Motus Mentis

When I was a young man I played the drums, and was pretty sure that one day I would be a Great Big Rock Star. To advance this project, I went looking for a job at a New York City recording studio, on the theory that I’d then be right in the thick of things, allowing my incandescent career to develop along a natural course.

In 1978, I got the job. Indeed, I didn’t just get a job, I got a job at The Power Station (now Avatar), the hottest place in town. That was about it for playing the drums, though, because a) I had moved to a tiny studio apartment, with nowhere to keep drums or play them; b) I was working long and random hours at my new job, and had no time for a band; c) the best drummers in the world were trooping through the place every day, and it soon became cruelly apparent that I was not even close to being in their league; and d) I was learning the art of record-making from some of the industry’s foremost producers and engineers, realized that I had a knack for it myself, and saw that this was clearly where I should be concentrating my efforts.

So I stopped playing almost entirely, save for the occasional jam session at the studio, or the odd percussion overdub. (I did, however, play the propulsive eighth-note floor-tom pattern on the Rolling Stones song Going To A Go-Go, from the 1982 album Still Life — my foremost accomplishment as a batteur.)

I missed playing the drums, but I still had a couple of guitars to play at home — and as an engineer I always got along well with the drummers, and got a lot of satisfaction from making the best recordings I could of the fabulous variety of drum kits and players that I worked with over the years.

Fast forward several decades (note the clever studio wordplay there), past the fin de siÁ¨cle decline of the recording industry, and you find me all but retired from record-making, and plowing a new furrow as a software engineer. With my son turning into a formidable guitarist in his own right, I decided it was high time I got back to drumming, and bought myself a set of Roland V-Drums: an electronic kit that I can play at home without the neighbors calling the cops.

Which brings me, at long last, to the point of this solipsistic ramble.

About twenty years ago I was a guest at a lawn-party wedding in Easthampton, Long Island. The hired jazz band was led by a simply amazing drummer, many years my senior. I was supposed to be mingling and making chit-chat, but I cared about nothing besides watching this maestro play. When the band took a break, I introduced myself, and complimented him effusively. It turned out his name was Jim Chapin, and that among other things he was the father of the late pop-star Harry Chapin. (Little did I know at the time that he was a legend in his own right.) He was an charming, affable fellow, and we chatted pleasantly for a little while about music and recording.

Well, when I started playing drums again a couple of years ago, I decided to take up the study of drum technique more seriously than I ever had in my youth, with particular focus on “rudiments”: the tricky sticking patterns that are the foundation of traditional drumming expertise. I started looking around online for some pointers, and lo and behold: there was Jim Chapin, explaining the practice of drum rudiments (as well as the “Moeller method” of wielding the sticks) in a series of video clips. I was thrilled to see this great master play once again, and delighted to have his instruction.

So, dear Reader, having slogged through this wandering and diffuse post, here’s your reward: Jim Chapin, working his magic on a practice pad. See here, and here, and here.

Jim Chapin died on July 4th of last year, just shy of his 90th birthday. Peace be upon him.