Dream Theater, Indoor Drumline, and A Change of Seasons

The year is 2002. The place? My middle school gymnasium. And we’re here for the most unexpected of performances: the high school indoor drumline’s inaugural show.

If you’ve seen the Nick Cannon movie Drumline, you know show bands: technical mastery meets extreme visual flair. Those cats are COOL. But there’s another, nerdier side to the percussion world: Corps-style bands, rooted in military traditions. Think SEC-school marching bands or your own high school halftime show. The pros of this world compete in Drum Corps International (DCI) during the summer before returning to their home bands in the fall. But for percussion die-hards, the winter was a wasteland—until indoor drumline entered the scene.

In 2002, I was a seventh-grader playing percussion in the middle school band (no strings here; we weren’t fancy enough for an orchestra). Our small rural high school had a shockingly talented percussion instructor and a killer percussion section. And while “drumline” typically refers to snares, bass, and tenors, indoor drumlines include the “pit”—stationary percussion like marimbas, xylophones, vibraphones, timpani, and any number of oddball instruments you don’t blow into.

That year, the indoor drumline performed Dream Theater’s A Change of Seasons, a 23-minute prog rock odyssey from a band full of Berklee prodigies. Dream Theater wasn’t exactly mainstream, but their complex time signatures and intricate compositions were perfect for percussion. One unforgettable moment came at the 12:17 mark: the mallet players nailed a blazing run that left the audience (and me) awestruck.

The show was COOL. The girl on mallets? HOT AND COOL. The guy on snare with earrings? BADASS AND COOL. The other Mexican guy on snare? EFFORTLESSLY COOL. These weren’t just band kids; they were rockstars in my mind. Watching that performance, I knew I had to join the marching band.

When I joined that fall, I started on mallets. All those cool older kids were back, and to a dorky, 13-year-old Harry Potter lookalike, they felt like gods. But they embraced me with open arms and made me feel cool by association. In our band, the drumline was at the top of the badass hierarchy. Snare drums were ear-piercingly loud, tenor drums were heavy as hell, and bass drums dominated the field visually. The drumline got first dibs on the back of the bus (including me even as a middle-schooler), led every card game (spades and asshole were the go-to), and woke everyone up with a rowdy chant as we pulled into the parking lot after returning from competitions.

By 8th grade, I was on the indoor drumline. That year, we performed Divide by Zero: Error, a technically complex original piece with aggressive drill formations. The judges hated it (not enough theater), but I didn’t care. I was part of that elite crew, and by the time the class of 2003 graduated, I felt like I’d earned my spot.

In 9th grade, I got contacts, a slightly better haircut, and moved to snare drum. I was terrible. Traditional grip? Couldn’t master it. For our indoor drumline show—this time based on Super Mario Bros.—I was offered a spot on tenor drums and never looked back.

Sophomore year was our peak. The class of 2005 brought real talent to our drumline, and we won Best Drumline at every competition we entered. Even with our band a mere 50 members — a plucky underdog —as a drumline we were absolutely unfuckwittable. Somewhere on every band trip, someone would plug in headphones and listen to A Change of Seasons from start to finish—proof that I wasn’t the only one hooked by that Dream Theater performance.

Junior year brought changes: a new band director, less talent, but one lifelong friend joining me on tenors. We never quite reclaimed the glory of 2004, but my obsession with marching band led to a surprising encounter.

The week after my 17th birthday, at a band competition a family friend said someone from my dad’s office wanted me to meet her granddaughter. Now, I’ll admit, my 17-year-old self assumed “grandma setup” meant “great personality.” So, I brushed it off. The next day, I got a MySpace friend request from a random smoke show. You guessed it: the girl I was supposed to meet.

We started chatting, and it didn’t take long to realize she was, in fact, the kitties titties. What a bozo move, not meeting her sooner just because she lived an hour away! And here’s where this story ends—for now. Because this was never just a story about her. This was about how a Dream Theater-based indoor drumline show in spring 2002 sparked a passion for drumline, which shaped my high school years and, ultimately, brought me to this gal.

One of many 1st-Place Drumline trophies over the years: 2002, Furman University, with yours truly on the far right

Bruce Cockburn - “Lovers in a Dangerous Time”

I’m going to place you somewhere between June 2013 and June 2014. We’re at my apartment above a garage in Byrnes Down with the shortest little bathtub (I can’t sit with my legs all the way out). I have an enamel plaque on the sink (that’s still by my sink) that says, “What good shall I do this day?” and a penciled drawing of Padgett Thomas barracks framed in my bathroom. A love interest — the love interest — sent me this song. I suspect it was first as a Barenaked Ladies cover. It has a brooding melancholy to it, likely the 80’s production and synths. Something about that sound emotionally resonates with me on such a deep primal level that I connect more deeply with than any other era/genre (see also: “The Valley Road” - Bruce Hornsby).

So, I’m in that tub, thinking about the love interest with the track playing. Weirdly, the two songs I remember from that tub/shower are joyously singing Bobby Brown’s “Every Little Step” in the shower and this one sitting in the tub. Very different vibes. Bobby Brown with his New Jack Swing and joy — and Bruce with the melancholy 80’s queueing up alllll the introspection.

One day you're waiting for the sky to fall / The next you're dazzled by the beauty of it all” — I keep turning the knobs and just can’t get the temperature right. There’s the hot water, the exhilarating thrill of feeling connected — like maybe she harbors the same conviction that we’re meant to be together. Then the douse of cold water comes: a plan talked about but not executed, a picture of her happy with someone else, or a message sent and not replied to for what feels like an eternity. If I could pull myself above/out of the situation, there really is a dazzling beauty to this push and pull. Leaving the tub and trekking to my journal from the same time period (road trip May ‘13 most likely):

“Not sure when I’ve felt more alive than being on the open road alone. As I grow older, I’m starting to find beauty in solitude that was never comfortable before. I catch myself thinking of her every time I see a film with a scene about the depth of love between two characters. I find myself enjoying the idea of being a single guy and liking dating, but I need to refine my game. I keep dating/liking hipsters; I’m probably too square for that. Or girls that don’t sleep outside.”

What’s happening here is a fella still deeply in love with a lady, trying to convince himself that he enjoys dating but subconsciously comparing the women he’s been out with — they made him feel less cool than he’s convinced he is, and they don’t dig camping. Who was it that made him feel like the coolest guy in the world and also loved camping?

“Got to kick at the darkness til it bleeds daylight” — a line so good, Bono referenced it in his own lyrics. It felt like for every obstacle I was seeing or feeling in those days, with enough commitment, “we” could find a way. I love the verb “bleed” daylight, as though the darkness was holding it hostage, giving it up only when bloody and bruised. It felt worth fighting for “us” — and I loved the notion of it.

One thing about musical memories… they’re snapshots in time. For the purpose of ascribing meaning to the song from how it struck me at a particular point — and its ability to transport me there, simply by repeating the same sequence of notes on treble clef — it doesn’t matter how the story continued beyond those 4 minutes and 8 seconds. For the duration of the track, we never move in space-time past me living on my own, with plenty of time to act, think, and reflect uninterrupted. We never move past me wondering where life will take me. And we still have the utter conviction in the broad strokes of how the story ends, but don’t know the chapters in between.

I like time-traveling with this song and was delighted to find the album in a record store years ago. That day in my apartment wasn’t the only time in life I felt dazzled by the beauty of it all while also waiting for the sky to fall — but it was one of the most distinct. It’s comforting sometimes to be able to sit alongside your past self and say, “ahhhh, we’ve been here before, haven’t we?!”

Talking Heads - “This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)”

The blog post below the divider was written and published on 06 January, 2014. Two years to the day before I landed in Italy as I relocated to Europe for “3-5 years” that became MANY more. I’d not yet experienced one of my life’s most significant heartbreaks, and I’d not yet discovered one of my life’s most significant loves. I’d not yet been engaged, married, or faced the ecstasy and agony of life as an American expat in the heart of chaotic Southern Italy.

What strikes me as I read it now is that (1) this is still among my all-time favorite songs, (2) life has made me even more convinced that this is the song that speaks most to me about the deep, emotional-level understanding of love. It’s home. It’s a feeling of belonging, of radical transparency and candor, and utter confidence that you’re accepted in all versions of yourself.

Home takes on different meanings as an expat. When you’ve been in other countries for 8+ years, is home where you grew up? Where you lived as an adult before you left? Is it where you’ve built a house, a career, and friends that you consider family? Is it where your blood relatives still reside?

In the context of love, home isn’t about geography. It’s about the fact that as Byrne puts it, we’re just animals looking to share the same space for a minute or two… until our heart stops, until we’re dead. Personally, I don’t find this morbid or depressing, I hear it as a call to action. When you find a connection with someone that gives you that feeling, that warmth — make it up as you go along, but recognize and appreciate the value of feeling at home.

To quote myself from below:

Love is a difficult emotion to convey to others… Mr. Byrne begins “This Must Be The Place” saying home is where he wants to be…and in its simplest form, is that not what love is?  The completely unadulterated feeling of belonging, of being in the exact right place in the exact right moment in time?

A decade later with much life lived under my belt, love is still difficult to convey, and a feeling of home still feels like love in its simplest form.

Enjoy the analysis of this lovely song and its deeper meaning from past-me.

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This may be my favorite song of all time.  The music is incredible, the lyrics hit home, and the lamp-dancing is unparalleled.  In college, my friend Ashton inadvertently introduced me to the Talking Heads over a pizza at D’Alessandro’s (without question, the best pizza in Charleston).  I noted that I really liked the 80’s track that was playing, but given my long history with 80’s music, she was shocked I did not know it.  Ever the clever one, Ashton produced that it was “Psycho Killer” by the Talking Heads before I could pull out my phone and Shazam it.  From there, I started digging and quickly fell in love with the Heads.  “This Must Be The Place” was one of my earliest discoveries after “Psycho Killer”.  However, seeing a video of the song performed live convinced me this was one of the most earnest expressions of love that I have encountered and elevated the track to its place among my favorites.

The video is from Stop Making Sense, commonly regarded as one of the finest concert films produced.  This was not your average run-of-the-mill video of a band performing live — directed by Jonathan Demme, who went on to direct Silence of the Lambs and Philadelphia, the film was the first of any kind to be recorded exclusively using digital audio.  The performance itself is incredibly unique:  the film starts with lead singer David Byrne alone on stage with a boom box and guitar and each successive track adds another performer.  First, bassist Tina Weymouth joins him for “Heaven” and by the time they reach “This Must Be The Place” in the setlist, the stage is filled with a full band, backup vocalists, and multiple percussionists.  The film also is known for David Byrne’s progressively larger suits, reaching cartoonish levels by the time the film reaches “Girlfriend Is Better.”  I could speak more on Stop Making Sense, but perhaps that deserves a full review of its own.

David Byrne begins the song by turning on a single lamp that provides modest illumination of the performers now on stage.  The straightforward bass and guitar rhythm carries throughout the entire song without alteration, providing a potentially “naive” melody that most artists would shun, according to the bizarre self-interview included with the film.  In the instrumental solo, Mr. Byrne performs a quite comical dance with the lamp, possibly representing the comical dance we play navigating the ins and outs of love.  Regarding the lyrics, Mr. Byrne has stated:

“That’s a love song made up almost completely of non sequiturs, phrases that may have a strong emotional resonance but don’t have any narrative qualities. It’s a real honest kind of love song. I don’t think I’ve ever done a real love song before. Mine always had a sort of reservation, or a twist. I tried to write one that wasn’t corny, that didn’t sound stupid or lame the way many do. I think I succeeded; I was pretty happy with that.”

From Talking Heads The Band & Their Music, page 113, David Gans ISBN 0-7119-0980-6

Love is a difficult emotion to convey to others.  Telling a friend how you met someone with whom you are in love does not express the depth of your feelings.  Love is also not strictly romantic — there’s love for family, friends, places and activities as well.  Mr. Byrne begins “This Must Be The Place” saying home is where he wants to be…and in its simplest form, is that not what love is?  The completely unadulterated feeling of belonging, of being in the exact right place in the exact right moment in time?  Yes, Mr. Byrne, I’d say you succeeded.