly out of her lap and she stands up.

“Agreed. One of their finest. Not everyday you meet a fellow Weakerthans fanatic. Or shall I say friend, fanatic wouldn’t be the best adjective for our bunch would it?” She has the most beautiful off-centered smile. She offers her hand to me, “I’m Erin.”

“Anthony. Really good to meet you.”

“What?” She leans in.

“Oh, I just said it’s really good to meet you. Quite the holiday shindig, eh?” I feel awkward with every word that exits my mouth.

“Shindig, now that’s a word you don’t hear everyday. I like it. Yeah, Serena knows how to throw a hell of a party.” She grins again. I like it. 

“Agreed. She knows how to make things happen. And bring all us misfits together. That’s for sure. How do you know Serena?” Erin's kind eyes sort of put me at ease.

“We went to high school together. Best friends back in the day. I moved to Quebec senior year. Just came in town and we ran into each other so she mentioned this as you say… shindig…”

Erin giggles and we look at each other and I hear the drum part in my head to The End by The Beatles. I can’t get it out of my head. But I won’t let my crazy brain derail me now. 

“How do you know Serena?” She asks.

“I’m the drummer.”

“Oh my gosh, Anthony… You’re that Anthony?”

“I guess I’m that one, yep.”

“You guys really are good you know? I mean it, you've made like a special sound together. There’s a lot of bands out there. A lot of sounds. But I don’t know, through the years I’ve been listening and following Serena’s stuff, it’s like your music is like a sauce that’s melted and mixed just right. Not that my opinion matters. But I think you’re a pretty kick ass drummer and have been listening for a while now so yeah wow, here you are some of the sauce right here.” Oh that smile.

“I don’t know what to say. Thanks. I’ve never really heard anyone say anything remotely close to that. It means a lot. I mean I’m glad the music has felt good to you. That’s why I want to make it, you know? I think that’s why the whole band does too, but that’s why I do. I want anyone who wants to feel a little less crazy for about four and a half minutes to find that relief- in a tune, you know?” I start to feel a little self-conscious. This is way more than my usual word limit in everyday conversation. I feel like I’m boring her with my op-ed.

“I totally know. I get that. I feel that. Believe me. And thank you for it by the way.” There’s that teenage feeling again.

I ask her, “What was that tune you were singing?”

“You heard that? I just sing to myself all the time, well to tiny Virtute over there in this case. Kind of embarrassing that you caught me.” 

I think Erin’s blushing. I’m not the only one. Maybe a good sign. She says, “I heard it on SoundCloud a while back. Can’t get it out of my head. I think it’s called Paradiddles and…”

“Whiskey?” I interrupt.

“Yep, that’s the one.” 

A while back I put together a simple homespun studio in my room- with a couple of refurbished soundboards, Garageband on Mac and some mic’s I borrowed from the band. When we took a break from our last tour I wrote a few songs and recorded them at home to try my hand at other instruments, layered tracks and then posted them on SoundCloud under a different name. Didn’t think much of it. A side project for the fun of it and to keep things fresh, learned some new chords on guitar and definitely got out of the comfort zone singing the lyrics not just providing the beats for someone else’s songs. I didn’t think anyone would listen and hadn’t gone back to check stats or anything. So the mention of one of my songs posed quite a shock to my nervous system.  

I start humming it. Sipping my whiskey intermittently. She grins.

Erin starts humming along with me.

I think we are both blushing.